Mango Celebration Cake

No matter what they say, giving birth is neither easy nor remotely fun. But at the end of it - the beginning, really - when you are holding what looks to be a slightly shriveled, tiny alien in your tired arms, you feel powerful and complete.

Today, I'm not talking about literal birth, as in pushing out a small human, which is what I've done once. And how immediately afterward, I developed the iron-clad certainty that I could do anything to which I set my mind.

I'm talking about starting a blog. Yes, one of the ways in which I am celebrating Mother's Day is by remembering how a year ago, after my neighbor, Heather, kept saying I should start a blog, I actually did it. I birthed this. 

One year. Happy Birthday dear blog!

What an experience it's been, plunking down words and doing my best with making my food shots look appetizing (still working on it, yes indeed). I've been learning and learning about all sorts of things from so many people. Some highlights...

At a food photography workshop this Spring, I had the opportunity to meet other bloggers, writers and photographers, all wonderful folks. The two amazing days together were led by Sara and Hugh Forte of the Sprouted Kitchen. Sara helped me to realize that a tomato looks most beautiful and enticing when you actually cut into it. Her husband, Hugh, provided us with guidance on ways to shape light, among other things. And both of them emphasized the need for an authentic voice, one that is true to you and only you.

I got to meet Molly Wizenberg of Orangette at the Pantry in Seattle in February. In her warm, kind manner, she too stressed authenticity of voice. Actually, I can't stop thinking about the experience I had there and I've been reading the whole of her book, A Homemade Life (I'd only read excerpts before). Oh my, can this woman write. Bravely, beautifully, the way I too want to write about life and all the people and things I love.

Pie crust! I figured out how to make pie crust without fear or anxiety from Kate Lebo and her lively little book, Pie School. If you are as scared of making pie crust as I was (for years), the fear ends now. Just get her book and soon, you'll be dreamily massaging butter into flour (ahhh, so relaxing).

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I don't know what will become of this child, this blog of mine. But I am tending to it the best I can. The British pediatrician and child analyst, D.W. Winnicott, said that as parents, we can ever only be "good enough." The idea is that there might be times when we cannot meet our child's every single need. We may even disappoint him or her completely.

But then that is exactly what children need to grow -- a subtle push toward independence and knowing that even without Mama or Dad, they can manage a few small things on their own. I'm not sure if being "good enough" necessarily applies to blogs, but we'll see.

On Mother's Day, I think it's worth remembering that we can all be mothers, each and every one of us, regardless of age or gender. I firmly believe that to be a mother is to create. Nearly all of us have the capacity to do just that -- to make each day into something, whether it's getting pancakes going to feed the family, stitching together an apron or cooking up a pot of chicken soup. Just bringing something into the world with energy and joy is what matters.

Happy Mother's Day to all the makers and creators out there! Don't forget to just be you. 

Now, let's eat cake.

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Mango Celebration Cake

This cake is adapted from Tessa Kiros. It has become our family's go-to Spring birthday cake, when after a long, dark winter we are dying for something fruity (and not rhubarb) and it's too early yet for strawberries. It's a homely, barely sweet cake which reminds me of the cakes I enjoyed growing up in L.A.'s Chinatown. You can play around with the fruit fillings. Kiwi, banana, strawberries. Go a little crazy. If you like a weightier topping than whipped cream alone, the addition of some mascarpone is also delicious.

Serves 8-10

Ingredients
1 3/4 cups (164 g) all-purpose flour
3/4 cups (151 g) granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 teaspoons baking powder, divided (see below)
1 1/2 sticks (12 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup warm whole milk
4 large eggs, separated
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 medium-sized, ripe mangos
1/2 teaspoon lime juice
3 tablespoons powdered sugar
2 cups heavy whipping cream

Instructions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour an 8 1/2" springform pan.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, salt and 1 teaspoon of the baking powder. Stir in the melted butter and then the milk. Add the egg yolks and vanilla. Beat well.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites to soft peaks, incorporating the remaining 2 teaspoons of baking powder after the whites have foamed up and begun to turn opaque and fluffy. Fold the whites into the cake mixture using the largest spatula you have.

