A granola bar

We eat a lot of oats around here. In fact, I just searched through my email receipts so that I could give you some sort of number, and it turns out we eat about 60 pounds of oats, just the two of us, every year. Hoo-ey!

Mostly, we eat them for breakfast. I buy them from Maine, online from a farm called Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater, and they are organic and Maine-grown and make top-notch homemade granola. But thanks to my sister [hi Anna!], we have now found a new all-day snacking use for them, and between that and the baby, I predict our annual consumption will soon be in the high eighties. Please, no crop failures.

So, what is that beauty up there? That is one of the Granola Bars with Chocolate featured in the New York Times article that Anna sent me last week. It is also addictive, and not entirely healthy, but also not entirely unhealthy. The bars are made up mostly of oats, but also of butter and honey and dark chocolate. They hold up the way a granola bar should—they're chewy but not hard, they don't fall apart—and they have a hint of cinnamon and a dash of vanilla. In short, they are absolutely lovely.

I should have noticed them earlier, since the paper pulled the base recipe from a cookbook I have and love—Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain—but her version recommended dried fruit instead of chocolate. What can I say? Chocolate gets my attention.

GRANOLA BARS WITH CHOCOLATE

Alex says these are too chocolately. That phrase really isn't in my vocabulary, but if you're not a chocolate person, try making these with dried fruit instead. Oh! and a note about the wheat bran: the NYT recipe uses flaxseed meal, and the headnote in Kim Boyce's original says you can also use wheat germ. I just used coarsely ground wheat from our grain CSA.

3 tablespoons butter

2 cups rolled oats

1/2 cup wheat bran

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup honey

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 cup dark chocolate chips (I like Ghiradelli's 60% Cacao Bittersweet Chips)

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. Grease an 8" by 8" glass or metal baking pan.

Melt the butter in a wide saucepan over medium heat. Add the oats and cook, stirring frequently, until the grains are lightly toasted—about 8 minutes. Be careful not to let them burn—they should smell toasty and should be, in Kim's words, about two shades darker. Turn off the heat and spoon the oats into a mixing bowl.

Wipe the pan clean and add the honey, brown sugar, and vanilla. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat and keep it at a gentle bubble for 5 minutes. Pour this syrup over the oats and stir well. Let the mixture cool for 5 minutes, then stir in the chocolate chips.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and spread it evenly. Bake the bars for 20 minutes, taking care not to let them brown or they'll get hard instead of chewy. Let them cool completely; then cut them into squares and store in an airtight container.

Of jazz—a riff

My mother is a profound believer in the power of zucchini. A zucchini patch, she says, is a meal. It can feed a family for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner on the grill. You name the zucchini recipe, she's made it. She has four recipes for zucchini bread alone.

That one you see up there—the one with the thick, moist center and the thin green flecks—is her standby, the one she makes the most. She's had it for so long she can't remember where the recipe came from anymore—only that it's a keeper, and that it's equally good as muffins or loaves.

She makes the others every now and again—Chocolate Zucchini Bread from our friend Maddie, this Special Zucchini Bread from Heidi Swanson, Lynn's Spicy Zucchini Bread from the Victory Garden Cookbook.

But it's the loaf up there that tastes like zucchini season to me—the one that feels like sitting on the forest green stools at the kitchen counter with a knife and a stick of butter, carefully slathering one slice, then another, until the bread is gone. My mother's made a few twists over the years—swapped whole wheat pastry flour for all-purpose, thrown in a handful of poppyseeds, left in or out the nuts depending on who was home—but essentially, it's the same tried and true loaf.

The other day, I tried a version of my own. I found a baseball bat growing out from a vine wrapped around the raspberries in the garden and grated it down. I dug out a bag of rye flour from what we got in our grain CSA and added cinnamon, salt, nutmeg. I dug around in the cupboard until I found the apple cider molasses I bought this spring in a tiny store in New York, and a few minutes later, packed the oven with two loaves.

It wasn't too different from my mother's—but I was thrilled with the way the squash played off the rye. The shift reminded me of jazz—the way the same chord, played over and over, changes each time. It was a zucchini bread riff—an improv of whole wheat, molasses, spice—the same chord that somehow sounded different, new, just right.

ZUCCHINI-POPPYSEED BREAD

Though I usually make it into loaves, this recipe also makes wonderful muffins. Simply scoop the batter into prepared tins, and shorten the cooking time to about 20 minutes. Also, my mother says it's a good idea to wring out your zucchini after you grate it—otherwise the bread can get too wet.

3 large eggs
1 cup vegetable oil
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 tablespoon molasses or apple cider molasses
3 and 1/2 cups grated zucchini
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups rye flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 cup poppyseeds
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour two bread tins. Whisk together the eggs, oil, vanilla, and molasses in a large bowl. Add the zucchini and stir well.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and poppyseeds. Pour these dry ingredients into the zucchini mixture and stir until just combined. Add the nuts if using, then divide the batter evenly between the two loaf pans.

Bake for 45 minutes to an hour, or until the bread is still moist in the center but just cooked through.

We will be back

Fisher and I just wanted to say that we are home in Maine for a visit for a few days. We are very busy—turning forty quarts of strawberries into homemade jam and celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and 84 years of a long, full life—but we will be back here soon. In the meantime, Fisher has come up with something to keep you entertained: an act in which he stars as himself, balancing a spear of asparagus on his nose.

We'll see you Thursday, everyone.

The Local Food Report: cranberry apple cider donuts

Scott Morse grew up in Vermont. I don't know him very well, but I do know that he recently moved to Marstons Mills, and that the transition must have been hard. Having spent four years in Vermont myself, I know that when you leave, it isn't just real fall foliage and Mobil station stops for Ben & Jerry's seconds and warm, early springs you give up. You also leave apple cider donut territory behind.

Maine, where I grew up, is also an apple cider donut place. Every respectable pick-your-own orchard has a recipe, and you eat the donuts hot, after you pick. You get a paper cup of steaming cider for dunking, and you sit with your family on a bench or hay bales or in the back of your pick-up truck. While the cashier weighs and tallies up your haul, you watch your cider fill with cinnamon flecks and floating crumbs, and you wash one, one-and-a-half, then two donuts down.

It isn't the sort of tradition you want to give up, but until a few weeks ago, I had never seen an apple cider donut on the Cape.


