tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128298302024-03-28T05:34:07.972-04:00my madeleineShe sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called petites madeleines... And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me.
-ProustMollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.comBlogger270125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-68688184063644414622014-08-29T17:19:00.000-04:002014-09-21T12:09:01.970-04:00Blueberry Pudding Cake<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Let’s go back in time. About a month ago, I was living in Hudson,
New York, and working like a madwoman in order to finish the sixth print issue
of the startup magazine where I worked. The last two weeks before shipping a completed
magazine to the printer were always intense. All of five of us on the editorial
staff devoted pretty much every waking minute to one purpose: finish. Late
nights in the office. Early mornings in the office. As the managing editor, I
kept track of each story in the page proofing process, and would dream of
spreadsheets. In my dreams I wouldn’t really be doing anything. Just sitting
there, staring at spreadsheets.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In the middle of this last magazine close, on a Sunday
afternoon, I forced myself to not think about work. Instead, I baked. It was
late July, and when I went to the market that Saturday, I spent about a million
dollars on blueberries, and every one of those dollars was worth it. Especially
when I baked a blueberry pudding cake, which tasted pretty much the way summer
should taste, even if you spend your summer mainly just working. I brought the
leftovers to the office on Monday. The pan was empty in a few hours. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Let’s go further back in time. Nine years ago tomorrow I was
in the accident that caused me to lose my sense of smell, change my career and
begin writing. This anniversary sneaks up on me. But every year, a few days
before August 30, I begin to feel a nagging anxiety, a trill of panic deep in
lungs. I don’t understand it until I look at the calendar. Then I remember
where I was that morning (happily planning my first days at culinary school)
and where I would be that afternoon (in a Boston hospital with a head contusion,
severed knee ligaments, shattered pelvis and a vanished sense of smell). It’s been almost a decade but it
scares me, still. </div>
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Now: go eat cake. </div>
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Blueberry Pudding Cake</div>
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From <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Blueberry-Pudding-Cake-232324">Gourmet</a>, circa 2005</div>
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1/3 cup plus 1/2 cup sugar</div>
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1/4 cup water</div>
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1 tablespoon lemon juice</div>
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1 teaspoon cornstarch</div>
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2 heaping cups blueberries</div>
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1 cup flour</div>
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1 3/4 teaspoons baking powder</div>
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1 teaspoon salt</div>
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1 egg</div>
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1/2 cup whole milk</div>
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1 stick unsalted butter, melted</div>
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1 teaspoon vanilla</div>
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<br /></div>
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Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.</div>
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In a small saucepan, mix together the first 1/3 cup sugar
with water, lemon juice, cornstarch and blueberries. Bring to a simmer and
cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 minutes. Take off heat.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Whisk together flour, baking powder, salt and remaining sugar
in a medium bowl. In another large bowl, whisk together egg, milk, butter and
vanilla. Add the flour mixture to this, stirring until just combined.</div>
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Pour the batter into a buttered 9-inch baking pan. Spread
evenly. Pour blueberry mixture of the top of the batter, and let sink in. Bake 25 – 30 minutes.
Let cool in the pan. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">Leftovers keep well, though won’t last long.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com180tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-53938116640592956992014-08-20T09:00:00.001-04:002014-08-20T09:13:33.059-04:00Well Hello<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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It’s, uh, been a while. Anyone still out there?
Is this thing on? Bueller? (Sorry.) </div>
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<br /></div>
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So I haven’t written here in more than a year. That feels
strange. I started this blog back in 2005, when I barely knew what blogs were,
and ever since then it’s been a constant companion, a small but semi-permanent
recording of my life in real time, patches and pieces and recipes and photos,
never regularly updated but always present. Always something to return to. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And so here I am! Returning! The last year and a bit has
been wild. I moved to the Hudson Valley for a <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/">job</a>. A phenomenal but an intense
job. It consumed me and all my hours and most of my life. I loved it. But now
I’m returning to Boston for another
<a href="http://www.americastestkitchen.com/">job</a>, one that I’m likewise wildly excited about. I missed Boston, and am happy
to be coming home. </div>
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<br /></div>
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What else. <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2013/12/growing-sober/">I</a> <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2014/03/local-grain/">wrote</a> <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2014/06/dog-nose-knows/">a</a> <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2014/07/locally-made-argentinian-grills/">bit</a>. I read as much as I could. <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/magazine/issue-02/">I</a>
<a href="http://modernfarmer.com/magazine/issue-3-winter-2013/">edited</a> <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/magazine/issue-4-spring-2014/">a</a> <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/magazine/issue-5-summer-2015/">lot</a>. I made new friends and reconnected with old. I spent a lot of
time flying to Texas, trying to make a long distance relationship work. I <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2013/11/pie-chart-guide-seasonal-pies/">cooked</a>
only a little, but <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/2014/07/orange-glad-rose/">drank</a>, well, like a journalist. I ran on trails in
