Kabocha, Sage and Buttermilk Scones

Many years ago, when I first went off to live on my own, I developed a recurring fantasy about living in a rambling country house where friends and family could drop in whenever they wanted and stay for as long as they wished. All I would ask was for a little help, maybe with cook prep, baking, gathering loads of fresh herbs from the kitchen garden (surely there would be one) or some other such every day task. 

My fantasy probably had something to do with the fact that I lived in a tiny attic apartment in Brooklyn, with a very nice roommate and her three active cats. I'd found my roommate, Pam, after stopping to gaze at a homemade flyer taped to a street pole from which I'd pulled off a scrap imprinted with a phone number. At the time, I was staying at a college friend's apartment and after four-plus weeks of sleeping on the living room couch, I knew my welcome was wearing thin. 

Pam was prompt about returning my call and we set up a time to meet. The interview with her seemed unremarkable enough, a quiet conversation peppered with ordinary questions about each of our backgrounds and the logistics of life in a very small space.

Less than an hour later, just as I was stepping through the doorway of my friend's place nearby, Pam was leaving a message on the answering machine saying that I was the only normal person she'd met all day and would I please move in and save her from having to deal with any more weirdos. 

So, I did.

My room was just large enough to fit a twin size mattress, with a two-foot-strip of walking-around space along the edges of it. I quickly learned that if I didn't keep my bedroom door firmly shut, the cats would wreak havoc. That is, the fuzzy nocturnal creatures would shock me from my deepest slumber by crash-landing on my head, where their claws would immediately become entangled in my hair before sinking into my scalp. 

It was hard to invite any out-of or even in-town guests with so little space and the cat shenanigans going on, that was for sure. So I had to settle for my house-in-the-country fantasy while I flung myself out of the apartment and crammed myself into  the D-train each day to get to my editorial assistant job in mid-town.

My life looks a lot different now here in the Pacific Northwest. Back in the NYC days, I lived thousands of miles away from my family and my fantasy was probably a simple wish for the people I loved and cared about most to come stay for a while.

While I don't live in a big country house where anyone can just stop by unannounced for a weekend or a few weeks, my fantasy lives on. My family still lives scattered in different locations, and I would still love for them to visit. And when they can, they do.

I have to admit, I like taking care of guests. Maybe I've become a certain kind of weirdo after all. The kind who doesn't mind washing sheets and making beds, cleaning up the extra bathroom, or restocking the pantry shelves. The kind who gets excited about filling the fridge with my guests' favorite foods and beverages so we can meet again in comfort. 

In my mind, one of the most welcoming food gifts to offer a guest is a sweet and tender triangle of butter, flour and buttermilk. I am indeed referring to none other than the scone. 

People love a good scone. It is like a warm and loving hug. This is a tasty one that will linger in the heart. It has crispy edges and a delicate middle that is just sweet enough. A hint of savory is provided by two teaspoons of chopped fresh sage. The dense, orange flesh of the kabocha squash lends this scone a festive golden hue.

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Orange-golden flesh filling winter kitchens with light.

This is the scone I make throughout the Fall and Winter. I always keep some in the freezer should any unexpected or last minute guests arrive. Once made and ready to go, it is the perfect last-minute treat to toss in the oven, filling your home with an inviting fragrance. 

Press these generously onto your guests and they'll surely be back for yet another visit.

Kabocha, Sage and Buttermilk Scones

Makes 8.

Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
5 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh sage
6 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1/2 cup kabocha squash puree (see below for how-to)
1/3 cup buttermilk, plus 2 T. for brushing on before baking
1 large egg

Eight small sage leaves
Turbinado or demarara sugar 

Instructions
For the kabocha puree:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Oil a large rimmed baking sheet. Cut one kabocha squash in half. Remove seeds with a spoon and discard seeds and pulp. Place on baking sheet and into oven. Bake for 30-40 minutes until squash is beginning to collapse and can be easily pierced with a knife. Remove from oven and allow to cool until it can be easily handled. 

When cool enough to handle, scoop out flesh and discard skin. Mash squash with a large fork, or a potato masher will also work nicely. Set aside 1/2 cup for this recipe. Use the remainder to make soup, or just make more scones by doubling this recipe. Depending on the size of your squash, you will have plenty. Squash can also be frozen for future use.