Pour the batter into your prepared pan. Bake for about 1 hour, or until a skewer inserted in the middle comes out clean. The top should be crisp and golden. Remove the cake from the oven and allow it to cool on a rack. Once the cake has cooled, slice it in half and place the bottom on a serving platter or cake stand.

Peel the mangoes. Cut one mango into lengthwise slices about 1/4" thick. Set aside. Dice the remaining two mangoes (about 1 1/2 cups), sprinkle with lime juice, and place in a medium bowl.

Whisk heavy whipping cream and powdered sugar together until it forms stiff peaks. Mix slightly less than half of the whipping cream in with the diced mango. Spread this mango mixture onto the bottom half of the cake. Place the top half on the mango mixture. Scoop the remaining whipped cream onto the top of the cake and sides. Decorate the cake with the mango slices.

Tahini Oat Butter Cookies

“Just feed, satisfy, nourish. Enter each activity thoroughly, freshly, vitally. Splash! There is completely no secret: just plunging in, allowing time, making space, giving energy, tending each situation with warm-hearted effort. The spoon, the knife, the food, the hunger: broken plates and broken plans. Play, don’t work. Work it out.”

— Edward Espe Brown, Tassajara Cooking

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Cookie thievery runs rampant around here...

I have a thing for monastery cookbooks, specifically those of the Buddhist variety. I don't own many, just a few obtained as gifts or at second-hand bookstores. Of the ones I do have, I find the dishes in them to be honest and sustaining, exactly what you need for the long haul, whether you're sitting zazen for hours or spending an afternoon picking up toys before cleaning the rest of the house.

Some of the best food I have ever eaten was years ago when I attended my first silent meditation retreat while a graduate student in psychology. The three-day retreat was at an old boy scout camp in the San Gabriel Mountains forty miles east of Los Angeles. It was part of a Buddhism course I was enrolled in, and most of the attendees were my fellow classmates. I welcomed the experience as a break from the chaotic day-to-day of my life which was packed with school, clinical training activities and a job at a hospital.  

There were certain rules we were required to follow during the retreat. The main one left us wondering how we would manage:  no contact - neither by voice nor via the eyes. We were permitted contact only by writing down questions for our teacher and submitting them in a box located in the dining hall. Our teacher would make time each afternoon to answer each student's question individually. Other than this, we met as a group once a day and the teacher would provide a talk on various aspects of Buddhism.

Another of the first lessons we learned about was the Zen Buddhist tradition of using three bowls for every meal. We were directed to a shelf on one of the walls in the dining hall, on which sat cloth-wrapped sets, one per attendee. The largest of the three bowls represented the Buddha's head and knowledge.

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Individual responsibility at a Zen monastery: three bowls, a spoon and a pair of chopsticks wrapped up in a cloth.

This was a student's form of the traditional oryioki, an elaborate meal ritual practiced by monks in China and Japan for a thousand years, transmitted through individuals and presented to us now in the form of a choice. Pick a set, remember which one you chose, and be responsible for keeping it clean. We were instructed to wash and wrap up our bowls and utensils after each meal and return them to the shelf, ready for the next time.  

Meditation practice began each day after we were woken at 5:30 by the sound of wooden blocks being clapped together by an intrepid volunteer. In the zendo, a long wooden building with platforms on which we sat in meditation three times a day, my head was cluttered with the noise of everything I thought I had left at the bottom of the mountain.

Slowly, the disorder and haze began to clear and I learned that thoughts were like passing visitors you greeted as they approached. It was simple, really. Acknowledge their presence, then let them continue on their way. This was the first time I realized that such a feat was actually possible. I didn't have to be held in the grip of a thought or worry. They could still exist as distant acquaintances, but I didn't have to be friends with them.

It might seem strange to say that the other thing I remember most strongly about the retreat experience is eating utterly delicious food in the dining hall. The foods the monks cooked for us were entirely vegetarian and free of dairy, which our teacher had explicitly requested, to cut down on noises such as throat clearing during our long sits in the zendo.