the woods, early in the fog-ridden mornings, and discovered that if I forced
myself to both sign up and pay for the evening hot yoga class before noon, I
might actually attend. I survived a breakup, mainly by watching Jane Austin-inspired movies on my laptop over and over for a month. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Many weekends I took the Amtrak from my tiny upstate town to
NYC, hurtling along the Hudson River to attend parties and book readings and
dinners with my brother, Ben, perched at the bar of one funky restaurant or
another downtown. Sometimes I went to the city just for the particular thrill
that comes with being anonymous. </div>
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<br /></div>
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When I finished my last day of work, I went to Maine for a
week by myself. I wanted the <a href="http://www.popsci.com/seasmells">scent of the ocean</a> and the sound of crickets at night to rid my brain of the static built up over the last year. </div>
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<br /></div>
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After four days alone, I was happy to spend
time with my friends Steph and Kathy, both who live nearby. On that Thursday
night Steph and I shared some of the best deviled eggs I’ve tasted at <a href="http://www.theblackbirch.com/">The Black Birch</a> in Kittery. On that Friday night, Kathy cooked. We drank
rosé and walked around her sweeping garden, all tomatoes and potatoes and
asparagus fronds. She grilled a huge pan of paella and we ate it in the yard as
the sun went down. Later that night we listened to a New Orleans-style brass
band in a one-room theater space in town, and I sat in the back and tapped my
foot and watched an older, white-haired man dance magnificently in the
center of the room, alone. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-89066130971537799092013-06-29T11:26:00.000-04:002013-07-01T07:54:25.657-04:00Changes<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_9H5LTPPhTwdrqWvzcajOdlnZbhFIP3Xv3ap4ure5ADz3tnLjFAhnAZXeIAuq2eZHGdrEAgXGhmyql2jPxnRZwGwco5_MQLCEdQR6QZvsLmWzLIpgSgTPGjW0RcJYVKlA5Ot/s1600/P1010528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_9H5LTPPhTwdrqWvzcajOdlnZbhFIP3Xv3ap4ure5ADz3tnLjFAhnAZXeIAuq2eZHGdrEAgXGhmyql2jPxnRZwGwco5_MQLCEdQR6QZvsLmWzLIpgSgTPGjW0RcJYVKlA5Ot/s400/P1010528.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My last day of work at <i><a href="http://www.cooksillustrated.com/">Cook’s Illustrated</a></i> was on a Monday. On Tuesday, Greg and I drove to Maine. We spent a day in Portland, where we ate <a href="http://www.eventideoysterco.com/">oysters</a> and lobster rolls, house-made charcuterie and stout-flavored ice cream before we yet again hit the road. We arrived in Baxter State Park on Wednesday evening, where we camped in a lean to, learned how to play cribbage, and listened to the sounds of an aggressively gurgling stream. On Thursday, we climbed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Katahdin">Mount Katahdin</a>, the highest mountain in Maine.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCymrIr7XPEL69rVYICOjtm_oQKB-OOSiMIloGmPglBZXbuPzyb2d3AFQuMRNK7hYv7Ujotu1SRJlKdfN8vGBj9mgwy3wcQKkQY9rocw_NeCXz_RSI05iNk5nP92wK1BOnR0v/s1600/P1010527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCymrIr7XPEL69rVYICOjtm_oQKB-OOSiMIloGmPglBZXbuPzyb2d3AFQuMRNK7hYv7Ujotu1SRJlKdfN8vGBj9mgwy3wcQKkQY9rocw_NeCXz_RSI05iNk5nP92wK1BOnR0v/s400/P1010527.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I knew the hike would be hard. We’d heard about the boulder scrambling, the long and steep ascent, the long and steep descent. But I guess I didn’t think too much about it. I’m a runner. I used to be a backpacker. I’d just left my job for <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/PR-CO-20130627-906797.html">a new one</a>. Summer was here. I won at cribbage. The world was my (local Maine) oyster.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYKZ6LWgC4HpyycS5-Zhw5-YA9elWqjiCBs93S8Xaw-QYFIdM_aw8h24c-8D14aC4FdGyfWXNC0gh7XIjvCHWgy-guL2lSKYyfpNp02wAqG4OyapOEqT0Ed54yakpXGXJ5Oxn/s1600/P1010553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYKZ6LWgC4HpyycS5-Zhw5-YA9elWqjiCBs93S8Xaw-QYFIdM_aw8h24c-8D14aC4FdGyfWXNC0gh7XIjvCHWgy-guL2lSKYyfpNp02wAqG4OyapOEqT0Ed54yakpXGXJ5Oxn/s400/P1010553.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
But that hike? Man, it was hard. We climbed that mountain for almost 5 hours, sloshing in streams, scrambling up rocks, passing the tree line to reach the bald head of the peak. It was beautiful up there, all rocks and knife-sharp edges, fields and hills for miles and miles.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The descent was what really took it out of me. We hopped and jumped, balanced and hauled ourselves down a different (*slightly* less steep) trail. And at the bottom, 4.5 hours later, I was zonked. My quad muscles screamed. Even my wrists were sore. All I wanted to do was curl up into a little ball and sleep. The problem? We were still 2 miles from our campsite. We just needed to stroll along a flat dirt road to get there. But those remaining 2 miles felt like 1,000 and we decided to do the only logical thing: hitch hike.<br />
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<br />
A few cars ignored us, spraying clouds of dust into the air as they sped on by. But then one stopped. Two nicely dressed tourists from Japan let two supremely sweaty hikers climb into their pristine rental-car backseat. We tried to make small talk, but language was a barrier. We must have looked as bedraggled as we felt, because when they stopped the car in front of our campsite, the woman turned around and handed us a candy bar from deep in the recesses of her purse. “You need energy,” she said in halting English. It was a green tea flavored Kit Kat bar. She’d brought it from Tokyo. “This will help.”<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBWsIP0zi1AjOtlBdjHovoieCYJPOlZr8lF2WywR9UqNbgQdPejLDL8hc-wyGvP080ZT7Fi6MNj_KaqEFewaB1ldXWC8KEy4hIr_yXdYQ9bpLYqetJnMgmPDSkGscydLgCj-y/s1600/P1010567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBWsIP0zi1AjOtlBdjHovoieCYJPOlZr8lF2WywR9UqNbgQdPejLDL8hc-wyGvP080ZT7Fi6MNj_KaqEFewaB1ldXWC8KEy4hIr_yXdYQ9bpLYqetJnMgmPDSkGscydLgCj-y/s400/P1010567.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The next day Greg and I drove to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/acad/index.htm">Acadia National Park</a> and watched the summer solstice sunset from the top of Cadillac Mountain. It was just a sunset, but a gorgeous one, the sun a haunting red. It was the longest day of the year and time felt elongated. We stood on a rock and watched the sun sink beneath the earth, the season change, the beginning of something new. The next week I would start my new job as the <a href="http://modfarm.tumblr.com/post/54112001702/our-new-managing-editor-molly-says-hello">managing editor</a> of <a href="http://modernfarmer.com/">Modern Farmer </a>magazine. Next month Greg will be moving to Texas for a new job of his own. In a previous life I would have felt crippled with anxiety over such momentous change. But then, there, I just felt happy. Energetic. I guess the Kit Kat worked.