For the scones:
In a large bowl combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger and sage. Using a pastry cutter or your fingers, work butter into dry ingredients until butter is in small, flour-coated pieces pieces. Some pieces may be the size of petite peas, others will be smaller. 

In a separate bowl, combine squash puree, buttermilk and egg. 

Form a well in the flour/butter mixture and pour in the liquid mixture. Using a large fork fold the wet into the dry. Turn the bowl gradually as you go, continuing to fold rather than stir, until mixture comes together in a shaggy dough.

Transfer the mixture onto a lightly floured surface. Gently pat together into a 6" circle. If it seems too shaggy still accomplish this, you may bring the dough together more by folding it over a couple of times with a pastry scraper and giving it a very gentle knead or two with your hands. 

Cut the circle into eighths with your pastry scraper then transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet. Place in freezer until triangles are frozen. (This is actually an optional step, but I think the scones bake up better this way, with less spreading. I usually leave them overnight and bake them first thing in the morning.) From here, scones may be baked or placed into freezer bags and stored in the freezer until needed.  

To bake scones:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place scones on baking sheet. Place one sage leaf on top of each scone. Brush tops of scones with buttermilk. Sprinkle with sugar. Bake for 20-25 minutes until golden and edges are beginning to brown.

Lightly adapted from mrs.larkin.

Maple Pecan Granola

Oh the pleasures of life with a toddler. Each morning, my husband and I are greeted by a little human climbing into our warm bed who wakes us with a shout of, "Get up! Want go downstairs now."

Sometimes we bargain back. "It's still dark. Wait till there's light..." or, holding up a cell phone, "Wait till it says seven-zero-zero, okay?"

It's always the same: Not happening, mom and dad.

So we tumble out of bed, find our way to the dining table, and out comes the...yep, that ubiquitous (in kid households, at least) box of machine-extruded cereal in the shape of small Os. We go through bowlfuls of the stuff.

My husband sits next to the toddler, who bounces on his chair, shoveling in the cereal, which drips with the local raw milk that's been poured over it.

From as early on as possible, we've been talking to our son about how veggies grow from dirt and fruit from bushes and trees. And, he's always come back with plenty of questions, mostly beginning with the word, "Why?"

"Why the flowers yellow?"

"Why the dog bark like that?"

Why, why, what, where?

"Where Os from?"

That is the question he has inevitably asked. Not sure, I have to answer. From a factory somewhere? A machine at the factory probably pushed out the Os? He looks at me, confused.

We've foraged for huckleberries and blackberries together, gone to a local farm to pick strawberries. Gleaned yellow plums from a friend's overflowing backyard tree. 

We've done things like drive the thirty miles down to visit Thoughtful Food Farm to see where the hog we bought this year was pastured and slaughtered. Farmer Jeff even pulled up a four-pound, end-of-season beet for us to take home (and yes indeed, I did go home and hold it up to our dog's head to take pictures, for size comparison).

Little human and I managed to visit at least four farms this growing season, which I think is pretty good. By now, he has a sense of where food comes from. 

But we haven't yet been to a factory to see how his beloved packaged cereal is made.

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"Real food for everyone!" Shouts the Lego Man.

When you are around a young child who asks so many questions about the world, you might view the job of answering a million-and-one inquiries as tiresome. But what a wonderful thing it is, that natural curiosity!

If we could see everything as shiny, new and exciting too, the world might be a different place. Think about it. We might even be altogether different people. The kind who would, unprompted, start dancing around on the sidewalk. Or, jump up and down at the sight of the glowing full moon.

Why is it so important to ask where our food comes from, much less to know, or to know what is in it? Or, even further, to ask who grew it, produced it?

Does it really matter very much? 

As human beings we innately have a need to know the meaning of things. Again, look at the toddler and his bevy of questions. But, it seems we have moved so far away from our natural state of curiosity that have we have become willing to accept as food a machine extruded or compressed item wrapped in cellophane which is then placed in a cardboard box printed with bright letters. 