In the dining hall, everyone around me was engaged in the task of eating in complete silence. Yet each time I sat down with my fellow attendees, my own inner quietude was smashed to pieces by the thoughts boomeranging around my head. Thoughts such as, "God. How did they make this squash soup? It is amazing! I wonder if I can get the recipe. But how do I ask? Can I put note in the box? Is that allowed?"

Some meditation student I was!

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By the end of the experience, I learned that "noise" is normal. But, when we take time to retreat from it briefly and limit contact with one another by being more tuned in to ourselves, the result is that we feel the presence of others so much more keenly. Indeed, as the retreat wound down, I was left with an even deeper sense of connectedness to other people and the larger world (so maybe it is good to take intermittent breaks from social media?).

And now, I have on my kitchen shelf a variety of monastery cookbooks, many with recipes featuring wacky measurements (like 5/8 of a cup? Does anyone own a 5/8 measure cup, or even an eighth? Are these measurements the recipe writer's ode to the Zen koan?).

Recently when I was flipping through one of my old Tassajara cookbooks, I came across a recipe for a tahini cookie and decided to make these. The recipe is inspired by Tassajara but is adapted from one of Alice Medrich's gems.

It may look like a Plain Jane, but this is one of the best sweets you'll ever eat. I promise. She's a delicate gal of a cookie -- crumbly and full of nutty flavor from the tahini. Oat and white rice flours surprisingly push the butter flavor to the fore.

This is also a recipe with some wacky volume measurements, but the weight measurements will provide you with safe guidance if you prefer to go that route. Whichever you decide to use, enjoy the journey and of course the final product. And here's a little Buddhist-ish tip for you: don't get so attached to your first batch that you become upset when it is gone. Remember, our existence is transient -- and as far as these cookies go, you can always make more.

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Tahini Oat Butter Cookies

Makes 16 2 1/2" cookies.

Ingredients
3/4 cup plus 1 1/4 teaspoons of oat flour (70 g)
2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons white rice flour (28 g)
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/16 teaspoon baking powder (really, a small pinch)
1/3 cup granulated sugar (65 g)
4 tablespoons unsalted butter (56 g), softened
1/4 cup tahini (60 g)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment.

Whisk together flours, salt, baking soda, and sugar. Combine tahini and vanilla. Work tahini mixture and butter into the dry ingredients. It's best to use the tools the Maker gave you and just mix everything together with your hands. You will have a soft, pliable dough.

From here, you can roll it into a log (about 1" in diameter) and place it in the fridge to rest and firm up for 2 hours. This allows the flours to fully absorb the liquids. Then, slice (1/4") and bake. The log keeps well in the fridge for three days. You can also put it in the freezer if you can't get to it right away.

To bake these right away, roll dough into 1-inch balls, place on your prepared sheet and flatten the dough with the bottom of a glass. Bake for 25 minutes until just barely golden.

Cool cookies fully on the pan or lift the entire parchment sheet of cookies and place on a wire cooling rack.

Enjoy!

p.s. For a variation, try adding a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee or espresso powder to your cookie dough. Add more or less, according to your own preference.

Beet-Stained Meringues with Bittersweet Chocolate

Sometimes, just as I am about to drift off to sleep, I lie in bed thinking about food.

In that ether-like space, a liminal state between sleep and wakefulness, my mind is loose and relaxed and food fantasies become as pink-tinged and dreamy as these meringues, the thought of which fluttered into my mind one night not long ago.

Dreamy and sweet, that's what these meringues are, a good stand in for those buoyant feelings that suggest the particular instant when we are somewhere in between being the person we once were and  becoming someone else altogether. All because of the way we feel for another person.

Love. Why not celebrate that moment of transformation? We should, at least once a year, if not more.

These meringues are an ideal sweet to make for that person who causes your heart to beat a little faster. Whipped into dramatic billows and stained with drops of beet juice swirled in at the last moment, these treats are earthy yet ethereal. 