<br />
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<br />Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-13913019385782007572013-06-13T07:41:00.000-04:002013-06-13T07:41:57.272-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
oh, hi.<br />
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<br />Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-37894602733146933852013-02-09T17:42:00.000-05:002013-02-09T17:42:50.748-05:00On a DimeLast weekend I rented a cargo van and drove to Malden with my friend <a href="https://twitter.com/februmary">Mary</a> to pick up the last of my things from <a href="http://hereandfar.blogspot.com/">Matt’s</a> storage unit: A big cherry-wood desk and matching chair, given to me by my mother when I lived in New York. It’s been exactly one year <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">since Matt and I split</a>. The symmetry of this date was both pleasant and painful. The multi-story storage center was empty when we arrived, halls of concrete and bright orange doors fanning out in front of us, like we had wandered into a <a href="http://instagram.com/p/VSQ5UpQL9d/">Stanley Kubrick movie</a>. When I opened the unit, a small one in the back, I saw my desk and chair alongside a number of items I once knew so well (his Army backpack, our bike rack) and a few things I did not (a Christmas wreath, a bag of women’s sweaters). Mary and I lugged my desk out, down the hall, and into the van. I locked the unit and we drove home.<br />
<br />
The next day I woke up with a cold. A bad cold. A sore throat, body aching, tissue grabbing cold. And all I wanted, as is true whenever I have a cold, was soup.<br />
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I made a <a href="http://instagram.com/p/VVdGEUQL_f/">tomato soup</a>—(this <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/2012/12/mostly-tomatoes.html">soup</a>)—one creamy and thick with sourdough bread and bright with cumin and cilantro. It’s from Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jerusalem-Cookbook-Yotam-Ottolenghi/dp/1607743949/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1360439730&sr=1-1&keywords=jerusalem+cookbook">JERUSALEM</a>, which, <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/10/butternut-squash-salad-with-spices-lime.html">as</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/11/roasted-sweet-potatoes-fresh-figs.html">you</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/07/ottolenghis-soba-with-mango-and-eggplant.html">know</a>, is a book I love. <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/">Jessica</a> made this same soup for my <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/2012/12/mostly-tomatoes.html">30th birthday party</a> a few months ago—a lovely, raucous night filled with great friends and goofy photos. I loved that evening, for both the fun of the moment itself and what it represented as a start to a new year. Because last year? It was a hard year. A <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/06/paperback-giveaway.html">good</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-science-of-good-cooking.html">year</a>, but a <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">challenging</a> <a href="http://cognoscenti.wbur.org/2012/11/15/online-dating-molly-birnbaum">year</a>. A lot of things changed. I learned what it means to be proud of myself. I learned what it means to let go.<br />
<br />
I shared this soup on Monday night with someone new, a someone that wants to share soup with me on a Monday night even if I’m sick and he may or may not believe soup actually qualifies as a meal. It’s early, so that’s all I’ll say about that. I know as well as anyone that life can change in an instant, can turn course on a dime.<br />
<br />
But on Tuesday, I put the key to Matt’s storage locker in an envelope, which I then sealed, addressed, and stamped. I carried the envelope tucked in my purse for a day before I remembered to drop it into the mailbox outside my apartment building on my way to work.
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-39765259442655313962013-01-16T14:52:00.000-05:002013-01-16T14:52:13.350-05:00Lately<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There was Christmas. I roasted <a href="http://instagram.com/p/TrYZs-K5F9/">lamb</a>. My <a href="http://instagram.com/bennybirnbaum">brother</a> and I grilled <a href="http://instagram.com/p/TrSMdAQL4E/">oysters</a>. My mother and I made toast out of <a href="http://instagram.com/p/ToB8mlwLzI/">brioche</a> baked by my talented colleague, <a href="https://twitter.com/wordloaf">Andrew</a>. We may or may not have had a family <a href="http://instagram.com/p/TpNbr0QLw9/">dance party</a>. Then there was <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/2013/01/how-it-feels.html">New Years</a>. <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/">Jess</a> and I made <a href="http://www.katecooksthebooks.com/other-favorite-books-and-magazines/cooks-illustrated-magazine/potato-gnocchi">potato gnocchi</a> with <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2010/01/tomato-sauce-with-butter-and-onions/">tomato sauce</a>. We made <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/2012/01/there-you-have-it.html">salad</a> with fresh ricotta. We played <a href="http://cardsagainsthumanity.com/">Cards Against Humanity</a> and laughed a lot. There have been breakfasts in <a href="http://hi-risebread.com/">bakeries</a>. Early morning walks. Late mornings writing in bed. I spent a weekend in <a href="http://mountsnow.com/">Vermont</a>, where I went downhill skiing for the first time in eight years. I grew up ski racing, but I hadn’t touched a pair of skis since before the <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/09/update.html">accident</a> and resulting knee surgery. My knee has felt stable and strong for a while now, but I’d been holding on to my fear. I was afraid that I’d forgotten how to move. Afraid that I’d get hurt. It came right back, though, that muscle memory of boot in ski, of ski on snow. And as I stood on that mountain this past Saturday, an abnormally warm Saturday for January, the sky a brilliant blue above the lingering haze of fog, it felt good to let the last vestiges of my injury go. Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-9567964167314412082012-12-27T13:02:00.000-05:002012-12-27T13:03:00.964-05:00Whole Wheat Chocolate Chip Cookies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On December evenings when I was a girl, my father and I would drive around town looking for the best (read: most garish) Christmas decorations. The more light, the more color, the more porches and lawns laden with statues and scenes and rotating Santa dolls the better. I grew up in suburbia, so these holiday tours involved a minivan on inky black roads, long stretches between fields and farms and gated neighborhoods. I remember the smell of those evenings. Of winter. Of cold—that deep dark blue scent that mixes so well with car exhaust and pine.<br />
<br />
Technically, I’m Jewish. My father grew up in an actively Jewish household. But my Protestant mother converted to get married and brought with her a slew of Christmas traditions from her Danish past. The holiday was a hot button issue in our house. We celebrated when I was very small. But then when I began attending Hebrew school, we stopped. No more tree. No more Santa. Instead we went skiing in Maine. I missed it. My father knew.<br />