Nearly all of us accept this as the norm, even at times, our own family. But at least we are conscious of this. I'd like my son to know this kind of "food" exists and even allow him to try it so that he can eventually make his own choices about what to consume. Perhaps by then, the natural state of asking "Why?" or "What is this?" or "Where does this come from?" will be firmly and irrevocably entrenched in him. 

Thankfully, this granola is one of those rare things my son is willing to eat instead of the Os. It's packed with rolled oats, toasted pecans, sunflower seeds, coconut, and maple syrup. No refined sugar. It's a family favorite, a granola we can agree on anytime in our house. We eat it for breakfast and as a snack, with or without milk or yogurt.

While there are many types of granola recipes out there, I like this one for its lack of sugar (other than the maple syrup) and its simplicity. I've adapted it slightly from Kim Boyce's terrific book, Good to the Grain. 

We differ somewhat in our ingredients and cook times, but I've held onto Ms. Boyce's technique of boiling down the maple syrup to concentrate it then adding a bit of butter and kosher salt. The resulting granola has a beautiful, golden sheen and a hint of salty-sweetness. If you are like me and prefer to have a savory edge to your sweet things, then this granola is it. 

You can toss a bit of dried fruit (blueberries, cranberries, raisins, etc.) in at the end as well if you need more sweetness. I don't bother with that. I'm a plain Jane kind of gal when it comes to my granola. But I'm also the first to admit that fruit is a delicious thing. 

Try this out. You might start making it once a week like I do. For the toddler's sake, of course.

P.S. It also just occurred to me that this makes a great holiday gift too! Just pour some into a clear cellophane bag and tie it with a pretty ribbon and...c'est oila!

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Crisp and golden, with a salty-sweet edge. Eat it with your fingers if you like. Or, a spoon.

Maple Pecan Granola

Makes about 8 cups.

Ingredients

Dry Mix:
2 cups pecan halves or pieces
3 cups rolled oats
1 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut flakes
1/2 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
1/2 cup unsalted sunflower seeds

Syrup:
1 cup maple syrup, B-grade, preferably organic
2 ounces (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 teaspoon kosher salt

Instructions:

Heat oven to 325 degrees. 

Spread pecans onto a baking sheet and toast for 12 to 15 minutes until they begin to become fragrant and toasted. 

Prepare two rimmed baking sheets. Butter them or use pieces of parchment paper to line the pan.

Place oat flakes, the two types of coconut and sunflower seeds in a large bowl. Add the toasted pecans (breaking some into halves and smaller pieces). Combine the ingredients with your hands. 

For the syrup:
Measure the maple syrup into a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Place it over medium-high heat for about 8 minutes, until the syrup is reduced to 3/4 cup but no less (granola will lose its sheen). The syrup may bubble up. Reduce heat if needed, to prevent it from boiling over.

Measure the reduced syrup and then pour it back into the saucepan. Add the the butter and salt. Allow butter to melt, swirling the pan to help it along.

As soon as the butter melts, immediately pour the syrup over the oats mixture. Use a spatula to mix and coat every bit of the oat mixture with syrup. This means tossing, scraping and going over the mixture again with your spatula. 

Spread granola in a single layer in each of your prepared baking sheets. The layer will be clumpy. 

Bake for 10 minutes. Remove the sheets, shutting oven door as soon as possible, and scrape the edges of the granola to the center and the center areas to the outer edges. Try not to disturb the mixture too much, so that you retain clumps that will eventually turn delicious, crunchy and golden. 

Rotate the sheets so the one that was on the top goes to the bottom rack and vice versa. This will ensure even cooking. 

Repeat this process a second and third time, in 10 minute intervals, for a total cook time of 30 minutes. If you prefer your granola darker, you may want to leave it in longer, but do keep an eye on it. If you prefer it lighter, take it out 5 minutes before the end of the third bake. 

Take baking pans out of the oven and allow the granola to cool completely so that crunchy clumps can form. Once cooled, you may add dried fruit if you like. If not, transfer to airtight containers.

This granola will keep for at least one week.

