Brownies ... Need I Say More?

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

March 4, 2010

I am perhaps my own worst enemy. No worst critic exists. Okay, perhaps the cousin who I have yet to make the perfect cookie for. And, yes, my father most definitely is. But I look forward to his critiques. He is quite honest and has a very particular palate that is usually driven by his own very particular moods. Without fail he will always tell you exactly what he thinks of whatever you give him. The man has never censored himself and I truly believe he does not possess the gene to know how to. If it tastes like something that would be better served by a pooper scooper then you will know and you will know quickly. He is not like my mother who loves anything sweet and silky and accompanying the description “frosting.” Or not like my youngest brother who will eat anything placed in front of him. Sure, he will have his favorites and you will know because he will request those again and again (this evening an order was placed for my chocolate espresso cupcakes) but otherwise so long as it is passable it is good. That is not good enough for me. Until something passes my father’s inspection then back into the kitchen I must go until it is just right. And when it is just right—my Baklava Redux or my coffee flan—the compliments come quickly.

Apart from my father I am, yes, my own worst enemy. It is not rare for me to do what I have coined “putting myself into competition with someone who doesn’t exist.” That means after I stare hours at pictures of pretty cupcakes you will then find me in my kitchen attaching butterfly sugar cookies to carefully marshmallow topped vanilla cupcakes. You might have caught a picture or two of these already. You didn’t? Here you go …

Last night I was chatting with one of my best friends, another baker. She told me she had made brownies the night before but they had come out with the texture of a chocolate cake. Her exact words? “If I wanted a chocolate cake, I would have made chocolate cake. I wanted brownies!” She had no idea where she went wrong. So started the discussion of the various techniques I have been told about and those I have been instructed to do—my aunt’s advice to make sure the melted chocolate is at room temperature before adding it to the egg and sugar mixture or the baker’s requirement that my eggs sit in a warm water bath as I prepare all other ingredients and that they stay as warm as possible before I start to put all of the ingredients together. The common thread? The eggs and the chocolate should be at the same temperature if you want the typical chocolate fudgy brownie instead of a crumbling cakey mess.

Brownies, unfortunately, quite recently, have become my achilles heel in the kitchen—replacing the space most recently held by pancakes (thank you yogurt for being its savior). The last few times I made them they have come out a little too fudgy or downright undercooked and fit for nothing more than my garbage can. I have been anxious to try another recipe, another technique, a different pan, different chocolate, different temperatures, different additions, no additions at all, just something to see if I could reverse the curse. Yes, a curse. What else would you call the loss of so much chocolate? Catastrophe?

Inspired by my friend and after finding a recipe hidden in my folder of “to try” I went into the kitchen. The technique called for was something I had never tried before. Never even seen before. And I was tempted to just take the basics called for (measurements and such) and use the technique learned in the bakery (warm eggs, warm chocolate). But my inquisitive side took over and I wanted to see exactly what would happen with this recipe. The yield itself was small enough (not too much of any one ingredient used and so not too much guilt should the garbage can be fed instead of my ego) that experimentation was called for. Welcome. Begged for.

What is the technique? Quite interesting. And uses no more than one pot—the same one used for melting the chocolate—and so it requires so much less clean-up. Melt 3 ounces of chocolate with four ounces of butter (I used Ghiradelli unsweetened) over a low heat. Once the chocolate-butter mixture is completely melted and smooth, remove from the heat and whisk in the sugar until smooth (I used light brown sugar). To this add in three large eggs one at a time, whisking each one in completely before adding the next. Then add your flavorings. Mine? Espresso powder and vanilla extract. Sprinkle some salt and then exchange your whisk for a spatula and fold in your flour (I used all-purpose, unbleached). Pour the batter into your prepped 8x8 baking dish, place into an oven of 325 degrees and then sit back and swim in that espresso scent wafting through your entire apartment. Dream of whipped cream and the cobble-stoned streets of Trastevere. Remove once you insert a toothpick, which I never have on hand so I use a fork, into the center and a few crumbs come out. This is what you are supposed to do. What did I do? Instead of trusting my nose and it’s “we’re ready” alarm I waited a spell and the brownies were pulled out perhaps two minutes too late. No moist crumbs clung to my fork and I thought all was lost.

I let it rest and cool on my counter top while I prepared the white chocolate ganache—a mixture of white chocolate and heavy cream. When ready (ganache slightly firmer and the brownie completely cooled) turn the brownies out onto parchment or wax paper and pour the ganache into the center of the brownie, spreading it with whatever you have handy and that works—spatula, spoon, butter knife, etc. Sprinkle cinnamon on top and then place into the fridge to allow the ganache to set completely.