<br />
We called our favorite house on this Christmas light tour the “Blue House”—because, well, it was blue. Not the house itself, which was the usual New England-style cloudy white. But the lights draped upon it were all blue. Neon blue. They covered the house—the roof, the windows, the door, and even the yard, coating every inch of every tree, snaking lines of light out into the sky like a spider web. I could stare at those lights for hours. We had entered magical world where gravity didn’t exist.<br />
<br />
I wanted to do the same to our house. My father said no.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t thought about the Blue House for a while. But then on a Saturday evening a couple weeks ago, I climbed onto a trolley parked at the Somerville City Hall. I was there with a friend and—bundled in down and wool, breathing misty clouds against the frosted windows—we were there for a Christmas light tour of our own.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.somervilleartscouncil.org/illuminationstour">Illuminations Tour</a> is a yearly tradition, a one-night-only option, a guided trolley ride among some of the more enthusiastically decorated homes in town. Our trolley was filled with tipsy hipsters. By the time the tour began it had been dark for hours, but was actually only 9:15. Laughter fairly exploded from the rows behind us. My friend and I weren’t tipsy, but we were verging on hipster, both sporting thick-rimmed glasses and skinny jeans. We had brought a bar of chocolate—dark chocolate with sea salt—and shared it square by square as the trolley rumbled up and down the streets, past the porches overflowing with glowing blow up dolls: the nutcrackers, the snowmen, the ghoulish-looking Santa Clauses. Plaster reindeers hung from roofs, ablaze with glitter and neon.<br />
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When the tour ended, the trolley dropped us back off where we began. We clomped back out onto the ice-studded streets. We stopped to drink some hot cider, standing in the corner of a bar filled with people wearing red and green and the occasional Santa hat. We decided to again seek out the street that had some of the best-lit houses from the tour. This time, on foot. We could take pictures.<br />
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It was close to 11pm by the time we arrived and only one house was still lit. All the others were dark. The street was empty and quiet. We walked side by side down the center of the road, each footstep an echo. The air had grown cold, and, jamming a wool hat over my hair, I breathed in that familiar scent of winter.<br />
<br />
When we reached that final house, we paused in front. It was a fantastic house, plastered with colored lights and redolent in blowup dolls. A particularly friendly-looking plastic snowman was fastened to the roof; he smiled down on the street.<br />
<br />
Then I heard a door slam. A click. A switch. And suddenly the lights shut off. All of them. We stood in the middle of that now inky black road and watched as the snowman began to deflate. He lost his air rapidly—surprisingly so. We watched as he began to bow, leaning slowly over himself. He made an elegant fall to the ground.<br />
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I woke up the next morning and decided to bake cookies.<br />
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<b>Whole Wheat Chocolate Chip Cookies </b><br />
Adapted from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Good-Grain-Baking-Whole-Grain-Flours/dp/1584798300">Kim Boyce’s Good to the Grain</a> and about a gazillion blogs<br />
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<i>These cookies have been written about all over the place. But, dudes, they’re great. The whole-wheat flour doesn’t make them heavy (or healthy, I promise), but instead lends a nutty, earthy flavor that complements the richness of the butter and bittersweet chocolate. This dough can go straight from the bowl to the oven, but I know <a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-am-sold.html">folks</a> who recommend chilling the dough first, sometimes already portioned out on the baking sheet and then wrapped in plastic. (This chilly pause will make your cookies a bit more plump and, depending on how long you leave them in the fridge, a bit more flavorful). My friend <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/2011/08/i-call-them-at-home.html">Jess</a> tops them with some sea salt flakes. I made this batch plain. </i><br />
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3 cups whole wheat flour<br />
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder<br />
1 teaspoon baking soda<br />
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt<br />
2 sticks unsalted butter, chilled and cut into ½-inch cubes<br />
1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
2 large eggs<br />
2 teaspoons vanilla extract<br />
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips (or bar chocolate, roughly chopped)<br />
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Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (with racks positioned in the upper and lower thirds of the oven). Butter two baking sheets (or line them with parchment).<br />
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Whisk together the dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt) in a medium sized bowl and set aside.<br />
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Put the butter and sugars in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. On low speed, mix for about 2 minutes, until just blended. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Beat in the vanilla.<br />
<br />
Add the flour mixture and mix on low speed until just incorporated. Scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the chocolate and blend until evenly combined. (If there are still pockets of flour, use your fingers to massage the dough a bit. You don’t want to do any overbeating.)<br />
<br />
Make mounds of dough about 3 tablespoons in size. Place them onto baking sheets, about three inches apart, or about 8 cookies per sheet (they will spread as they bake). Bake for 15 – 20 minutes, making sure to rotate the sheets halfway through. Transfer the cookies to a rack to cool. Repeat until all the dough is used.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-79491390396689711782012-11-18T13:36:00.001-05:002012-11-18T13:36:57.458-05:00An Article, An Interview, An Event
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZ7AtEhyphenhyphenLmwggeYGvIrHCqhCYj0bW7JcN99RjMgIigJej5of6XAU375yQa5Zh2XLZK78T7CFrj0J_0fIfMJNyZoSEKOUxjpINikKkOTRqr7iPKfrz_NB8W3HWUGi7dS7ileO0/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZ7AtEhyphenhyphenLmwggeYGvIrHCqhCYj0bW7JcN99RjMgIigJej5of6XAU375yQa5Zh2XLZK78T7CFrj0J_0fIfMJNyZoSEKOUxjpINikKkOTRqr7iPKfrz_NB8W3HWUGi7dS7ileO0/s400/photo+%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Hi, friends. I have a couple things I'd like to share.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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First: I know that this may be a
shocker, but I do <i>occasionally</i> write about topics that aren’t cooking- or sense-of-smell-related.