Fall Woods & Butternut Squash Soup with Sauteed Chanterelles

It's Fall in the woods and decay is everywhere. Giant maple leaves, brown and wet, form a carpet along the narrow trails in the 22-acres behind our house. The woods have a different energy now. No more are the rhythmic chirps of finches that filled our ears during the warm months. The calls of tree frogs are long gone. The insistent tap tapping of the pileated woodpeckers has ceased.

The mood feels dampened down compared to the exuberance of Spring or Summer, but take a look anywhere around and life abounds. There are the cottonwoods, cedars, fir trees and vine maples. Huckleberry, salmonberry, salal. Moss and sword ferns march on confidently in their growth within the cool dampness. 

My husband and I moved here almost five years ago now from a parched Southern California and this landscape is a relief. Formerly, we lived in the San Gabriel foothills, close to the chapparal which would burn with what became an alarming frequency. It was not unusual for us to wake up to a house filled with smoke from a nearby brush fire, soot coating our white-painted sills as we desperately slammed down any remaining open windows. 

I don't miss that part of our former existence. I'll take the moodiness of cloudy weather, the cleansing sheets of rain, the early morning mist. The sun breaks during an otherwise dark day that offer more than momentary relief. The muted tones of grays that each have become surprisingly distinct from one another.

I welcome it all.

The decay here in the woods is a promise of good things. Fertile soil to nurture more trees, more plants which provides a better habitat for wildlife. It's a reminder of the renewal yet to come months from now, the winding down to a slower, more reflective state of being during the Fall and Winter months. 

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The woods hold their own stories and mysteries.

It's also time to move our thoughts of food and cooking toward stews and gratins, roasted vegetables and casseroles. The so-called heavier, or rather, more fortifying dishes. 

Along with these, we mustn't forget about soup.

It's a given that one must have soups of all varieties this time of year. My absolute favorite types are those made simply with roasted, pureed squash, half an onion and some good broth or even plain water. Salt and pepper are a given. A spoonful of warming curry powder cooked in with the onion is also welcome on the chilliest days.

Here is a dressed up Butternut Squash Soup for you to enjoy. It doesn't contain curry, but is topped instead with buttery chanterelles, a fruit of the forest, which along with ingredients such as salmon and apples are so quintessentially Pacific Northwest. Interestingly, chanterelles are typically found growing in coastal forests within stands of new growth Douglas Firs, their tree of preference.

Have this soup before or after taking that long walk in the woods.

While you're in there, take a look around yourself. Notice the quality of light filtering through the trees. Be still. Listen.

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Late morning light makes a showing on Klipsun trail.

Butternut Squash Soup with Sauteed Chanterelles

Serves 4.

Ingredients
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 large butternut squash
1 large yellow onion, sliced thinly
5 cups chicken broth, or water
Salt, to taste
Pepper, to taste

1 dry pint chanterelles (about 7 oz.), cleaned and sliced 
1 tablespoon butter
1 large shallot, chopped finely
2 cloves Garlic, minced
1/4 cup white wine
Fresh thyme leaves for garnish

Instructions
Heat oven to 375 degrees. Cut squash in half cross-wise then again lengthwise. Remove seeds. Place squash cut-side down in roasting pan. Add 1/4 cup water to the pan. Place squash in oven and cook for 45 minutes or until squash is cooked through and beginning to collapse. Allow to cool slightly then remove peel from flesh. Mash slightly. Set aside.

Warm olive oil in heavy-bottomed pot. Add onion. Cook on medium-low, cook onion for 10 minutes without allowing to brown. Add squash, broth or water, and salt. Cook for 20 minutes longer.

Puree in batches, or with an immersion blender. Add additional salt to taste, and pepper. The soup will thicken slightly. You may add additional broth or water to adjust the thickness to your liking. 

For the Chanterelles:
Heat a separate pan on medium-high. In two batches, add chanterelles and saute until the mushrooms are browning and beginning to caramelize. Remove and set aside. Repeat with second batch.

On medium heat melt butter in same pan. Add shallots and cook for five minutes then add garlic and cook for an additional minute. Add white wine. Turn heat up and allow white wine to almost evaporate. Return chanterelles to pan with this mixture and combine. Add salt and pepper to taste. Remove from heat.

