Carol Goodman Kaufman

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A Sticky Business

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A few years ago, J and I went to dinner at a little place in the Berkshires. We had decent salad and entrees that were meh. But, since we had eaten said salad and fish (so healthy, right?), we decided to order one dessert to split between us. A lover of all things British, I voted for the sticky toffee pudding that I had read about in many English novels. It came in a little ramekin and was so delicious that we could have eaten another three of four of them. Each. No kidding. It was that good.

Flash forward about ten years and we are in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, sitting at the bar in The Merchantman restaurant. J had a great fish dinner and I had a scrumptious seared tuna salad. That, of course, meant that we were entitled to have dessert (salad and fish: so healthy, right?). We chose The Merchantman’s version of the same decadent dessert. It was fabulous.

“You should try to make this at home,” said J.

So when our good friends Elena and Steven came for dinner, I did. The particular recipe I chose uses not the customary ramekins, but a bundt pan. Much easier, I thought. And it’s true; it’s not a difficult recipe to make, but it does require lots of steps, several pots, and much patience. BTW, nowhere in the name is there a clue that this dessert is based on dates.

The cake soaked up a lot of the toffee syrup through holes poked in both top and bottom, and was served with even more poured over the top. With a sprinkle of turbinado sugar over it and a dollop of whipped cream, it looked gorgeous. (Bundt pans do make every cake look better.)

It was spectacular. So good, in fact, that when I brought a few slices to share with my writing group, my normally generous-to-a-fault J was a bit put out.

Given that this dessert is made with lots of butter, heavy cream, and dark brown sugar, I would recommend eating nothing but salad in the days preceding a sticky toffee indulgence. Or perhaps, a full-on fast.

Then again, dates are fruit. Right? Must be healthy.

Here is a link to the recipe I used, The only change I made was to puree the date/water mixture in my Ninja rather than simply mash with a fork.

https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/double-ginger-sticky-toffee-pudding-56390054

The Key to Happiness

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I’ve never been to the Florida Keys, but my family and I have loved key lime pie since the first time we tasted it, and we can certainly understand why it is the official pie of the state of Florida. So, one day I decided that it would be fun to try to make one. But, in what can only be described as a temporary break from reality, I decided to grow my own key limes. What began as two little saplings have grown tall in my sunroom, and every year they produce a crop of about a dozen limes each. And every year I harvest the fruits, squeeze them, and freeze the resulting juice.

For those readers who aren’t aware, key limes are tiny. Each one produces about a half teaspoon of juice. So it will come as no surprise that it has taken four years to get enough juice to make a pie. Two pies, actually, because by this time my family has grown to include our three kids, their spouses, and six grandchildren. And my rule was that all would have to be present in order to partake of this legendary dessert.

This past Sunday was the big day, as all fourteen of us were together at son Seth’s house (although little Tali isn’t on solid food yet, so I gave her a pass).

The pie recipe itself was actually quite easy, with only four ingredients, plus the three for the graham cracker crust.

But I was nervous. After all, I’d never prepared any recipe for key lime pie before. What if the one I’d chosen wasn’t good? Would I have to wait another four years before making it again?

To add to my angst, it turns out that the recipe I had was not the traditional one calling for raw egg yolks. In that original recipe, the protein of the egg yolks and condensed milk react chemically with the acid of the lime juice. This reaction causes the filling to thicken on its own without requiring baking. Today, because consuming raw eggs can be dangerous, the pie is usually baked, even if only for a short time.

Would my recipe, made with sweetened condensed milk, sour cream, key lime juice, and zest — but no eggs — make for a runny pie?

As if all that wasn’t enough to worry about: I can’t make a pie crust to save my life, so I no longer have pie pans in the house. Luckily, a quiche pan that must have been a wedding gift was tucked away in a cabinet. That, and a round cake pan of the same diameter, did the trick.

It turns out that graham cracker crusts are super easy to make.  (I may make more pie!)

The verdict: the pie was delicious and not at all runny. And, although my friend Sue insists that the whipped cream garnish is mandatory, I inadvertently left the cream in the fridge at home. Just as well. The pie was so rich that nothing else was needed.

 

Hot Soup for a Cold New England Winter’s Night

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Come winter, I don’t really like to make salad. I like salads. Lots of them. But mostly I like them in the warmer months when both eating and clothing are lighter. It’s not as if I don’t prepare and eat vegetables during the season. I do. I make lots of soup, which requires almost as much touching of cold veggies as does salad, but the results can warm and soothe the frigid New England soul.

And, since the thermometer tells me that it is 21 degrees outside right now, with predictions for 0 tomorrow, it is absolutely critical to put up a pot of soup. Tonight’s choice? Moroccan Pumpkin Soup, a recipe adapted from the late, great Gil Marks. His original calls for leeks or onions, but since I hardly ever remember to buy leeks, I just use regular yellow onions. And for a little added pizazz, a few pumpkin seeds sprinkled over the top of every serving.

Try this really easy recipe to warm your soul!

Moroccan Pumpkin Soup

Post-Thanksgiving post

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Back in the day, I subscribed to the late, great Gourmet magazine. Every month I swooned over gorgeous photos of exotic places, dreamt of touring France in a hot air balloon, and of course tried many recipes. One dish in particular I resurrected this year: a rum-glazed sweet potato, apple and chestnut gratin.

I had first made this recipe ages ago, staying up until one a.m. to roast and peel each and every chestnut. But the results were so delicious that it was worth the labor, so I continued to make it. (I have since discovered ready-made chestnuts.)