And I’m happy to report that I have <a href="http://cognoscenti.wbur.org/2012/11/15/online-dating-molly-birnbaum">just such an essay</a> up on <a href="http://cognoscenti.wbur.org/">Cognoscenti</a>, the
new opinion page of <a href="http://www.wbur.org/">WBUR</a> (Boston’s NPR affiliate), as well as up on the
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/11/16/online-dating-led-me-to-myself_n_2144462.html?utm_hp_ref=tw">Huffington Post</a>. The essay is about my (relatively short, so far) experience
with online <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/07/ottolenghis-soba-with-mango-and-eggplant.html">dating</a>. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves, and the stories
we tell others, and how these stories align. Online dating, to me, is a
collision of stories, and I find it fascinating. It’s certainly teaching me a lot
about myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In fact, I’ll be on WBUR’s <a href="http://radioboston.wbur.org/">Radio Boston</a>
to talk about the essay and my online dating experience tomorrow - Monday
(11/19), sometime between 3 and 4pm (!!). Tune in!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Second: <i>Cook's Illustrated</i>'s <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-science-of-good-cooking.html">THE SCIENCE OF GOOD COOKING</a>, the book that I spent about 18 months editing, is tearing it up. There have been all sorts of <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2012/10/12/161883093/making-the-science-of-good-cooking-look-easy">interviews</a> <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/all-we-can-eat/post/chris-kimball-and-guy-crosby-share-the-science-of-good-cooking/2012/10/25/89278cb8-1ebc-11e2-9746-908f727990d8_blog.html">conducted</a> with my boss, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/14/magazine/cooks-illustrateds-christopher-kimball.html?pagewanted=all">Chris Kimball</a>, as well as<a href="http://www.wwno.org/post/test-kitchen-chefs-talk-science-savory"> Jack Bishop</a>, who was the driving force behind this scientific tome. Jack also gave a fantastic lecture at <a href="http://www.seas.harvard.edu/cooking">Harvard </a>this past week. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And on Tuesday (11/20), I am going to be giving a talk with fellow <i>Cook's Illustrated</i> editor <a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/author/dan-souza/">Dan Souza</a>, who was in charge of the <a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/blogs/cooking-science/">test kitchen experiments</a> published in the book (and who also writes a delightful <a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/user/profile/DanSouza">column</a> on chips for <a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/">Serious Eats</a>), at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/382815161795984/">Middlesex Lounge in Cambridge</a> at 7pm. The event is part of the <a href="http://sciencecafes.org/">NOVA Science Cafe</a> series, and will most definitely be a good time. We will talk about the making of THE SCIENCE OF GOOD COOKING, as well as what it's like to be an editor at <i>Cook's Illustrated</i> magazine (where I have been working full time since I finished editing<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Science-Cooking-Cooks-Illustrated-Cookbooks/dp/1933615982/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350481510&sr=8-1&keywords=science+of+good+cooking"> the book</a>). There may even be some Thanksgiving cookery tips involved. I'd love to see you there.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4tmKNwTOr64FUf57ZJ5pTVOMRGFlqbruNiGJCObQ5Qg6S0kOabhtuLqyP_qO9n3DknHK0sA6swt0qoH3lUHQW1v8krJa_l5hff7Tdkyp4ttnziFHNwM63YVJ1YowIVdgkBKE/s1600/photo+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4tmKNwTOr64FUf57ZJ5pTVOMRGFlqbruNiGJCObQ5Qg6S0kOabhtuLqyP_qO9n3DknHK0sA6swt0qoH3lUHQW1v8krJa_l5hff7Tdkyp4ttnziFHNwM63YVJ1YowIVdgkBKE/s400/photo+%25284%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-51741891885038602442012-11-11T19:11:00.000-05:002012-11-11T19:11:23.766-05:00Roasted Sweet Potatoes & Fresh Figs<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscR8dKnJd89iq1wpHgbIhWcn7Esc9q10usFb2ArQ4M6iaihHp-pPjNZbKSZyeH0Z_218VouLcniN8s2LbHjk67Q9ezQFbBMVhrVec5W6wgBf4jp_KjPazosuxpFyTXu-v84rm/s1600/photo+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscR8dKnJd89iq1wpHgbIhWcn7Esc9q10usFb2ArQ4M6iaihHp-pPjNZbKSZyeH0Z_218VouLcniN8s2LbHjk67Q9ezQFbBMVhrVec5W6wgBf4jp_KjPazosuxpFyTXu-v84rm/s320/photo+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I could write about a lot of
things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Some things are right in
front of me: a mug of hot coffee, a warm scone, the wilting basil plant I’m
desperately trying to keep alive. My table is piled with read and half-read books by
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brain-Fire-My-Month-Madness/dp/145162137X/ref=la_B009P6CN6E_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352676882&sr=1-1">friends</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Berlin-Kitchen-Story-Recipes/dp/0670025380/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352676919&sr=1-1">colleagues</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Everett-Ruess-Disappearance-Wilderness/dp/0307591778/ref=la_B000APBDA6_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1352676953&sr=1-5">mentors</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-How-You-Lose-Her/dp/1594487367/ref=la_B000APBY9G_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352676983&sr=1-1">writers whose minds I’d like to inhabit for just a second</a>, surrounding me like a fort. My brain is filled with ideas,
bursting with them, for articles, for books, for projects—and yet I always want more. The heater clanks. The windows rattle against the
early-morning wind. My hair smells like lavender. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Other things to write about already took place:
namely, weddings. I went to three weddings in October. One in Beverly, MA, one
in Lancaster, PA, one in San Francisco, CA. Megan married Jeff. Emily married
Ryan. Becca married Justin. I drove to two of these weddings. Flew to one. I
was greeted by old friends, new friends, complete strangers; <a href="http://instagram.com/p/QvEtoGwLxA/">the Amish countryside</a>,
the perfect produce of a West Coast farmer’s market, way too much wine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://megan-deliciousdishings.blogspot.com/">Megan</a>, a colleague at
<a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/">America’s Test Kitchen</a>, is passionate and detail oriented, especially when it
comes to food, and her <a href="http://instagram.com/p/QdWWJwQL3m/">wedding</a> was a parade of perfectly-placed details,
luscious bites and a carefully-curated collection of desserts. Emily, one of my
oldest friends, looked radiant as she walked down the aisle—part woman and part
child, the clash no doubt a result of my own inability to completely separate
our individual presents from our collective past. I gave a reading at the <a href="http://instagram.com/p/RUWDfgQLwL/">ceremony</a> of my
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/05/iron-chef-providence-battle-everything.html">college</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/05/on-gourmet-muffins-truffle-stained.html">roommate</a>, <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2006/02/remembrance-of-meatballs-past.html">Becca</a>—part of the introduction to <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mastering-Art-French-Cooking-Volume/dp/0394721780">Mastering the Art of French Cooking</a></i>,
a choice that seemed strange at first, until I realized
that it was the perfect way to talk about not only food but all that it stands
for (family, community, adventure, love).</span></div>
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</div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I could also write about how
when November finally rolled around I was… tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But as I write it’s Sunday