The result? Ah … this is where the beginning of this rant comes into play, my being my own worst enemy. The brownie was, well, ordinary when first tasted directly out of the fridge. The cold had muted all of the flavors. Where were my dreams of little cups of frothy espresso and stylish Italian men walking by the sun drenched streets? All gone. Those were replaced by the plastic-wrapped reminders of the Little Debbie brownies my mother always included in her weekly groceries if the sales were in place. Yes, I had created a Little Debbie brownie. Not a feat I am proud of.

Something kept nagging at me so right before bed I took out the brownies from the fridge and placed them in a container that I left on my counter top. The next morning I took a bite and there they were—the espresso, the vanilla, the white chocolate, the oh so slight hint of cinnamon. And there was the chocolate—not firm but tender. Not like the brownie I am used to but something I don’t mind licking my fingers for. And, yes, each one requires a licking of the fingers. One can’t let good chocolate go to waste.

Reimagined German Chocolate Cake and Baklava Redux

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

February 20, 2010

The German Chocolate Cake is the same. But I am a lazy baker sometimes and so I didn’t want to put together the traditional German Chocolate Frosting. And, truth be told, I don’t think it looks too appetizing. So the sweetened coconut flakes and some ground pecans went into the cake batter. And instead I put together a mocha frosting for its top. The next time I will try a buttercream or an even lighter topping to sweeten the lighter cake.

A week ago a request was made for an apple pie, which I gladly made, but there remained a good 10 inch diameter portion of patee brisee. Another pie I did not want to make. After visiting Arthur Avenue and producing a bottle of Pistacchi, I opted to bring the flavors I love of the baklava into something less traditional looking and formed. I rolled two long rectangles of the dough, brushed each with melted butter, spread a layer of pistacchio cream on to the bottom layer, topped it with ground walnuts and a blend of sugar, cinnamon, and lemon peel. On top went the other rectangle of brushed dough. The edges folded and fluted, the top scored and seasoned with more walnuts and more cinnamon sugar and into the oven it went. When all was done, and while still on its baking sheet, I poured a simple honey syrup all over and let it soak for a good four hours. Heavenly and divine. And to be repeated.

A Purse Full of Apples

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

February 7, 2010

Apples are sitting on my counter. A trend that sees no end in sight—that is until March, at the earliest. Apples, apart from pears, are the only fruits remaining at the Farmer’s Market every weekend. And because I attempt, as much as possible, to eat or snack on only items I can procure from the Farmer’s Market (or that Whole Foods tells me was at least grown on this continent, or, hopefully, this seaboard) I am only really eating apples. Perhaps the occasional banana gets thrown in but that is only because for me, they will never be seasonal. And a trip to my Grandfather’s house to cut down a couple does not seem to be in the cards for me any bit of tick tock soon.

It was an apple that traveled with me to and from the bakery, to and from the gym, to and from work, each morning, every morning, for at least a week, that finally made its way into something more useful than my gym bag. It was a banana, brown and ripe, that traveled with me for two days, in that same horribly monotonous rotation that also made it way into something more exciting than just unpeeled in my hand and consumed by my stomach. It is a 12 cup bag of walnuts still sitting in my pantry, more than half way emptied, that has, for the past week, found its merry way into brownies (too uncooked), cookies (crispy), and finally into a muffin. The same muffin that made a gingered lemon home for the ripening apple and browning banana.

Muffins that were shared with my husband after a long day of school work. Muffins gifted to a co-worker early on a Sunday morning. And muffins that were placed in the hands of a friend.

Each of us deals with grief in our own way. Growing up grief was fed. Richly. With pastas. And rice. Beans. Some pork. And a helping of brownies. Or a cake pulled like a rabbit out of a hat and consumed in a wink. In the last couple of days grief has shown its power to remove the appetite. The low grumblings and hummings of the tummy met not with the food I’m sure it craved but with warm beverages or a deeper hug. It was a grief that played stranger to me. I knew and know it not. My purse instead full of nuts and cherries, a sweet apple, a bottle of water, and home made apple banana walnut muffins. A muffin that was placed in the hands of a friend.

Sugarspeak

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

January 25, 2010

A simple term. But now mine. What I call my website (in its current infancy, nothing more than a blog). What I call my little business of baking for friends and family. What will adorn a sticker affixed to each box of delivered treats. For now you can read, if you wish. And comment, as I would love.

Strawberry Hazelnut Bars

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

June 21, 2009

A quick little posting until I can post an appropriate blog. Fresh strawberries purchased at the local Farmer’s Market. A new recipe to try courtesy of “Rustic Fruit Desserts.” Something delectable-sounding and perfect for the picnic I was going to later that evening. Cherry almond bars. The problem? No cherries. No almonds. But I had those fresh strawberries. And a last handful of hazelnuts. A little secret ingredient added for extra kick to the crust and I had my strawberry hazelnut bars. Delicious.