To Serve:
Ladle soup into bowls. Place two generous spoonfuls of mushroom mixture on top. It will settle slightly into the soup. Sprinkle with fresh thyme.

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Chanterelles abound in the forests of coastal Washington in the Fall. 

Charred Romano Beans with Cherry Tomatoes, Garlic and Preserved Lemon

Have you ever set off the smoke detectors in your house while cooking? I do it on occasion and it doesn't necessarily mean something bad is happening on the stove or in the oven.  

I managed to set the alarms off while making this dish. Despite all the racket (including a howling dog and a toddler shouting what happening on top of the mechanical shrieking), it was worth it. And yes, I'd do it again.

Let me tell you why.

Drop some romano beans - a flat type of pole bean - into a red-hot cast iron pan and the outside of the humble green veg develops a blackish char that belies an alluring smokiness within.

The extremely hot pan offers up real vividness to the romano. This is a green bean that needs more cooking time than the regular, thinner sort to become tender. The dark char does much more than just cook the bean through. It pushes the romano to the very edge of its full potential, caramelizing the sugars and adding layers of dimension and flavor.

To me, this transformation is alchemy, pure magic. One of those simple wonders that can happen in the kitchen, even for a humble home cook. It makes me want to char every vegetable in sight.

Let me go back slightly, though. I'm a bit of an armchair traveler these days, mostly through cookbooks and such. This time, it was (yet again) Ottolenghi's Jerusalem. It's the kind of book I return to again and again not because of its beautiful images or enticing recipes, but because it is so rooted in all that is deeply personal, in memory and place. For me, that is the only location in which the most soulful and satisfying sort of cooking can exist.

This is an adaptation of one of the recipes. It utilizes okra. I didn't know where to get fresh okra up here near the Canadian border, so I used what I had, romano beans straight from the farm. Why not?

I also had a half-pint of the last of the season's cherry tomatoes which the farmer had included in our weekly box. I remembered the jar of preserved lemons I'd made in July that would be more than ready for this purpose. 

Crunchy and smokey, tart and lemony bright, this is a perfect dish for transitioning toward the more fall- and winter-like dishes so soon to come. Make this before you start on those long braises and the heavier stews and casseroles, which do, I must concede, offer our hearts and bellies the sustenance we need during the colder months.

Up here in Western Washington, we've been hurtling toward the daily end-of-day darkness with alarming speed. And, this week's local forecast calls for thundershowers through to the weekend.

I might make this again tomorrow so I can savor a few more mouthfuls of sunshine while I can. Won't you?

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No romano beans? Use whatever tender green pole bean available.

Charred Romano Beans with Cherry Tomatoes, Garlic and Preserved Lemon

Ingredients
1 pound romano (or other type of tender green) beans
Half-pint of cherry tomatoes, cut in half
2/3 oz. of preserved lemon, cut into 1/2-inch wedges
4 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
2 Tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
3 teaspoons chopped cilantro
1 Tablespoon lemon juice
Salt
Pepper

Instructions
Trim off stem edge of beans then cut on the diagonal into 1 1/4-inch pieces. Divide into two batches.

Place a large, heavy-bottomed cast iron pan over high heat and leave for a few minutes. When the pan is very hot, throw one batch of the beans in and allow to cook for about 6 minutes, shaking occasionally. The beans should have dark blisters. Remove from pan and cook the remaining batch in the same way.

Return the charred romano beans to the pan and add the olive oil, garlic and preserved lemon. Stir fry for 2 more minutes on high. Reduce heat to medium-high and add tomatoes, 2 tablespoons water, chopped cilantro, lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoon salt and black pepper to taste. Stir ingredients together in the pan and allow to cook another 2 to 3 minutes, until the tomatoes begin to soften and give up some of their juices. 

Drizzle with additional olive oil and adjust for salt before serving.

 

Slow-Cooked Lentils with Greens and Aromatics

Honey. Sugar. Sweetie. All terms of endearment that many of us toss around without much thought. Just like the empty calories we often find ourselves indulging in each day.

I've been giving the matter some thought. Well, mostly the terms of endearment part. I've come to the conclusion that perhaps, as with eating well - and thoughtfully - we should also use a different sort of endearment entirely.  