morning—a beautiful morning just begging for me to go out for a jog—and I don’t
feel like using words to occupy either the sensory present or its weightier partner, the past. So I'm going to tell you about these sweet potatoes instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve written about my love
of <a href="http://www.ottolenghi.co.uk/">Ottolenghi’s</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ottolenghi">cookbooks</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/10/butternut-squash-salad-with-spices-lime.html">before</a>. The newest one, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jerusalem-Cookbook-Yotam-Ottolenghi/dp/1607743949/ref=la_B002A0CKME_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352678351&sr=1-1">Jerusalem</a></i>, just came out and
of course I bought it right up. This is the first recipe in the book. Just one
glance and I knew. Roasted sweet potato wedges—served with fried slivers of red
chiles and green onions, drizzled with a balsamic glaze, nestled with
fresh figs and (if you want) chunks of goat cheese. It’s salty and sweet, cooked and raw,
spicy and tangy and warm. This is the kind of cooking I like best: simple yet
unexpected, casual but interesting, home cooking with a bit of an edge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Roasted Sweet Potatoes & Fresh Figs</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jerusalem-Cookbook-Yotam-Ottolenghi/dp/1607743949/ref=la_B002A0CKME_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352678351&sr=1-1">JERUSALEM</a>, by Yotam
Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">4 sweet potatoes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">5 tablespoons olive oil<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3 tablespoons balsamic
vinegar <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 ½ tablespoons superfine
sugar (though I used regular sugar)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">12 green onions, halved and
cut into 1 ½ inch segments<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 red chile, thinly sliced<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">6 figs, ripe ones, quartered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">5 ounces goat cheese
(optional)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">salt and pepper<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Preheat your oven to 475
degrees Fahrenheit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Wash and then cut your sweet
potatoes into wedges – (cut the potato in half, and then each half into three
wedges). Toss with 3 tablespoons oil, salt and pepper to your liking. Place on
a baking sheet, skin side down, and roast for about 25 – 35 minutes, until, as
Ottolenghi says, they are “soft but not mushy.” Let cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Make a balsamic reduction:
Combine vinegar and sugar in a small pan. Simmer for about 4 minutes, give or
take, or until it thickens. (Ottolenghi says: “Be sure to remove the pan from
the heat when the vinegar is still runnier than honey; it will continue to
thicken as it cools.”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Heat up the rest of the oil in
a saucepan and quick-fry the chile and green onion slices (for about 4 – 5 minutes
over medium heat, stirring often to avoid burning). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Arrange the sweet potato
wedges on a big serving platter. Spoon the oil/chile/onion mixture over top.
Nestle the fig quarters among the potatoes. Drizzle with the balsamic
reduction. Season with salt and pepper to taste. This is great at room
temperature, with the goat cheese (if you want it) crumbled over top just before serving. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-45247322206544521842012-10-18T20:45:00.000-04:002012-10-18T20:45:35.594-04:00The Science of Good Cooking<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’ve written a little about
my job here on this blog. A bit <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/05/tuscan-style-rosemary-garlic-pork-rib.html">here</a>. A bit <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/09/pasta-alla-norma.html">there</a>. But not too much. I’ve never
really given you the details. And this month, the details came together into
something big, something concrete, something about which I’m quite proud.</div>
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I began working at <a href="http://www.americastestkitchen.com/corp/about-americastestkitchen.php">America’s Test Kitchen</a> a few months before <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/book/">my own</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=la_B005VQSEDS_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350563910&sr=1-1">book</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/06/happy-publication-day.html">came out</a>. I was hired to edit a cookbook.
An exciting cookbook. One that was published on October 1: <a href="http://www.cooksillustrated.com/">Cook’s Illustrated’s</a>
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Science-Cooking-Cooks-Illustrated-Cookbooks/dp/1933615982">The Science of Good Cooking</a></i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If I learned anything in
the last couple years it’s that there really isn’t any thrill quite like the
thrill of holding a book that you toiled over—wordsmithed over, wrote and
edited and rewrote and reedited for so many, many months—in your hands. You may
not see my name on the cover of this particular book, as is the <i>Cook's Illustrated </i>way, but I’m in
there. I was in charge of every word on every page of this scientific tome. And,
damn, I’m proud. The thrill of holding this book was a different kind of thrill
than the one I had holding my own book for that first time, breathing in its
new-ink aroma, feeling the concrete reality of its spine. But a thrill
nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><a href="http://cisciencebook.com/">The Science of Good Cooking</a></i> is organized into 50 basic concepts of food
science—simple concepts, ones that every cook should know. Gentle Heat Retains
Moisture. High Heat Develops Flavor. Salty Marinades Work Best. Sugar Changes
Sweetness and Texture. There are recipes, 400 of them, all culled from the last
20 years of <i>Cook’s Illustrated</i> magazine.
There are scientific experiments to bring these concepts to light, performed by
a talented test cook in the kitchen that sprawls across the first floor of our
office building. (I've been writing a bit about them a bit, <a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/blogs/cooking-science/">here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The best part about editing
this book? It taught me to cook with more confidence. Many years of my life
were spent tied to recipes, tied to instructions, unsure of how dishes would
change if I were to cook by instinct rather than rule. But learning about the <i>hows</i> and <i>whys</i>, the way food actually work on a molecular level has drastically changed the way I cook, the way I think about cooking,
the way I move at the stove. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Science-Cooking-Cooks-Illustrated-Cookbooks/dp/1933615982">Check it out</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-15266425373842782982012-09-24T22:30:00.000-04:002012-09-24T22:30:14.776-04:00Lately<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-29405363846051349422012-09-19T06:44:00.000-04:002012-09-19T06:44:31.067-04:00Grilled Pork and Peaches
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A few weeks ago in Maine I
cooked the hell out of some pork butt.<br />
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That’s right. Pork butt. And
peaches. On the grill. In less than an hour. If summer has to end, we might as
well send it off in style. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In Cambridge, I live in a
studio apartment. There’s no fire escape or roof access. There certainly isn’t
a grill. But at my family’s place Maine? There are multiple rooms in the house.
