Carol Goodman Kaufman

a.k.a. Carolinda Goodman

Dessert

Ghee Whiz!

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I love Indian food, and when given the choice as to what kind of restaurant I’d like to visit, it is more often than not an Indian one — except with certain friends who shall remain nameless. They won’t go near the stuff.

I love the fact that there are so many vegetarian options. I love the music in the background. And most of all, I love the amazing flavors of the various dishes. Before the quarantine, J and I had even been making plans to travel to India next winter.

Needless to say, that probably won’t happen. Nor will visiting an Indian restaurant any time soon.

So, to Plan B. While trying to keep things interesting (in the kitchen) during this plague year and test as many recipes as possible for my cookbook-in-process, I decided to make carrot halwa. But even though my cabinets have many of the herbs and spices frequently used in Indian cuisine (e.g., ginger, garlic, turmeric, cardamom, even garam masala), I didn’t have ghee.

Frankly,  I’ve always been a little nervous about trying to make it, under the impression that it would be difficult to do. And the little jars of the stuff can fetch as much as $35 each. That was not going to be an option for this home cook.

But since we are at home and can’t get to our favorite restaurants, why not try making it myself? And guess what! It’s not hard at all. You just need patience. If for no other reason than the heavenly, buttery aroma that wafts through the house, I would recommend giving it a go. I used a bit on tuna steaks, and they were absolutely delicious.

Then, last night  (and the reason I actually started this little experiment, if you can remember that far back) I made the first of a series of recipes for carrot halwa. It was a fabulously flavorful pudding, and super easy to whip together with only a handful of ingredients.

Ghee whiz!

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.

 

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.

 

A 24 Carat Dessert

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While doing research on the carob, I learned a lot about its history and culture. This legume is touted as a healthy alternative to chocolate, as it has lots of nutrients and no stimulants such as caffeine or theobromine to give you the jitters. However, the bean has long been denigrated as an inferior chocolate wanna-be, nothing more than a poseur. I found a recipe that I have adapted to include orange juice and coconut oil. These two ingredients give it an amazing tropical vibe. This delicious cake is so moist it really doesn’t require frosting, but including it doubles the pleasure.  And, it redeems the lowly carob!


Ingredients:
For cake:
2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
2 c. sugar
2 t. baking soda
2 t. baking powder
½ c. high quality carob powder
½ c. coconut oil
1 c. orange juice
2 extra-large eggs
1 c. hot coffee
For icing:
2 sticks unsalted butter at room temperature
4 cups confectioner’s sugar
2 t. orange emulsion (or extract)
2 T. milk

Directions:
For cake:
Preheat oven to 350°.
Grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.
In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine first five ingredients.
In a second bowl, mix the oil, milk, and eggs.
Pour liquids into dry ingredients and beat, starting slowly.
While beating, add the coffee and gradually increase to high speed.
Beat for two minutes.
Pour batter into prepared pans.
Bake for 30 minutes or until toothpick placed in center comes out dry.
Cool for 20 minutes, then tip cakes onto cake racks.
When cakes are completely cooled, ice.
For icing:
In bowl of mixer, beat butter until creamy.
Gradually add confectioners’ sugar with mixer set to slow speed so that it won’t fly all over the kitchen.
Add extract and milk.
Increase speed to whip icing to a nice, fluffy texture.

 

Weighing In

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So, I promised to bring muffins to my beloved father-in-law who is currently in a rehab hospital. Pumpkin spice seemed seasonally appropriate and the recipe online got five-star raves, so what could be bad? I donned my apron. When the muffins came out like soup, I was more than a bit annoyed. After all, I had followed the directions carefully.

Or had I? Returning to the website on which I had found the recipe, I realized that the 1 1/4 cups of flour was actually 1 1/4 pounds. Because we know several professional chefs who weigh their ingredients, I was aware of the practice, but had never actually seen a recipe calling for that.

Attempt #2 worked out much better, even with substituting half the butter with applesauce.

Next time I will try them using my very nice digital scale.

Moral of the story: Read carefully.