Then, with the first bite, the meringue shatters into pieces. Not unlike love, at times, I suppose.

Beets and dark chocolate may seem like an odd coupling, but they are a surprisingly good match, with the beet's terrestrial flavor and the slight bitterness of the chocolate coming together to temper the meringue's otherwise straightforward sweetness.

I found inspiration for this combination from Nigel Slater's fantastic chocolate beet cake recipe. Heating the sugar before adding it to the egg white is a technique borrowed from Ottolenghi and lends a slight caramel flavor.

I hope you enjoy these dreamy sweets this Valentine's Day.

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Love may be a rare thing, but it is always found amply in a pile of meringues.

Beet-Stained Meringues with Bittersweet Chocolate

Makes 8-12.

Ingredients
1 1/2 c granulated sugar
5 egg whites
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup bittersweet chocolate (use the best you can find, hopefully 60-72% cacao), finely chopped
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1-2 teaspoons beet juice

Instructions
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Using a juicing machine, juice one beet and set juice aside.

Distribute the sugar in an even layer onto a baking sheet and bake for 8 minutes. While sugar is in the oven, place egg whites into the bowl of a stand mixer.

Once the sugar has been in the oven for 7 minutes, begin beating the whites on high. They should become foamy after a minute. With the mixer still running, gradually sprinkle in the warm sugar. Once all of the sugar has been added, add the van. Beat on high for 10 minutes, until the meringue has cooled. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the salt and all but 2 tablespoons of the chocolate.

Reduce the oven temperature to 225 degrees.

Prepare a baking sheet by lining it with parchment paper. Use a large spoon to place 3 1/-inch mounds of meringues on the sheet. Add a drop or two of beet juice and swirl it into the meringue using a knife or small spoon to create a pretty "stain." Garnish with reserved chocolate.

Bake for two hours, until the meringues are firm to the touch. The insides will still be slightly soft. If you prefer them fully crisped, turn off the oven and leave the meringues in the oven for at least 6 hours.

These can be stored in an airtight container for 1 week.

Additional suggestions: Put extra juice into a smoothie! Use egg yolks to make my favorite ice cream.

Enjoy!

Pear Crumble Tart

Darkest February is that time of year when, in these parts, we burrow beneath layers of cozy blankets and like story book bears, wait - unperturbed by anything, including inclement weather, the scent of popcorn, or the fragrance of a temptingly smoked black tea - for the arrival of Spring.

I propose that rather than settling any further into bear-like hibernation, we do exactly the opposite. Let us throw off the blankets and stretch our arms wide before we head outside to breathe fresh air.

While out, we might even consider catching up with a dear friend or neighbor. A chance run-in just as one steps onto a trail in the dimly-lit woods is as good a time as any to invite that familiar face over for some tea and sweets, and very soon indeed. Science, after all approves of this type of behavior, confirming that the more social interactions we have, the happier we are as human beings.

The expectation of a casual visit is the perfect occasion for baking up something nice but not too elaborate. Some scones would be just right, a pie even more welcoming. A tart? Even better - it sounds fancier and will surely make your tea-time guest feel all the more special.

I suggest you bake this one, adapted from David Liebovitz's book, My Paris Kitchen (one of my favorites of 2014). Instead of using all-purpose flour as he does, I've gone with spelt which gives the cookie-like crust a nutty flavor and slightly sturdier texture. The crumble topping is a warm and friendly touch, making the tart American-accessible. After all, who among us of the stars-and stripes persuasion can resist a homey crumble - pear, apple, or otherwise?

I also chose pears instead of the original apricots after realizing that between the fridge in our kitchen and the one in our garage, I had amassed over ten pounds of Bosc and Anjou pears, by now all nearly ripe. Time to use them!

Call, text, or email a friend. Or, step a few yards beyond your door to gather in a neighbor. As you sit connecting with another person over a slice of something this good, chatting about the break in the rain or a recent sighting of hooded mergansers, your mood will lift. And, you'll be glad you came out of hibernation.