Why, when it comes to evocations of love or tenderness, must we conjure the names of empty carbohydrates which provide mere bursts of energy followed by the inevitable crash when we can instead pay tribute to that which provides sure sustenance while offering goodness and flexibility?

That is undoubtedly what the humble legume is about. It's also precisely what many of us strive for in a healthy relationship.  

Try it out: "My little lentil." "My dear chickpea." "Ooh la la, my pinto bean."

Cute, certainly. Adorable, possibly. Adoring, no doubt.

I will admit that the legume has long sustained a reputation just the opposite of sexy. Neither love nor our diets need suffer from stodginess, however.

With this recipe, I hope to change any ideas you may have about legumes being bland or boring. I assure you, when cooked well, lentils in particular have the ability to become so elevated as to enter into the realm of sensuousness, if not sexiness itself.

During the eleven or so years I was a vegetarian then vegan, I relied on the lentil, among other legumes, as a cornerstone of my diet. I loved and cooked with them furiously. But, since moving toward eating as an omnivore three-plus years ago while pregnant with my son, and continuing to do so after his birth, I haven't been eating as many lentils as I probably should.

I haven't forgotten about you, dear lentil. I still hold you close to my heart.

Let's cook up some gorgeous lentils then, shall we?

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Here's how I have been making them lately. I start whatever type of sturdy greens I happen to have on hand (swiss chard, beet greens, collards, kale) chopping them up finely. Added in with the lentils and greens are many cloves of peeled garlic, a few whole red chilis and a good amount of chopped shallots. 

For the non-vegetarians, small pieces of bacon cooked with the aromatics in the beginning will more than bump up the sexiness quotient. Let this mixture cook very slowly on low heat, for as long as it takes for everything to become rich and at one with each other. This might take an hour, perhaps more. This depends on the type of lentil and whether or not you choose to soak them or not. I advocate fully for soaking any legume.

While you may use any type of lentil of your choosing, the small, dark varieties - du Puy, for instance - work best here as they submit fully while still retaining some shape after the long period on the stove.  

Freshly grated nutmeg sprinkled in at the end adds roundness to the already earthy flavors. You may drizzle the dish with a healthy amount of good olive oil. I suggest a spoonful of creme fraiche, which melts into the already giving lentils and greens, providing additional richness.

This dish is simple, warming and one of the best things you'll ever eat. Enjoy it on its own in a good-sized bowl with some bread for a vegetarian meal or as a side with a larger meal, perhaps next to some roasted chicken. 

Now who says lentils can't be sexy?

Slow-Cooked Lentils with Greens and Aromatics

Ingredients
1 cup small, dark lentils, such as du Puy
5 or 6 cloves of garlic, peeled
3 whole dried red chilis
2 large shallots
4 Tablespoons of good-quality olive oil, plus more for finishing the dish
2 bunches sturdy greens such as collards, chard or kale, finely chopped
2-4 ounces bacon (about 2-4 slices bacon cut into small pieces), optional
3 1/2 cups water
Salt, to taste
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

Creme fraiche, optional

Instructions

Pick over lentils, removing any stones. Add warm water and soak for 8 hours or overnight. (Note: This requires some advanced planning, but the additional step improves digestibility and may shorten cooking time.)

Heat pan over medium-high heat. If using bacon: Add to pan, along with half the olive oil. If not using bacon, add the 4 tablespoons olive oil to the pan. Then, add garlic, chilis and shallots. Allow to cook for a minute or two then toss in the greens. Cook until greens are wilted, about 3 to 5 minutes longer. Add drained lentils. Add water and two generous pinches of salt. Turn heat down to very low and allow mixture to cook for an hour or so, until the greens and lentils come together (the lentils should be giving and the liquid mostly gone). The mixture should be thick and not brothy. If it becomes too dry before this happens, add liquid and continue cooking as needed.

When the lentils and greens are done, add nutmeg and give the mixture a good stir. Taste for seasoning and add salt as needed.

Spoon into a large dish or individual dishes. Garnish individual servings with a generous pour of olive oil and if desired, a spoonful of creme fraiche. 

Serves 4-6.

Adapted from Buvette, by Jody Williams.