That's where Scott Morse comes in. A few years back he left home and went out into the world and came to the same conclusion I did: that a life without apple cider donuts wasn't the sort he wanted to live. But instead of driving home to the Common Ground Fair each September for a visit, he set out to learn how to make apple cider donuts on the Cape. He and his friend, Patience Thomas, already ran a bakery operation, Great Cape Baking, in Marstons Mills. They moved into a new space with a fry-o-lator and a master donut maker came in to teach Scott how to do things just right. He learned how to make the dough: flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda, with tiny minced dried apple flecks mixed in. He learned to use the cider hot, not cold, and to keep every step of the dough at room temperature along the way. He made batch after batch of dough in the bakery's big, Hobart mixer, and he developed a system for frying and drying and sugaring the donuts that he thought made them less greasy, lighter on clothes and hips. He learned to work the dough from start to finished product in under 30 minutes, just fast enough that the baking soda would set, but not so long that it would cease to act.

Finally, he started experimenting on his own. He had a bag of local dried cranberries lying around, and folded a handful into the dough. He made sure that none stuck out the sides (they'd burn), and tossed a few into hot oil. What emerged was the very first batch of Cape Cod Cranberry Apple Cider Donuts—an immediate smash hit.


These days, Scott sells both his classic apple cider donuts and the cranberry twist at the bakery's little front at Cash Market in Marstons Mills, and also at the new winter farmers' market at Liberty Hall. He gets in every morning at 3am to roll out the dough, and you can tell, from watching him, that he loves the process. But he says the best part is watching his customers' faces change as they dig in—women with kids, contractors holding hot coffee, men brushing cinnamon sugar off their business suits. They savor it at first, he says, a little bit in awe, and then finally, they break into a grin.

Clearly, he and I aren't the only ones missing home.

Note—updated 10.30.10: Great Cape Baking is no longer at the Cash Market in Marstons Mills. I have tried to no avail to get some hard facts, but in lieu of those can offer this: I heard that they moved to a location in Hyannis, but that it fell through, and they were still selling at the farmers' market in Sandwich until that closed for the season. I haven't heard whether or not the Marstons' Mills Winter Farmers' Market is going to happen again, but if it does, I'm hoping to find the donuts there.

CRANBERRY APPLE CIDER DONUTS

Adapted from this recipe over at Smitten Kitchen

My sister was the first one to try this recipe. She made it this fall when she was home for a visit, and my parents promptly helped her devour almost every single one. (She did, to her credit, bring me a few leftovers in a plastic bag.) We all agreed that they tasted just as good as the ones we've had at pick-your-own stands in Maine and Vermont. I changed things a bit on Scott's advice—he recommended doubling the amount of apple cider, whisking in a tad more nutmeg, and adding in chewy cranberries to give things a Cape twist. This man is serious about his apple cider donuts, and when it came to the tweaks, he was dead right. Just be sure to fold the cranberries in so that they aren't sticking out anywhere from the dough—otherwise, when they hit the oil, they'll burn. Oh! and if you're looking for a source of local dried cranberries, try here or here.

2 cups apple cider
3 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons sea-salted butter
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup dried cranberries
canola oil, for frying
cinnamon sugar (1 cup granulated sugar mixed with 1 and 1/2 tablespoons ground cinnamon)

Bring the cider to a boil in a small pot over medium-high heat. Turn the heat down to low and leave the cider to simmer, uncovered, until it reduces down to 1/4 cup. This will take about 35-40 minutes.

Meanwhile, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt in a medium mixing bowl.

In a large mixing bowl, beat together the butter and sugar. Add the eggs, one at a time, and continue beating until the mixture is light, pale, and creamy—about a minute. Beat in the reduced cider and the buttermilk, and then fold the dry ingredients in gently until everything is just combined.

Roll the dough out to 1/2-inch thick on a well-floured surface. Fold it in half and roll it out again. Repeat this process several times until the dough feels smooth and moist but not sticky—it shouldn't cling to your hands. Let the dough rest for 5-1o minutes, then use your hands to shape it into a rectangle, keeping the top smooth and the sides 1/2-inch thick. Press the cranberries evenly into the top of the dough, fold it over once more (so that the cranberries are sandwiched in the middle) and roll it out and shape it into a rectangle again.

Use a 3-inch donut cutter (or a round cookie-cutter and a bottle top, if you need to improvise) to cut the dough into roughly 15 donuts. As when you make shaped cookies, you will need to ball up the scraps (but not the holes) and re-roll the dough several times. Arrange the cut donuts and holes on a cookie sheet and set aside.

Fill a medium-size pot with canola oil so that the oil reaches 3 inches up the side. (After you use this oil for frying the donuts, you can set it aside for general cooking use, so it doesn't need to go to waste.) Attach a candy thermometer to the side of the pot, and over medium-high heat bring the oil to 350 degrees. Drop the donuts in batches into the hot oil using a slotted spoon. They should fry for roughly one minute and ten seconds per side, or until they are a deep golden brown. Use the wrong end of a wooden spoon to flip them through their holes, and pull them out with the slotted spoon. Transfer them to another cookie sheet lined with a clean dish towel or a layer of paper towels. Flip them once so that both sides are patted dry, and let them cool for one minute before rolling them in the cinnamon sugar.

Repeat this process until all of the donuts are fried and sugared, and then enjoy them hot, with a glass of steaming cider or coffee.

Cooking by place

I write about food, local food, because I care about place. Mostly, I care about the connections that spring up between people and their places, the way that a caramelized onion and goat cheese and apple tart can make you remember the shape of a kitchen, the silhouette of a tree.

This tart reminds me of all my places at once. It reminds me of eating fried apples at my parents' kitchen counter, my mother leaning over their big black skillet on a winter morning sprinkling a pinch of cinnamon, tasting, sprinkling again. It reminds me of the Massachusetts goat cheese at our wedding, of the pickle and cheese buffet I never saw in the swirl of hugs and smiles and the feeling I just might burst. It reminds me of Vermont, of my time at Middlebury, of the crisp Octobers and the ruddy green apples in the dining hall and the first homecoming weekend my best friend and I spent picking McIntoshes in the rain.

The recipe for the tart is from one of my favorite books—Dishing up Vermont. It sits on my cookbook shelf right next to Dishing up Maine and Charleston Receipts, the cooking by place section, I suppose. The original recipe calls for cheddar cheese, but because I'm not just Vermont, because I've always been Maine and Cape Cod, now, too, I used Massachusetts goat cheese instead. It also calls for thyme, but I went with rosemary—the only herb alive and spirited still in our yard. It calls for green pepper jelly, but after digging through our cupboards, I used local cranberry, bright cherry red.