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Winter beauty as found in a pound of pears.

Pear Crumble Tart

Serves 8 to 10

Ingredients

Dough
6 tablespoons (85 grams) unsalted butter, chilled
1/2 cup (100 grams) granulated sugar
2 large egg yolks
1 1/4 cups (175 grams) spelt flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Crumble Topping
3/4 cup (75 grams) whole almonds
1/2 cup (70 grams) spelt flour
1/3 cup (60 grams) packed light brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
6 tablespoons (85 grams) unsalted butter, chilled and cubed

Filling
2 pounds ripe pears (Bosc, Anjou), peeled, cored, and cut into 1/4-inch slices
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice, freshly squeezed 
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract

Crème fraiche or whipped cream for serving

Instructions
For the crust: Remove butter 10 minutes prior to using to allow to soften slightly in bowl of stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Add sugar and beat on medium, just until incorporated. Add egg yolks, flour, and salt. Mix until dough comes together.

Coat bottom and sides of 9 to 10-inch springform pan with nonstick spray or a thin layer of butter. Use the heel of your hand to press dough into the pan and almost halfway up the sides of the pan. The bottom should be even to ensure that it bakes evenly. Place in the freezer for half an hour.

For the crumble topping: Pulse almonds, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, allspice and kosher salt in a food processor until the almonds are broken into very small pieces. Add butter and pulse again for a few moments until mixture looks sandy. Continue to pulse until pieces are just clumping together.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Lined the chilled tart crust with aluminum foil or a piece of parchment paper and cover with a layer of pie weights or dried beans. Bake for 20 minutes, remove foil/paper and weights and bake for an additional 5 to 10 minutes, until crust is browned. Remove from oven.

For the filling: In a bowl, mix together the pears, lemon juice, sugar, cornstarch, and vanilla and almond extracts. Place the pear filling evenly into the tart shell. Strew crumble topping over the pears. The pears will be almost entirely covered by the topping.

Bake tart for 50 minutes, until the crumble topping has browned. Cool on a wire rack for a few minutes then run a knife around the outside of the crust to separate it from the pan. Allow to rest in the pan for 30 more minutes. Remove sides of the springform and allow tart to continue cooling.

This tart can be served warm or at room temperature. It is delicious with a dollop of crème fraiche or whipped cream.

Black Currant Ripple

Oh, the delights of a Western Washington summer! Strawberries, raspberries, huckleberries, blueberries, black currants, blackberries. 

They are bountiful and often free for the plucking at the edges of backyards, school yards and sides of trails. When spotted, they submit easily to the grabby fingertips of even the smallest berry-wanting hands that quickly smash the soft fruits - red and blue, black and juicy - into their desperate mouths.

But people. Let's not get carried away. Not yet. While we're talking summer around here, we must not forget about that most quintessential warm-weather treat of all: Ice cream.

Everybody has their favorite. Mine happens to be a really good, rich vanilla. The kind made with a yolky, custard base and bourbon vanilla beans. None of that extract business for me.

Now let's get back to the berry.

Recently, I was reading Nigel Slater's, Ripe, which features a number of beautiful frozen treats, some of which do not require an ice cream maker at all. If you haven't taken a look at this book, you absolutely should. His writing has a gracefulness that I appreciate and his approach to cookery (as the British say it) is both intuitive and filled with good sense.

One of the berry types that he highlights in this volume is the black currant. When I acquired some from Sumas River Farm, I went home immediately to see what Slater had to say about it.

I was immediately struck by his use of the word "strident." 

These berries, which I had only seen before in the form of jelly, were dark and covered with a slight bloom. Their appearance reminded me of a smaller, rounder purple grape. 

Interesting, I thought. Surely strident was an extreme way to describe a berry. Didn't that word usually go along with controversial political topics which pundits shouted angrily about on TV?

I decided to taste a few berries in raw form (even after Slater's warning that black currants must be cooked). They were, uh, well, let's just say highly opinionated might be a bit of an understatement, as would mouth puckering.