Then my kids, being kids, declined even to touch the lovingly prepared dish, so I stopped making it.

Until this fall. At Rosh Hashanah, I made a double batch, expecting to bring the second half to my friend’s home the second day of the holiday. But the rather small group around my dining room table vacuumed up almost the entire casserole.

Hmm. Something was up. Perhaps now that they are all grown and with little ones of their own, I should try it on my kids?

So, I made a triple batch for Thanksgiving dinner and all but a few tablespoons disappeared.

Gourmet may be long gone, but it will remain for me a portal into a beautiful world of culinary and travel delights.

And, thank goodness for Google. The recipe is available online!

https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/rum-glazed-sweet-potato-apple-and-chestnut-gratin-1911086

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, More!

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I find nothing quite as satisfying as preparing — and eating — a meal with vegetables from my own garden. An eggplant caponata, zucchini latkes, even just a simple sun-warmed tomato with a sprinkle of salt – all scrumptious.

But, as wonderful as all these things are, I like to add something new and different every year. After all, I have enough jalapeno and banana peppers in my freezer to last for the next decade, so there is available space in the garden.

So this year I planted potatoes. Fingerlings, to be precise, the small, stubby, finger-shaped type, because I adore those tiny potatoes oven-roasted with a bit of olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper. (I’m salivating already, and it’s only 8:30 in the morning as I write this.)

Having no idea how to grow the tubers, I went online and found several different methods. Given the annual invasion by little critters that invade the backyard, taking one bite of everything on the vine (couldn’t they just finish one thing?), I chose to plant them in a tub. And by “tub,” I mean a pot that was big enough to bathe a baby.

As instructed, I dutifully added soil to the pot to build up the plants, and I watered “evenly” (or as evenly possible given the torrential downpours we’ve been seeing in New England this summer).

I even moved the pot around to follow the sun. In one tactical error, I didn’t take into account the weight involved in this project. Although the “Spud Tub” is made of plastic, adding the entire contents of a 25 pound bag of soil made it quite heavy. Luckily, I happen to have a wheeled plant stand from a previous attempt at growing citron trees from seed. (Note the word “previous.” After ten years, all I got was blossoms but no fruit.) So all I had to do (once loading the tub onto it. was to push it with my foot.

The plants grew tall and lanky, seemingly by the minute. And now the foliage is beginning to turn yellow, which means that it is time to dig them up. Hubby J did the honors this week, surprising me with a single, perfectly formed fingerling.

Should I save it for the rest of the harvest, or eat this one tiny spud?

There’s Always Room: Reclaiming the Gelatin Mold

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Jello, and its jiggly cousin Royal, have long been derided by people who consider themselves epicures. Perhaps their bad rep is due to the association with school cafeterias and hospital stays. Or colonoscopy prep. So, I feel it’s time to come out and admit that I like the stuff, particularly when it’s combined with other ingredients, and even more when it is fashioned into a beautiful shape by virtue of a mold.

After all, let’s be honest. If we called it aspic, we’d get oohs and aahs. In another time, aspic represented the height of a gourmet dining experience. But aspic is simply gelatin in which meat and/or vegetables are suspended.

A couple of weeks ago, I was on the phone with a friend, venting my frustration in trying to find canned cherries. My usual grocery had discontinued stocking them. My friend suggested I try frozen cherries, and then asked why I needed them. When I told her that they were an essential ingredient in my late mother-in-law’s cranberry-cherry gelatin mold, her immediate reaction was, “Ugh.” I responded that the ruby red side dish is actually delicious. And, besides, it’s a tradition on our Thanksgiving table. Everybody in my family not only expects it; they demand it.

Fast forward to the actual Thanksgiving dinner: In recounting the conversation, my daughter-in-law’s mother said that she, too, prepares a beloved recipe that was her mother’s. Then my other daughter-in-law reminisced about her grandmother’s gelatin mold. In fact, although she herself doesn’t cook or bake, she announced that she would, indeed, make gelatin molds for her family. (I hope I will be invited to partake.)

I loved E’s excitement, so immediately began scouring my bookshelves for my copy of The New Joys of Jello, a book I had received as a gift decades ago. And the memories came charging back. I must have tried a dozen different recipes from that book and from the various magazines that came through our mail slot, and almost all were successful. “Under-the-Sea Pear Salad,” made with cream cheese, pear halves, and ginger? Excellent. “Glazed Peach Cream,” prepared with vanilla ice cream and sliced peaches? Delicious. “Carrot , Celery and Olive Salad?” Loved it.

But it was the Crown Jewel Cake that captured my heart, and then broke it. The photograph of that magnificent construction motivated me to try my hand at making it. Consisting of cubes of stained-glass-colored gelatin cubes suspended in creamy white whipped topping fortified by lemon gelatin, it was gorgeous. Unfortunately, my attempt sagged, the topping not sturdy enough to hold it all together.

Then there was the magazine ad featuring a fishbowl in which fish-shaped fruit pieces swam in a sea of blueberry gelatin. In the ad, it looked fabulous and I thought my kids would love it. Unfortunately, when I tried it, the fishes all went belly-up just like real goldfish. And then, somebody (name withheld to protect the guilty) said upon setting her sights on it, “Blue food? How disgusting.” But it did taste okay.

Despite my failures,
the gelatin mold holds a dear place in my heart.

It’s time to reclaim the gelatin mold. Call it retro. Call it hip. Just call it.