In the end, it felt like me—like a Maine girl gone to Vermont and now settled in to a little red salt box by the sea.

APPLE, CARAMELIZED ONION, AND GOAT CHEESE TART

In the tart you see above, I used a mix of McIntosh and Northern Spy apples, and I didn't peel them. The original recipe called for a more tart, crisp variety—Granny Smiths—with their skins off, and I regretted my choice of varieties. The apples don't have to be Granny Smiths necessarily, but they should be tart, firm, and peeled. Otherwise, you'll end up with apples that are a little too mushy and all tough around the edges. So long as you have the apples right, feel free to substitute cheeses and herbs and jellies as you see fit. I don't think you can go wrong.

dough for 1 bottom 9-inch pie crust
2 tablespoons butter, divided
1 medium onion, chopped
1 lemon slice, seeds removed
1 and 1/2 tart, firm apples, peeled and sliced into thin half moons
2 teaspoons fresh rosemary, chopped
1/3 cup cranberry jelly, warmed up, and divided
4 ounces goat cheese

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough for the pie crust. Press it into a 9-inch tart pan, and pinch off any extra dough. Set the pan aside and preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Melt one tablespoon of the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Sauté the onions, stirring frequently, until soft and translucent, about eight minutes. Transfer the onions to a bowl and set aside.

In the same skillet, melt the remaining butter over medium-high heat and add the lemon, apples, and rosemary. Sauté until the apples feel tender when pierced with a fork, then turn off the heat and set aside.

Brush half of the warm jelly over the bottom of the pie crust. Sprinkle the goat cheese evenly over the jelly, and layer the onions on top. Carefully arrange the apples in two concentric circles over the onions. Gently brush the tops of the apples with the remaining cranberry jelly; if it has cooled, be sure to warm it back up. Bake the tart for about 15 to 20 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the apples are lightly browned. Serve warm.

Plan accordingly

This weekend, I learned two things. The first is that if you would like to stay happily married for a long, long time, you should never, ever attempt to shop for a house. Not even if you aren't altogether serious about it, and especially not if you are just sort of testing the waters to see how much you like the place you're already in. If you do, you will very quickly discover that actually, people who like three bedroom homes are not made for people who like four bedroom homes, and that basements are secretly much more important to certain people than anyone could have ever imagined, and that there is a lot more to discuss than you realized when it comes to a yard. You might also find out that one of you is very, very picky about southern light, and windows, and old, antique-y frames and floors. As a matter of fact, the only pleasant thing that you might discover is that when two people decide to become so completely unreasonable, you can patch things up by making a cake.

That, of course, is the second thing I learned this weekend: I now know how to bake Melt-in-Your-Mouth blueberry cake.

I never knew that a skill like that could come in quite so handy, as in, stop-your-husband-from-running-away handy, but let me tell you, it does. It is a very important thing to have in your repertoire. I wish I'd had it up my sleeve while we were a little bit earlier, because I have a feeling it's the sort of cake that could do things like knock thousands of dollars off of asking prices and expand basements and add built in storage under eaves and make your husband smile and grab your hand, but I can't be sure.

At any rate, Melt-In-Your-Mouth Blueberry Cake's real power comes from the ever mighty butter and sugar and flour trio, the one that has been saving friendships and marriages and whole businesses since just about the start of time. You make it by creaming some butter, adding in some sugar and a spoonful of vanilla and an egg yolk, and then beating up the white with a little bit more sugar until it's stiff. Then when that all is ready to go, you add the behind-the-scenes structure, the flour and the baking soda and a little pinch of salt, you mix the dry ingredients into the wet ones, fold the egg whites in, and finally, at the last possible second, add a whopping two cups of slightly thawed Eastham blueberries. You get the oven hot, and prep two little pans, one to keep for Sunday morning breakfast and one to bring over to your two very good friends who are [finally! at long last!] coming home from their honeymoon, and you bake.

It couldn't be more soothing, or more delightful when it's finally time to sit down and eat.


We polished ours off yesterday, over tea and coffee and sautéed onions and Chinese cabbage and two fried eggs. We talked about Alex's hockey game, and my walk, and the cilantro plant in the window, and even about a piece of land he'd seen for sale, and no one got the least bit cross.

The only disagreeable thing, actually, was how quickly it disappeared. We thought about breaking into our friends' pan, but that didn't seem right, especially given that they've been gone for a month, and that it was a very long month, and that we're really hoping that now that the hullabaloo is over they'll settle down and stay. Stealing cake from honeymooners seemed terribly unsportsmanlike. So all I'll say is that if you make this cake with the intent to share, don't divvy it up. Plan accordingly, and make a double batch, or if you need to, which you might, even bake three.

MELT-IN-YOUR-MOUTH BLUEBERRY CAKE

Adapted from Cooking Down East by Marjorie Standish

This recipe comes from my mother's repertoire. The annotation next to the header in her copy of the book reads, "YES! Made for the blizzard of March '93." I don't remember the storm, seeing as I was only eight at the time, but she says we ate it at night, with the shades up and the lights on in the yard, watching the snow fly wildly around outside. I think it would be equally lovely tonight, watching the trees bend in the wind and the rain.

2 eggs, separated
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole-wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/3 cup whole milk, buttermilk, or even eggnog in a pinch
2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F and butter an 8" by 8" baking pan. Beat the egg whites until they're stiff. Once they have the right consistency, beat in 1/4 cup of the sugar to keep them stiff, and set them aside.

Cream the butter; add the salt and the vanilla. Beat in the remaining sugar, add the egg yolks, and beat until everything is light and creamy. Whisk the dry ingredients together in a small bowl, and add them to the butter mixture alternately with the milk. Gently fold in the beaten egg whites, and then fold in the blueberries. (Doing this last prevents the blueberries from mixing too much with the batter and giving the cake that eerie green color you sometimes notice in overmixed muffins and cakes.)

Spoon the batter into the prepared pan. Bake the cake for 50 to 60 minutes, or a little less if you like your cake slightly gooey and underdone. Serve at room temperature, with a cup of tea.

We do need pie

Last week, I made a real, honest-to-goodness mincemeat pie.

It had venison in it, and a bunch of spices and fruits, and a thick, flakey crust, and it was staggeringly good. I was just a little bit surprised, I have to admit.