My next journey into a rustic fruit dessert courtesy of the book? The strawberry ricotta tart. Except I plan to substitute again. Stay tuned.

Looking forward ...

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

June 5, 2009

I wrote this last year after making my first cherry pie. I’m looking forward to a similar experience this summer:

Here I am. A city girl. Born and bred in Manhattan and the Bronx. A city girl who rode her first horse in 2000 in Mississippi. Who didn’t see her first cow up close and personal until a trip to California in 2003. A city girl who sat in front of her computer tonight, watching the first season of Weeds, with three bowls in front of her. The first had the cherries. The second for the discarded pits and stems. The third for the pitted cherries. No special tools. Just me, my hands, and the pointed edge of a can opener thrusting through the cherry and removing the pit. My hands covered in the red juice. Splattered all over the floor, my clothes, and dripping over the sides of the bowls. Bits of cherry flesh still taint the unders of my fingernails. My pie is cooling now. Made completely by my two tiny city girl hands. Even if it doesn’t taste like I hope I can sit back, look at the pie, and know I made it from scratch. And I made it for someone. For everyone.

The Soul of a Chef (or a Baker)

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

June 4, 2009

For those of you who have not read “The Soul of a Chef,” I highly recommend you do (and I’m only about 75 pages in to the book). One of the things the author chronicles during this horrendous 10-day Certified Master Chef exam is how all of these chefs--no matter how sick, tired, stressed, or broken--will stand in front of their station, look at their ingredients, start their preparation and all but the beauty and calmness of the cooking takes over. It happens to me every time I step into my kitchen to bake. It happened to me this morning.

A week ago David came over to my apartment to test a recipe of roasted peppers and pear soup served with some apple and cheese bunuelos (tasty doesn’t even begin to capture what that culinary experience was). I made brownies for dessert (shying away from a mini cupcake idea I had in mind). And there were many, many brownies remainining. Even after I ate one (or seven too many), even after David, Rachel, and Keith attacked the platters numerous times, there were still too many left over. After so many days of brownies I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted them gone but refused to throw them away. I guess I could have shared them with my neighbors but I was born and raised in NYC and that neighborly “can I borrow a cup of sugar” was never really part of my upbringing (it became that only when I lived across the street from my aunt and would use not only the contents of her pantry but the extra oven on those Thanksgiving days when I had pies to bake and my father refused to sully his turkey by having it share space with my pumpkin pie -- he preferred the apple).

The brownies. Still. The brownies. Always. The brownies. What to do with them before frustration (and my bulging waistline) hit and nothing but the innards of my garbage can would enjoy them? Cookies. That’s what I wanted. Cookies.

A standard chocolate chip cookie recipe. I omitted the chocolate chips. Added cocoa powder (because I wanted that double chocolate kick and look), crumbled in the brownies (which were full of hazelnuts and white chocolate), added some additional white chocolate (for additional texture and contrast -- I wanted it to look pretty and impossible to resist), and put my little Frankencookie in the oven. Eighteen minutes later my apartment was full of the smell of not only freshly baked cookies but chocolate. I cooled them. Packed them. Well, after I snuck half of one to taste with a tall glass of cold milk. The others then parceled out for friends and a few extra for an after dinner treat tonight.

Home remedy

One way to feed a cold

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

May 20, 2009

I am a single gal living in this big bad city in an apartment all by my lonesome with nothing but my kitchen and web musings to keep me company on most mornings and nights. There is nothing wrong with it. I rejoice in it (sometimes). When do I feel alone? When I’m sick.

With the recent publication of “What We Eat When We Eat Alone” or the popularity of books like “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant,” or the countless movies and television shows and articles about cooking for one, or living alone, or enjoying the life of a single gal in the city, you would think that this entire world is full of nothing but people eating, dining, and living alone. You could also find yourself uttering the words, “how depressing.” I can’t help but think of the scene in “Under the Tuscan Sun” where, recently divorced, she inhales her dinner alone in her kitchen while standing at the sink. Okay, so sitting in my living room, still in pajamas, recovering from a horrible cold, and not being able to think of anything but “Under the Tuscan Sun” to reference is making me think, “how depressing.” Let’s move on, shall we?

A little over a week ago it started with the slight tickle in the back of the throat. A couple of days later the throat tickling advanced to aching. And then one morning I woke to find my throat sitting closed in protest for the nose’s audacity to go on vacation. There was sneezing and coughing. Achy eyes. Yes, the eyes ached. There was the trudging in to work, the trips for cough drops (quite surprised I did not overdose on those), countless tissue papers abused, cups of tea that might have been better and more quickly served intravenously, and finally the great collapse.