Unsure of how to proceed, I yanked them off their stems (yank being the correct word, as they were quite stubborn in their position of non-cooperation during the entire procedure even as my fingertips became stained with what I can only describe as the color black). I threw them into a small saucepan, along with a couple tablespoons each of water and sugar. 

It only took a minute or two for the berries to burst. I removed them from the stove and pushed the entire amount through a sieve to remove skin and as many seeds as possible. I poured the black-purple sauce into a jar and plunked it onto a shelf in the fridge.

I went on with the business of my day.

A week passed before I suddenly remembered the puree. I had to do something with it! Calmly, I decided to follow Slater's advice. I stirred a few spoonfuls into a just-churned vanilla ice cream to make a ripple.

For those of you unfamiliar with ripples, they are a British concoction made of vanilla-based ice cream with some fruit puree simply mixed in. The traditional version contains raspberry and I understand the pink-swirled sweet is well-loved by many a Briton, child or adult.

Here's a version featuring that stubborn, strident fruit. Yes, the black currant. Let's just say it's a berry with a strong personality, which makes it a perfect partner to sweet, creamy vanilla.

When streaked through with the super-tart, almost-astringent flavor of the black currant, the vanilla ice cream is elevated into a better, multi-dimensional version of itself. The whole thing pops and cartwheels off your palate. 

Let us use the appropriate word to describe the Black Currant Ripple. If heavenly doesn't suit you, maybe the better choice would be...Divine?

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Sweet meets strident = perfection!

Black Currant Ripple

Ingredients
For the vanilla base:
1 vanilla bean
2 cups whole milk
2 cups heavy cream
5 large egg yolks
1/2 cup granulated sugar

For the fruit puree:
1/2 pint black currants, removed from their stems
1-2 Tablespoons water
2 Tablespoons sugar 

Instructions
To make the fruit puree:
Give your fruit a good rinse. Place berries in a small saucepan. Add water and sugar. Over medium heat, cook just until the berries burst. Remove from heat. Pour mixture through a sieve and push through to remove skin and seeds. Set puree aside. Puree can be made up to a week ahead.

To make the vanilla base:
With a sharp paring knife, split the vanilla bean in half and scrape out the seeds into a medium saucepan. Add the vanilla pod, milk and cream. Over medium heat, bring mixture to a boil and turn off and remove from heat immediately. Cover and allow flavors to infuse for at least 30 minutes.

After the flavors have infused, return the saucepan to the stove. Over medium heat, rewarm the mixture. Turn off heat as soon as it comes to boil.

Prepare an ice bath in a large bowl.

Whisk egg yolks and sugar together in a bowl. Whisk a couple of tablespoons of the cream mixture into the egg yolks and sugar. Slowly add a few more tablespoons, whisking constantly. At this point you can add the remaining cream mixture in a slow, steady stream as you continue to whisk. Pour the mixture back into the pot and return it to the stove.

Over medium heat, cook the custard mixture for 6 to 8 minutes, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula. Make sure you scrape the bottom and the sides of the pan. The custard will thicken and when it is done it will just coast the back of your wooden spoon/spatula. Strain the mixture into a bowl that is smaller than your ice bath. Place your bowl of custard into the ice bath to cool, stirring the mixture. 

Place the custard in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours but overnight is best as it will allow your ice cream to achieve the creamiest consistency. Process in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.

After removing ice cream from machine, place half in a freezer-proof container. Place a few spoonfuls of puree over the vanilla and then swirl it through. Place the remaining half of the vanilla ice cream over the first layer. Scoop remaining puree over the vanilla and swirl through that layer. 

Place in freezer for a few hours before enjoying. 

Makes 1 quart.

p.s. Don't forget to wash off your vanilla bean pods and let them dry completely before tossing them into your jar of sugar. You'll have vanilla sugar in no time, which you can use for your next batch of ice cream!

Recipe adapted from Suzanne Goin and David Liebovitz. And, of course inspired by Nigel Slater.