For some people, maybe, the idea that ground meat and sugar and fruit are going to meld together in the oven into something delicious makes total sense. Unfortunately, I have never been one of them. Mincemeat pie, ever since I started watching Friends at the age of about fourteen, has always reminded me of the episode when the cookbook pages get stuck together and Rachel makes half an English trifle and half a shepherd pie. She is a little bit puzzled but puts it all together anyway—a big, layered dessert with ladyfingers, custard, jam, and—horror of horrors—beef sautéed with peas. Then she tries to convince everyone to eat it by telling them it's the same idea as mincemeat pie.

Needless to say, this was not an overly winning introduction.

But the other day, I pulled something out of the freezer labeled "burger '09." Once it had thawed out, Alex informed me that it was actually venison from a deer shot locally, by a friend. It seemed wrong to waste it, and so I called my mother, who called her friend Sally, who said she knew just the thing: mincemeat.

Sally, as it turns out, is a big mincemeat fan. She makes jars and jars of it each December and gives them out as Christmas gifts. She has to bargain for the meat, usually, by giving a jar in exchange, but since most traditional mincemeat recipes make 20 pints of preserves, this is a fairly good trade. She gave my parents a jar a while back, and she told them that the trick is to cut the mincemeat with apples when you make the pie, so that the filling gets the flavor and the heft of the sweet meat preserve but has a solid apple base.

Mostly, this is because an all-mincemeat pie is a little too heavy for most people these days. The recipe Sally uses came from a man named Azel Adams, who used to live in Western Maine, in a place called West Forks. She recorded him on cassette a while back for a book, talking about recipes that kept him going when he worked in the 1920s and 1930s in the winter woods. Mincemeat, apparently, used to be a sort of power food—meat and sugar and fruit slapped between two biscuits for a hearty January lunch. Most of us, as Sally pointed out, don't really need that sort of midday meal to keep us going any more.

But we do need pie. And toned down with apples and served with a hunk of cheddar cheese, mincemeat pie, as it turns out, can sometimes be just the thing.

MINCEMEAT PIE

[for modern-day lightweights]

I adapted this from The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book by Fannie Merritt Farmer. In the header of the very old, very dilapidated copy of this book my mother picked up for me a few years back, Fannie calls this recipe "Quick Mincemeat." Based on what Sally told me, I'm guessing this is because traditionally, making mincemeat was a huge, once-a-year production. Whereas most recipes make enough for twenty pies, this one makes filling for only one. For mincemeat beginners, I think that's just enough.


for the mincemeat:
1 cup apples, chopped
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup cranberries
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon molasses
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup venison or beef stock
1 cup ground venison, cooked
2 tablespoons fruit jam or jelly (I used cranberry apple, but I'm not sure it matters much)

for the pie:
2 cups mincemeat
5 cups apples, chopped
1 nine-inch pie crust, top and bottom

Combine all of the mincemeat ingredients except the cooked venison and the fruit jam in a large, heavy-bottomed pot. Bring everything to a boil over medium heat, and then turn the burner down as low as it goes and simmer the mixture for 45 minutes to an hour. Keep a close eye on it during this time, stirring frequently, as you would a jam. As the mixture loses moisture, it will become increasingly thick and sticky and can burn if you aren't paying attention. When it gets to be the consistency of a runny jam, add the venison and the jam and simmer it for another 15 minutes or so, until it cooks into a nice, thick preserve. Turn off the heat, and allow the mincemeat to cool to room temperature.

To make the pie, first preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Then combine the mincemeat—the recipe above should make about 2 cups—with the 5 cups of sliced apples. Mix the two up well so that the mincemeat coats the apples. Any crust will work, but the best choice would be one that is thick and flaky, and more salty than sweet. Roll out the bottom crust, drape it over the pie plate, and spoon the filling in. Then roll out the top crust and drape it over the filling, making sure to pinch the edges and cut a few slits in the top to let steam out. Bake the pie for 25-30 minutes at 400, then turn the temperature down to 325 and bake another 25-30 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the filling is thick.

Eat the pie warm or at room temperature, served with a thick, sharp slice of cheddar cheese.

More than I could have hoped

Well. You might not believe me when I say this, but I've missed you all an awful lot. I can do without American coffee, or a climate that does not yield artichokes and chestnuts and backyard clementine trees and white truffles all November long, but you people, you I cannot. The past four weeks have been the most perfect, happy, wonderful ones of my entire life, but still, I absolutely could not wait to get back here and tell you about every single little thing.

For starters, we got married. I can't even really believe I'm old enough to have gotten married, or to be called even jokingly Mrs. Hay, but according to Maine state law, I am. (Then again, Maine state law also required us to read a pamphlet called Drugs and Alcohol Can Hurt Your Baby! before we could get our marriage license at town hall, which was also jumping the gun a little bit I thought, so who knows.) At any rate, we did it, and it was far and away the best thing I have ever done in my whole life.

It all happened in this barn, at noon on November 7th, while Alex stood at the back doors and my dad propped me up and a hundred camera lenses walked us down.

If you look closely you can see the tire swing where the flower girls played after the ceremony was done, and the field we all walked through to get to the reception in a tent on the water down the street. There was a violinist and a violist and a fiddler and one hundred and seventy-seven of our closest family and friends, including my 91-year-old grandmother who flew to Maine for the first time in three years just for the occasion. There were toasts, jokes about Alex's first girlfriend (a certain Snoozy Susie pillow), the time I asked my father if he Even Had a Brain, and from the best man, something charming and sly about unheated barns and November and very cold feet.

We drank cider martinis with Cold River Vodka alongside a New England cheese and homemade pickle bar, and the waitstaff walked around with plates of Vermont lamb chops and Maine crab cakes and beet and squash soup shooters and five types of deviled eggs. Then we sat down to dinner, served family style, and my heart just about burst.


Just about everything was from Maine. Katy did everything we asked and much, much more. She made that all Maine grain pilaf, a salad of local lettuce and dried cranberries and goat cheese, and plates of Topsham chicken stuffed with Six River Farm spinach and Cape Cod haddock with spicy aioli served whole. She got the bread from Standard Baking and the salt was evaporated from Cape Cod bay by a friend. There was Peak Organic on tap, and the cupcakes, of course, were these, homemade. Everyone ate until the tables were bare, and then we got up to dance.


Unfortunately, I don't have all the pictures just yet (unless my sister has actually gotten them from the photographer already, and is hiding some particularly incriminating evidence), but I promise to show you that part too when they come. For now, just know that Alex got a chance to step in on the drums, I may or may not have done a repeat of the Worm in my wedding dress, and no one went home until the music stopped. Even then, a whole bunch of us went out to a bar on the river downtown, and although Alex didn't seem quite so sure, I thought we made a pretty mean husband-and-wife karaoke team.