There’s even a yard. And a deck. And a grill. A big fat gas grill. The
possibilities are endless. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For this dish, a perfect
late-summer dish (though I know I’m now pushing this dangerously close to
fall), I used a recipe from the <i>New York
Times</i>. It accompanied an article called “<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/19/magazine/how-to-burn-dinner.html">How To Burn Dinner</a>,” written by
Sam Sifton, who really has this uncanny ability to turn a hunk of tough, fatty
meat into something quiet poetic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As the title implies, it’s
an article about burning your dinner. Or, not quite burning your dinner. “What
you are looking for on the edges of the meat and fruit is color: a deep, dark
brown that is almost black — a black without bitter, a burn that is not burned,”
Sifton writes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s all about a technique
championed by Francis Mallmann in his cookbook (written with Peter Kaminsky) “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Seven-Fires-Grilling-Argentine-Way/dp/1579653545">Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentinean Way</a>”– cooking a piece of meat outdoors over
high heat, on a chapa, or<b> </b>a leggy
cast-iron construction, to create a thick, crunchy crust. “If Mallmann’s
cooking were music, it would be very loud,” writes Sifton.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was easy. I took a
2-pound piece of pork butt. Butterflied it. Trimmed it. Pounded it down. I liberally
seasoned the meat with salt and pepper. I slathered it with a mixture of olive
oil, rosemary, and garlic. I heated up the grill with two cast iron pans on the
grates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When they got hot, super
hot, smoking hot, I plunked the pork right on down and didn’t move it for 15
minutes. Oh, man: that crust! I then flipped the pork and let it cook for a
good 15 minutes more. The high heat of the grill causes something called the
Maillard reaction, a chemical reaction between denatured proteins and sugars, which
begins to take place at just about 300 degrees. This is what causes the
familiar deep brown color on searing meats (and, for that matter, toasted bread
and caramel) and a build up of flavor molecules—in this case, that pungent
porcine deliciousness of a thick, bronzed crust. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the pork came off the
grill to rest, I stuck halved peaches, cut-side down, into the hot cast iron
pans. They cooked quickly in the pork fat (and a little bit of butter, too).
They were a sweet, silky counterpoint to the crunchy, lusciously fatty meat. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I served the pork and
peaches alongside a simple green salad. Bread. Red wine. Oysters, too. (Why not? Welcome
to Maine.) (Goodbye to summer.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUR4eSNQtSoiQ-DT08qKX1iqpyJdytR6A-h8cvyYu5UVw60wWeRY10_4JpuiTO25hNoIQ4_-on2eecdjt0DVcWQqv3vmAfTuCA3VdriR3WBobV4MiqLfRwz8XBIrF__QMJPN3/s1600/DSC_0682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUR4eSNQtSoiQ-DT08qKX1iqpyJdytR6A-h8cvyYu5UVw60wWeRY10_4JpuiTO25hNoIQ4_-on2eecdjt0DVcWQqv3vmAfTuCA3VdriR3WBobV4MiqLfRwz8XBIrF__QMJPN3/s400/DSC_0682.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Grilled Pork and Peaches on a Gas Grill<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adapted from the <i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/recipes/12690/Grilled-Pork-and-Peaches.html">New York Times</a></i>, Sam Sifton, and Francis
Mallmann<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 pounds boneless pork butt,
butterflied and trimmed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10 garlic cloves, peeled and
minced<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 tablespoons fresh
rosemary, chopped<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8 tablespoons olive oil<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
salt and pepper<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 peaches, halved and pitted
(skin on)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4 tablespoons unsalted
butter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turn on your grill. Set it
to high. Place a very large cast iron pan (or two smaller ones) over the
burners. Let it get hot. Very hot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the grill heats, work
on the pork. Place the butterflied pork on a cutting board and pound it with a
meat mallet until it’s evenly thick—about ¾ inch across.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mix together the garlic,
rosemary, and 6 tablespoons of the oil in a small bowl. Season the pork
(liberally, “aggressively,” says Sifton) with salt and pepper on both sides.
Spread the garlic mixture on both sides as well. Because I used two smaller
cast iron pans on the grill, I cut my pork in half, so that I could cook each
piece simultaneously. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to the grill. Turn the
heat to medium. Brush the pan (or pans) with the remaining oil. Let the oil
heat up for a minute, and then place the meat in the pan(s) and leave it alone.
Don’t touch it. This is what will get it that crust, that char, that flavor. I
let my pork sit for 15 minutes. Sifton says 10. It depends on how hot your
grill is, how thick your pans and pork are. It’s important to do what feels
right here. Wait until that crust forms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Use tongs to turn over the
meat (or pieces of meat). Cook for another good 10 – 15 minutes. When the meat
is nice and crusty, remove it, place it on a cutting board, tent it with foil,
and let it rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, take the halved peaches
and place them, cut side down, in the cast iron pan(s). Dot them with butter.
Cook for about five minutes, until soft and slightly charred. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Slice the meat and serve with
the peaches. And salad. And bread. And wine. (And oysters.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRnjDqLs0QgwKQ29r5iycZ_6ICHtHE7yjd98Ezr9BoUmQ21ZLP27OHrlgTB4KTGTeylvHsvVP9BawxxXmERXwORw8UoY4HFYFNXkZkK39lPTl3f8hvHTkQy9IgMLGvX4OjsBQ/s1600/DSC_0618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRnjDqLs0QgwKQ29r5iycZ_6ICHtHE7yjd98Ezr9BoUmQ21ZLP27OHrlgTB4KTGTeylvHsvVP9BawxxXmERXwORw8UoY4HFYFNXkZkK39lPTl3f8hvHTkQy9IgMLGvX4OjsBQ/s400/DSC_0618.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-29457744993326246882012-08-30T08:05:00.000-04:002012-08-30T08:05:49.557-04:00Seven Years
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven years ago <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/09/update.html">today</a> I was
hit by a car while jogging. I broke my pelvis, tore the tendons in my left
knee, fractured the back of my skull—and, as a result, lost my <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/09/unexpected-changes_21.html">sense of smell</a>.