The morning after the great collapse, feeling quite alone, with no loved one to soothe me to sleep, to make me tea, to gather me into their arms and sweetly sing all would be okay, I walked into my kitchen. Okay, walked is perhaps too strong of a word to describe the act of the drooping head that lugged dragging feet all of ten feet from my bedroom into my kitchen; regardless, I was in my kitchen. I took a small glass bowl gifted by a sweet friend, poured about half of a bottle of honey into it, sliced half of an onion, and coarsely chopped one clove of garlic together and immersed it all in the honey. I put the cover on the bowl and let it sit on my counter.

Four hours later the water from the onion had seeped into the honey and turned it into a sweet sticky juice. It is my mother’s home remedy for a cold. Two tablespoons of the concoction each day is supposed to cure all. Or at least loosen enough of the sludge that caused my lungs to rattle to bring on a cold-free morning sooner than any dosage of NyQuil could. Who knows if it really works. Who cares.

For the first time, after almost a year in my apartment, I felt truly alone. For the first time, I was making my mother’s home remedy while not standing in my mother’s kitchen using my mother’s ingredients and tools. The glass bowl was mine. The onion and garlic from my pantry. The honey purchased myself. I put them all together and I then ingested them. I was sick. Alone in my apartment. And taking care of myself. And while I felt truly alone I felt anything but lonely. With the first spoonful I saw my father’s hands work at pulling the rind of an orange in one peel to make me a comforting pot of tea, with the next I felt the warm hand of my mother work through my hair as my heavy head slept soundly on her lap, with the next spoonful I saw the strong back of my boyfriend as he worked in my tiny kitchen to make me breakfast and to serve me smiles.

Sick, yes. Definitely not as much this morning as I have been the past week. Alone, no. Friends, family, and love have taken up residence in the simple ingredients of my pantry.

Comiendo Sola

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

May 7, 2009

I can’t recall the last time I ate dinner alone. My job dictates that dinner is gobbled down in the moments between the maestro taking the stage and the complaining patrons at intermission. I am never alone. There is security checking in, ushers at the window, colleagues seated beside me. My evenings off become filled with some sort of activity or interaction so that I am not alone at dinner.

Tonight I was alone for dinner. A situation I am still getting used to after almost a full year in this apartment. But I did not find myself feeling the same melancholy as I have on other nights when I find myself alone. Or on the nights following dinner with friends or family. There is something about the fullness of one evening that makes the subsequent ones all the lonelier.

I thought to myself this evening to make it different. Write a blog while you eat. Keep yourself connected, occupied, and help yourself to eat slower and enjoy the dinner. And, for goodness sake, do not settle for granola and yogurt or another reheated leftover waffle. The next best thing (I was starving after a full day running around this city) was a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Whole wheat bread, gouda and fontina cheese, sliced smoked turkey, a touch of spicy mustard, and a cup of coffee.

The coffee will be the subject of another blog.

Rest in Peace Juicy Juice

From Sugarspeak Baking by Jenny Weber

May 7, 2009

Tart cranberry juice. Bitter. The sort that makes your jaw clench and pucker. Mixed with a bit of Pellegrino. The sort that makes your lips smile.

Yesterday friends gathered to cook together (the baking was done in advance to be the focus of the next cooking challenge). There were salads of cucumber, tomatoes, and feta; another of mixed greens, cabbage, avocado, red peppers, and topped with Goddess dressing. Nothing really part of the living I have been attempting to do for the past year, which is to live off of the produce I can only find at the Farmer’s Market. But sometimes a gal needs a red pepper. Or sometimes a gal needs some tomatoes. And sometimes I have to listen to that gal or she’ll rebel by overdosing on her homemade chocolate chip cookies (because eggs, butter, and milk can always be found at the Farmer’s Market).

All of the vibrant bits of green, yellow, red, and purple were satiated with slices and bits of onions and mushrooms sauteed in garlic and thyme and nestled with beaten eggs. Cooked and browned and flipped and served.

Dessert was my banana coconut cake frosted with a rum banana frosting. Rum. Yum. All washed down with an organic pale ale. Beer now being my flavor of choice for pairing with all my sweets and savory. Understanding and noticing the spices and nuances I could never ever grasp with wine.

My mind wanders and I think of how in exploring food with others, in exchanges, and not only in the kitchen I am slowly turning into a classroom, I have learned so much about myself and how I have grown as a woman and as a person. As a human being who finds herself in the time shared with friends and family in the kitchen. Talking freely.

There is something about good food, good music, and good drink that allows me to break free, let go, and be honest with not only those around me, but with myself. It is funny to see those walls fall down in the wake of a beer with caramel hints and the simplicity of a beaten egg with mushrooms and onions that allows the complexity of life to be seen and understood and further explored.

May I never stop.