By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around and the brunch was over and our cousins and friends and aunts and uncles had hopped on planes or driven home, I think we were the happiest, most exhausted people on the planet. We went over to my parents' house with a bag of Indian take out and drank mango lassis and opened presents and switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer until finally, sometime around 8:30, everyone collapsed, utterly contented, into bed.

It was more than I could have hoped for, even in my fingers-crossed wildest dreams, and if I could, I would relive it over and over and over again every single day. Of course, Paris wasn't bad, or Florence, or the little Umbrian town, Panicale, where we stayed tucked in between the vineyards and the olive trees, but those are a story for another day. For now, just know that I am exceptionally glad to be back at home as Mrs. Alexander Bradford Hay.

P.S. Many thanks to our photographer, my sister's Tufts classmate Elizabeth Herman, for the pictures above. We don't have very many yet, but as you might imagine, the ones we do bode very well for what's to come.

A very real possibility

I realized at lunch the other day that you might have some misconceptions about my husband-to-be. I mean, based on the picture I've painted around here, I can understand how you might think he just sits around popping out diamond rings and bringing home tubs of chocolate chip cookie dough and taking me out for Sunday boat rides. But really people, he has flaws. Take the other day, for instance. He came home to a first-rate afternoon spread of cold gazpacho, white linens, plated silver, a shady deck, and an arugula test salad for the wedding and informed me without a trace of regret after just one bite that he Did Not Like It. He said it perfectly nicely, of course, but it reminded me that he does have a flaw. Somehow, he missed out on the bitter-flavor-appreciation gene.

I first found this out over a bar of dark chocolate. I then rediscovered it over braised endives, a radicchio salad, and my cousin's Italian dandelion greens tossed with the most delicious green goddess dressing.

The man can't stand to put anything even the slightest bit bitter in his mouth.

He tells this story about when he was living in Vietnam, where he ate things like live, beating snake heart without batting an eye, about the time his host mom made bitter gourd soup—and he almost always, at least once or twice during the delivery, says he thought he was going to die. It's a little melodramatic, I think, but when I imagine the way I feel in front any quantity of tapioca pudding, I sort of see what he means. Some things just aren't meant to go down.

The point of all this is to say that even though my groom didn't like the arugula-wheat-berry-cherry-tomato-Parmesan-lemon-juice-calamata-olive wedding salad, I think you will. The exciting part about it—and the reason we started experimenting with it in the first place—is that the wheat berries will be coming from Maine. We're trying to keep our dinner as local as possible, but for a time there, it seemed like an all-Maine grain side was going to be an impossible thing. Then of course enter Katy and my mother and their combined love of Heidi Swanson, and what seemed like a reach was suddenly a very real possibility.

To that end, I'd appreciate any comments or variations or suggestions you might have on this. As you might imagine, I won't be hearing a lot at my table, so whatever goes on at yours, please, please let me know.

ARUGULA AND WHEAT BERRY SALAD

This recipe is adapted from one Katy found on 101 Cookbooks. I ordered wheat berries from Wood Prairie Farm in Maine, and they have proven to be an excellent new addition to the grain cupboard.

I changed things up a bit from Heidi's version—added fresh cherry tomatoes since we have them around in droves right now and went a bit heavier on the arugula—but for the most part, hers was a pretty fool proof combo. If you have something else nice you throw in, please let me know. I have a feeling that this version of the salad is just the beginning and there are endless directions in which we could go.

Oh, and where the recipes—there's one for the salad and one for the arugula pesto that dresses it—where they say grated Parmesan, I mean made from a block of cheese with a grater, not the granular type you buy at the store. If you use that, you'll want to use much less as there's a lot more cheese per 1/3 cup.

2 cups wheat berries, cooked and chilled
3 cups arugula, loosely packed
1 cup cherry tomatoes, quartered
1/2 cup calamata olives, pitted and halved
1/3 cup grated Parmesan
4 tablespoons arugula pesto, at room temperature (recipe below)

In a large serving bowl, toss the wheat berries, arugula, cherry tomatoes, and olives with the pesto. Once everything is well-coated, add the Parmesan, season with salt and pepper to taste, and toss lightly once more. Serve at room temperature.

ARUGULA PESTO

3 cups arugula leaves, packed
1-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, to taste
3 medium garlic cloves
1/4 cup walnuts
1/3 cup olive oil
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
salt and pepper to taste

Combine everything in a food processor and give it a whirl. Keep going until the pesto is thick and well-blended. Season with salt, pepper, and lemon juice to taste.

Roll out the welcome mat

Late Saturday night, my parents arrived for a visit. Early Sunday morning I opened the fridge to find this:

Actually, there were two of them, and they were a little more full. My parents certainly know how to get the old welcome mat rolled out, don't they?

My mom made the pies the day before they drove down, in her kitchen at home with the last of the 2008 frozen Maine blueberries. (This was in order to make room for the 2009 specimens, which should arrive within weeks.) She had three helpers borrowed from family friends: one eight years old, one five, and one three. The kitchen got a bit messy, and the sugar was shorted just a smidgen, but all in all, they were a very productive team. They turned out a full six homemade blueberry pies, even with a few crust casualties. (When my mother gave the three year old her own little ball to roll out, she took a few spins with the pin before promptly announcing that her mother had told her she should eat the dough, not roll it. Her mother not being present and this being a blatant fib, my mother had no choice to but chuckle, smile, and say goodbye to that particular chunk of dough.)

A few of the pies went home with the helpers and one stayed in Maine, but the other two—thank goodness!—came to us. And not only that, but one made the trip to Great Island Sunday afternoon for a picnic. Fisher tried to nab a slice from his perch on the bow of the boat, but he ended up with a towel instead. As you can see, that didn't slow him down when it came time to hunt around for crumbs.

I had a hard time refraining from crumb-hunting, myself. Between the afternoon sunshine and the swim off the boat and the walk through the woods and then along the beach to look for perfect oyster shells, I was about ready for another slice of pie, too. Happily, I remembered we had another one at home.

You might want to have one handy, too, seeing as it's August and all. There've been blueberries all over the farmers' markets recently, but if you're going to try and make a pie anything like the one my mother did, I'd go picking for wild ones instead. High bush blueberries are delicious, but they're nothing like the tiny, low-growing ones that carpet the barrens in Maine and the hillsides around here. I prefer the big ones for cereal and snacking, but the tiny ones hands down make a better pie.


At that, I think I'll leave you to it. It is the last day of my parents' visit, and I think you'll agree they deserve to be shown a very, very good time.

BLUEBERRY PIE

Adapted from the Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker, and Ethan Becker

Feel free to use whatever pie crust you like best for this recipe. My favorites are the "Tart and Pie Crust" recipe from Alice Waters' book, The Art of Simple Food or the one Annie B. Copps, editor of Yankee magazine developed for a pumpkin pie article last fall. I think my mother used the one from the Joy of Cooking, which as you saw above, came out perfectly as well.

Beyond the crust, it's all about the berries. Frozen berries are fine as long as they're wild; just be sure to use a bit more tapioca to soak up the extra juice or else the filling won't set. The 2/3 cup of sugar called for below is a bit on the low side, so if you like your pies sweeter I'd use a little more. And last but not least, it's a very, very good idea to bake the pie on top of a cookie sheet with a little lip, as they tend to overflow. Ultimately, my mother's pies did set, but they made a terrible mess of the oven in the process.

one 9-inch pie crust, bottom and top

5 cups blueberries
2/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon tapioca
1 tablespoon butter

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. In a large mixing bowl, combine the blueberries, sugar, flour, cinnamon, and tapioca. Stir everything together gently and let the mixture sit for about 15 minutes. Pour this filling into the prepared 9-inch pie crust bottom. Cut the butter into tiny pieces and scatter them across the top of the berries. Place the top crust over the berries, roll the sides into a thick rim, and prick the dough with a fork so that the steam can escape while the pie bakes. Bake the pie for 10 minutes at 450; then turn the oven down to 350 and bake it for another half hour, until golden brown.

The Local Food Report: you might need one

On a summer afternoon when you are home in Maine with your mom and your sister and your father, you might need a beer.

You especially might need one on an afternoon when you have spent the morning at Staples buying cheap resume kits for their smooth ivory paper and finding just the right 11" by 15" watercolor paper for the paper cutter and thanking Mike for calling the Portland store to order six extra ten-packs of envelopes for UPS delivery the next day. Your sister and your father, who have spent the afternoon driving to the city to buy fancy sheet paper and swearing at the Deskjet might also need a one. And your mother, who might usually just split a beer with you or your father or your sister—she will need a whole one, maybe even two. Opening your own print shop can make these sorts of things necessary, you see.

Of course, there are plenty of other good excuses to drink a beer on an afternoon like this. There's the way the yard smells in July, like raspberries and moss and wet wildflowers, or the fact that the sun managed to come out in time for the evening view, or maybe the worry that you still haven't booked a band, or the view out your parents' back window when the tide is low.

Really, there are very few days without a whole heap of good excuses to drink a beer. Which is why we are so lucky to have our very own brewery in Hyannis, right here in our sandy backyard.

Beth and Todd Marcus opened Cape Cod Beer about five years ago, back when Beth's office was in the basement of their house and the brewery was on Main Street. (It has since grown in a big, big way and moved to Phinney's Lane, where Todd, Beth, and their crew can offer tours, do paperwork, and work in the office all at the same time. Imagine that.) Before there was a Cape Cod Beer, Todd was brewing up ales for Long Trail in Vermont and Sunday River Brewing Co. in Maine and two Hyannis companies. Once upon a time, way back in 1995, he was gainfully employeed as an engineer, but that didn't last long. He went to one brewer's conference—just one!—and that was it.

The thing about beer that got him was the way the chemistry came together—the way that you could combine the same four ingredients—malt, water, hops, and yeast—into endless riffs on the same theme. He loved the way that the air temperature or the drying time or the grain could produce a beer with caramel undertones, or chocolate, or maybe even spice. And the way that yeast had such a handy by-product! I mean really, who else churns out alcohol and CO2 in perfect proportions as they eat?

These days, Cape Cod Beer is brewing two year-round beers: Cape Cod Red and Cape Cod IPA. These are the ones you'll find on tap at restaurants like Mac's Shack and the Flying Fish and Blackfish, where I work. Then there are their seasonal brews: Porter and Old Man Winter and Stellwagen Stout for the off season, and a bright, Bavarian style summer wheat ale for this time of year. Really, it's pretty amazing the variety we have with strictly on-Cape beers.

Of course, going home is nice, too. I'm not going to mention a certain W-word again here today, but there's a brewery just over the bridge in Topsham where we'll be having an event on a Friday evening in November, and another one in Portland that will be providing a certain quantity of kegs and brown bottles filled with a maple oat brew in a big, white tent the next day.

Speaking of which, I had better get back to work.

If you're looking for more info on microbreweries in Massachussets, there's a good list over here. And as for pairing wine with food, well, I recommend marching right down to Cape Cod Beer and talking with Beth and Todd yourself, but if that's a bit out of the way for today, why don't you go on over here instead.

The music plays

Each Saturday

there's a fiddler
in a bustling, revitalized mill
in the town where I grew up

Brunswick, Maine.

Shoppers barter with farmers
while all the while
the music plays.

Better news today

I have much, much better news for you today. I tried another experiment with an unusual ingredient, but this time, it was edible. Not just edible, in fact, but dare I say, delicious. And just the thing when the weather at the beach is looking very un-summery, like this:

This time, it was oat groats I was trying to tame. If the name makes you giggle, well, it does the same thing to me. Every time I hear it I think of some old man of the forest tending goats, which is very much not the picture you should be getting. In reality, oat groats look much more like dark, wild rice.

They also (and this still seems to me almost too good to be true, so I'm sending you a imaginary drum roll as I type) taste like rice. And act like rice. And chew like rice. And do just about every other thing rice does, except have to be cooked with the lid on, and grown far away. The only real difference is they cook like oats, with plenty of water and stirring, which is just fine with me. Better, really, for those of us who like to peek.

But the most exciting thing of all that is they came from as close as Maine. This is much, much closer than any rice I've found, so I think that fact in and of itself deserves a big hurray. While they're not quite rice—they get a little stickier around the edges, because of the stirring I think—they're awfully close. They're good with a stir fry on top, or in soups, or even (!) in rice pudding.

This last fact I discovered late last night, after a somewhat blah Monday. I was rustling around in the kitchen, and talking with my mother on the phone, and sort of wishing I were still on last week's vacation, sitting in my parents' kitchen in Maine. I was picturing the scene in my head, my mother rummaging through her recipe box, my father studying his wine chart at the counter, the fishmonger pointing out a vintage here, shaking his head there. It all seemed very far away.

And then I remembered. There would be a rice pudding recipe on that counter, floating around, talked about, but never made.


My father had made it once, last year, the night before we'd arrived on another visit. My mother'd had a particular hankering, and we'd shown up, after dark and hungry, and just in time to demolish the leftovers. It had been a rich, creamy pudding, flecked with raisins and topped with a perfectly sumptuous meringue, and with us it had lasted mere minutes, at most.

Yesterday, that was true again. Only this time we made it with oat groats, and a little bit survived until lunch. But after that, the pan was clean, and that was only with two of us. I'd hate to imagine the damage a family of five or six could claim.

OAT GROAT PUDDING WITH MERINGUE

A quick note about puddings and custards and ice creams with egg yolks, before you dive in. When you make anything like this, it involves tempering the egg yolks and a thickener (like cornstarch or flour) with the hot milk before simply adding the egg mixture in. If the milk is too hot, the yolks will burn and separate into little chunks, rather than getting creamy and smooth. If it's too cold, the only thing that will happen is nothing much at all. It simply won't get thick until everything gets much hotter.

If the milk and eggs are boiling and still the mixture isn't getting thick, try the process again. Whisk another egg yolk or two with a good dose of cornstarch or flour, temper them again, and add them in. This will almost always do the trick, and in most cases doesn't change the flavor much. Good luck!

2 cups cooked oat groats
2 cups milk
4 eggs, separated
1/4 cup cornstarch
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
dried cranberries, optional

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine rice and milk in a heavy-bottomed saucepan, and heat to the scalding point. (The milk should begin to steam, but not quite boil.) In a medium mixing bowl, beat egg yolks with 1/2 cup of the sugar and the cornstarch. When the milk is hot, add a bit of it, whisking constantly, to the egg mixture to temper it. Then pour the eggs and milk back into the saucepan, and continue whisking over medium heat. After a minute or two (depending on how hot the milk is), the mixture should thicken into a custardy pudding-like state. If not, use more egg yolks and cornstarch, and try again.

Turn the heat off, stir in the vanilla and dried cranberries if desired, and in a large mixing bowl beat the egg whites and sugar into a meringue (Egg whites should be stiff and glossy. If they're not getting there, try adding a pinch of cream of tartar). Pour the pudding into a greased custard pan, and spread the meringue over top. Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes, or until meringue is golden brown. Enjoy hot.

P.S. Don't worry. I put yesterday's naughty cookies out to think about what they'd done. And then it snowed, which melted into a cold, wet puddle. I think they've learned their lesson. Next time, I have a feeling they'll be plain.

In response

Sometimes, bakers get a lucky stroke. They make an absolutely wonderful loaf of bread, parade it around like a show off, and forget about it for many months. Then, they are asked to repeat the experience.

This, I'm afraid, is when the bubble bursts. They have only made it once, they try again, and the results are never quite exactly the same. Particularly with bread. Because it involves flour, and gluten, and yeast, and warmth, and draftiness, and all other manner of hazards, bread is difficult to repeat.

I would know, because I tried today. I tried making the whole wheat baguette I so happily paraded back in August, and was asked for advice about recently. I tried the recipe I'd had such success with before, only to find that this time, it was a flop. I retraced my steps, tried to remember the keys to my happiness, and this is what I've come up with after baking another slightly better loaf this afternoon. First of all, the type of whole wheat matters. I buy mine from Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater Maine, mainly because it's the closest reliable source I've found, but also because it's very good. It's especially good for baking, because it's a hard red wheat. Hard wheat is better for yeast baking, soft wheat is better for things like pancakes and banana bread. Still, I use it for both.

Secondly, it helps to add a bit of gluten flour to whole wheat bread. Gluten forms proteins that make bread springy and stretchy, and there's less of it in whole wheat flour than white. The general rule is about a tablespoon per cup, but don't add too much: I've found it gives the bread sort of a gross, fake, Wonder loafy-taste.

Then, there is the balance of salts and sweets. Salty, oily ingredients slow down rising yeast, while sugar and honey cause it to get a bit out of hand. So if you cut out the salt, be sure to cut down on sugar, too, otherwise your bread will rise to quickly and then grandly deflate.

There is also temperature to consider. If the liquid in a recipe isn't warm enough, the bread will take forever to rise. On the other hand, if it's too hot, it will kill the yeast. Same with the oven temperature. While "warm" is a very wide range, as a general rule things should stay below 110 degrees. Any hotter, and a major yeast die-off might take place.

Finally, there is always the option to add a little bit of white. The perfect whole wheat loaf is a very, very lofty goal, and though I had a lucky strike, since then I've had better luck with at least a little bit of white flour in the mix. One day, I very, very much hope to recreate the loaf I so happily happened upon this summer (maybe it was the warm house? the humidity in the air? a particularly intoxicating dab of butter and jam?) but until then, I plan to keep contented with this. Also, in the event of disaster, there is always this to make things taste good:


I'm sorry I can't be more specific. But I'm going to keep trying, and eventually, I promise, I will find a sure and steady way to recreate the perfect loaf. And you will be the first to know.

WHOLE WHEAT BAGUETTE

I think a good way to look at moving to whole wheat is to start out with a ratio of one cup whole wheat to 2 cups white (with 1 tablespoon gluten flour) and very slowly begin to turn the tables. Then, once you master the yeast, the temperature, the gluten, and all that, you can adjust the flours to taste, and eventually move to almost all whole wheat. At least that's what I plan to do.

Makes 2 loaves

1 and 1/4 very warm water
1 tablespooon yeast
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon gluten flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
2 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt

Warm up oven. Combine yeast, water, and honey in a medium mixing bowl. Let stand 5 minutes until bubbly. Stir in all purpose flour and salt, and mix vigorously, until smooth. Add remaining whole wheat flour and gluten flour. Knead for 10 to 15 minutes, or until dough is elastic and smooth. Put in a greased bowl, cover, and let rise in the warm oven for 2 hours, or until doubled in size.

Punch down dough and separate into two balls. Roll each into a 5 by 12 inch rectangle, then roll along the side to form a long, thin log. Pinch ends shut, slash diagonally several times with a sharp knife, and arrange loaves on a greased baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal. Cover with a damp cloth and let rise again for about an hour. Preheat oven to 450 degrees, placing a tray of water on the bottom shelf. Bake loaves 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Enjoy hot, with butter.

The Local Food Report: mushroom soup

I have two recipes for you today. Both are from Ruth Reichl, and both are very simple. For those of you who don't know, Reichl is Editor-in-Chief of Gourmet, and former restaurant critic for the New York Times. I had the privilege of speaking with her in November, and the first of two interviews came out on the radio today.

Reichl has claimed in several interviews to be a cook, not a chef, and says that's why she keeps her recipes easy. Regardless of why, they are truly very simple to make. She may not be a chef, but she is a wonderful cook. Happy New Year to all of you, and enjoy.

MUSHROOM SOUP*

from Comfort me with Apples, by Ruth Reichl

Serves 4

1/2 pound mushrooms

1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter

1 small onion, diced

4 tablespoons flour

1 cup beef broth

2 cups half-and-half

salt, pepper

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1 bay leaf

Thinly slice the mushrooms.

Melt the butter in a heavy sauté pan. When the foam subsides, add the onion and sauté until golden. Add the mushrooms and sauté until brown.

Stir in the flour, and then slowly add the broth, stirring constantly.

Heat the half-and-half in a suacepan or in the microwave. Add it to the mushrooms, along with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and bay leaf. Cook over low heat for 10 minutes; do not boil.

Remove the bay leaf and serve.

*I used dried black trumpets from Oyster Creek Mushroom Co. in Maine, pictured above, which I rehydrated for use in the soup.

ROAST CHICKEN

from Garlic and Sapphires, by Ruth Reichl

Serves 4

1 farm raised chicken, about 3 and 1/2 pounds

1 lemon

Olive oil

3 or 4 smallish Yukon potatoes (or any other variety except russet), each peeled and cut into 8 pieces

1 large onion, cut into 6 pieces

3 or 4 cloves garlic, unpeeled

salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Wash the chicken under running water and pat it dry. Remove and reserve the extra fat from the inside of the chicken. Very gently run your fingers between the breast and the skin, beginning from the neck end, loosening the skin from the breast on both sides. Being careful not to puncture the skin, place the excess fat beneath the skin (the chicken will then baste itself).

Puncture the lemon a few times with a fork, and place it inside the chicken.

Pour enough olive oil into a roasting pan to make a thin film over the bottom. Toss the potatoes, onion, and garlic into the pan and turn until they are covered with olive oil.

If you have a rack, put the chicken on it, breast side up, and place it in the roasting pan (you may have to jiggle things a little to fit it over the potatoes and onions). If you don't, just put the chicken right into the pan. Pour a little olive oil over the chicken, and salt and pepper everything in the pan.

Roast for about 1 hour, or until an instant-read thermometer inserted into a thigh reads 170 degrees F. Remove the pan from the oven and let the chicken rest for 10 minutes.

Carve the chicken into serving pieces, surround them with the potatoes, onions, and garlic, and squeeze the lemon over the top.

In case of a brunch

We are not quite out of the woods. You may be tiring of sweets, I know, but the season has in it yet a few more days. There's still New Year's Eve and the next day, and though you might be hunkered down at home, then again, you may have a feast to plan.

And just in case it's a brunch, I'm going to offer you a recipe my mother first tried in 1992. I have no idea how she picked it up, or why, for it's pages and pages long, and involved and complicated at that.

But thankfully she did, and she makes it every year now, just once, to be eaten Christmas morning. The recipe makes a triple batch—three pans—and still, we jostle that whole week to get our share. It is dense and chewy and sweet, with just the slightest hint of lemon and a crisp covering of puffy dough. It contains more butter and sugar than is proper to discuss, and it is deliciously, sinfully good.

The cake has a few far flung ingredients—dates, and pecans, that sort of thing—as so many holiday treats do. But it's the season of excess, after all, and if you can find the basics nearby—eggs and butter and flour and milk—I see no reason to resist.

ANGIE'S COFFEE CAKE

from the Silver Palate Cookbook, by Julee Rosso, Sheila Lukins, and Michael McLaughlin, with a few annotations

Makes three 9- by 13-inch coffee cakes

1 package yeast (2 and 1/4 teaspoons)

1 cup warm milk (105 to 115 degrees F)

3 tablespoons sugar

4 cups flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 and 1/4 cup vegetable shortening (my mother uses butter)

2 whole eggs

1 egg, separated

1 pound butter, softened to room temperature

2 cups brown sugar

2 cups shelled pecans, coarsely chopped

3 cups dates, coarsely chopped

1 tablespoon cinnamon

2 and 1/4 cups confectioner's sugar

2 tablespoons warm honey

1/2 cup fresh lemon juice (2 to 3 pieces of fruit)

Dissolve yeast in milk in a small bowl. Stir in granulated sugar and let stand for 10 minutes.

Sift flour and salt together in a large bowl. Cut in vegetable shortening (or butter) until mixture looks like rolled oats. Stir in milk mixture. Beat the whole eggs and egg yolk together, setting aside the white, and stir gently but thoroughly into the dough. Cover with a towel and set aside to rise until tripled, about three hours.

(At this step, every year, my mother decides something has gone terribly wrong. She calls us over to confer; the dough looks like a huge lumpy mass, very wet and heavy and not at all like dough. We worry and worry and worry. It doesn't ever triple, but in the end it always comes out right. We think this may be because we substitute butter for lard, but either way we adore the end result.)

Grease three jelly-roll pans, 9- by 13-inches each. Divide risen dough into thirds, and roll out one piece thinly into a rectangle about three times the size of one of the pans. (At this point, my mother says, you will probably need to use a bit of extra flour in rolling out the dough, as it is so wet.) Slide a pan under the center third of the dough.

Set aside a third of the butter. Divide remaining butter into thirds and spread half of one portion over the center portion of the dough on the pan. Sprinkle 1/3 cup of the brown sugar, 1/3 cup pecans, and 1/2 cup of the chopped dates evenly over the buttered section of the dough. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon. Fold one side of the dough over the center section. Repeat addition of butter, pecans, dates, sugar, and cinnamon, and fold other side over center section. Repeat with remaining dough and ingredients, and set all three pans aside for 2 and 1/2 to 3 hours.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Mix together reserved butter, 1 cup confectioners' sugar, reserved egg white, and warmed honey. Cut three deep decorative slits in the risen coffee cakes, being careful not to cut through the bottom layer. Spread honey mixture evenly over the tops of the cakes with a pastry brush.

Set the pans on the middle rack of the oven and bake 25 to 30 minutes, or until puffed. Cool slightly. Mix together remaining confectioners' sugar and lemon juice and drizzle over the warm cakes. Enjoy at room temperature. These also freeze well, though I doubt they'll make it that far.