For a long time, I wasn’t okay. Not physically, not emotionally. In an instant,
everything had changed. I was 22 years old. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write about the
anniversary of the accident <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2006/09/on-anniversary.html">almost</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/08/anniversary.html">every</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2010/08/five-years.html">year</a>. I write about it in the same way, even.
Short, staccato statements. (Hit by a car. Fractured the back of my skull. Lost
my sense of smell.) I’ve thought about the events of that drizzly late-August
morning often. I’ve <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/events/">talked</a> about them. I’ve <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346327199&sr=8-1&keywords=molly+birnbaum">written</a> about them. So much, in
fact, it’s difficult for me to remember what happened before all happenings
began to exist in the concrete netherworld of typeset and paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But every year I like to
take a moment to remember where I came from, and how far I’ve come. I
recovered, of course, as you all know—slowly, cautiously, but completely. I’m
lucky. I’m so lucky sometimes it hurts. For me, August 30th is an emotional
anniversary. It’s also a physical one. If I close my eyes and take a few deep
breaths, I can feel it in my bones—in the ridge of my pelvis, in the contours
of my skull. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last year, yesterday, I
wrote about <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/08/francis-lams-perfect-five-minute-raw.html">a dinner </a>that I cooked for my father, stepmother, and Matt. A
heaping bowl of spaghetti sauced with little more than the luscious raw
tomatoes of August, the bite of a bit of arugula and red onion, a few glugs of
olive oil and some grated Parmesan cheese. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I made the same dish again
last night for some friends. I hadn’t realized the symmetry of the dates. But
it’s not the first time this has happened. In <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/08/anniversary.html">2009</a> and <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2010/08/five-years.html">2010</a> I baked the same
plum cake, a simple butter cake that made my kitchen smell sweet and warm, like
fruit and caramel and autumn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And today, as I sit at my
kitchen table on this sunny August morning, that feels right. Who am I if I’m
not circling back to my past—to events in my past, to the people of my past, to
the smells and tastes and flavors of my past? These are the things that have
made me who I am. What I am. Where I am. Whether monumental accidents or simple
late-summer meals: this is where I’ll return, even as I move forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-66923838031717478592012-08-19T15:45:00.000-04:002012-08-19T15:45:24.450-04:00Summer<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80hY3d6xQZqQnKvbg-rUtjRo9gDGLs3P6QrT1NR77aCwKGdz6IFdNdfnC1RYUqPPrr2rYxYP-3e4V6eOyS2IKj-W0q8E5LKBBgV-bNwvo04SGCOM4qW8YiTVjTlJYHDvp9oeP/s1600/DSC_0565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80hY3d6xQZqQnKvbg-rUtjRo9gDGLs3P6QrT1NR77aCwKGdz6IFdNdfnC1RYUqPPrr2rYxYP-3e4V6eOyS2IKj-W0q8E5LKBBgV-bNwvo04SGCOM4qW8YiTVjTlJYHDvp9oeP/s400/DSC_0565.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">I
walk to work each morning, an hour-long trek along the Charles River, over the
BU Bridge, winding through the manicured lawns and vine-wrapped homes lining
certain streets in Brookline. It has been a hot and humid summer. Prime time
for smell. And as I walk, scents hit me—light but sharp, one at a time, <i>pok pok pok</i>, like ping pong balls. The
cool river-scent of the Charles. The dark and earthy dank of bark mulch. Hot
pavement. Car exhaust. Cigarette smoke twirling up into the air. I pass fellow
pedestrians and, <i>bam</i>, deodorant.
Perfume. Sweet, salty, sour sweat. There’s also grass, fresh cut. Coffee, fresh
brewed. The promise of sun and sand.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">The
other night I had dinner with friends. I sat at their dining room table, close
to 9pm, ready to eat: thick slices of heirloom tomatoes, roasted eggplant,
anchovies, cheese, bread and wine. A veritable farmer’s market feast. Before we
began to eat, the hostess walked over to her windowsill and plucked a few
leaves off a small basil plant. The window was open, and right at the moment of
plucking, there was a waft of warm wind. Some stray olfactory molecules hit my
nose with the breeze—that fresh herbed scent. Such a familiar smell, but
surprising nonetheless. It filled my mind with the color green, the
lightness of summer.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">On
Thursday I read from <i>Season to Taste</i> at
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/08/tonight-at-porter-square-books.html">Porter Square Books</a>. It was a wonderful evening, filled with friends and family
and readers and writers and just a few people who wandered in to buy a magazine
but stayed to listen and then chat. Afterward, I went out for drinks with a few folks, including one of my oldest friends, who lives across the country but just so happened to be in town for the week. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be
here, in the present, in the moment, right now. I’m trying to pay more
attention to the small things right in front of me. The tastes, the smells, the
way it feels to laugh. But when my friend and I hugged for the first time in a long time, I inhaled, my nose right there by his head. And then there I was, immediately
transported back. I no longer existed in that moment, but one far in my past. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF46u-FIH1CUeuZezgjS8o17BU7-NS9o7l77CCn5-vlkAhFtxMsX1rnqHrgNGJxJNXM6id75Ht50pWlzjvVRlk4ExrXNFrJPvNvs-C8iTcbWrzubzuqxrUu2T1SiptvsJjo-Y0/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF46u-FIH1CUeuZezgjS8o17BU7-NS9o7l77CCn5-vlkAhFtxMsX1rnqHrgNGJxJNXM6id75Ht50pWlzjvVRlk4ExrXNFrJPvNvs-C8iTcbWrzubzuqxrUu2T1SiptvsJjo-Y0/s400/DSC_0023.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-89704713870395810832012-08-16T07:11:00.000-04:002012-08-16T07:11:28.272-04:00Tonight at Porter Square Books!
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirWDYG2hYY7SnT520H_3qB2NUw1YZmZ6q-tKPu-DPS43be3mHyNZXmkv_QRo9iVUCl_ggyNg9rxe8-BArNVzAWsBXMHWRF_pN17THtKp7qlE7sXPg2letHEMd-X2O1z4v1JEl3/s1600/SeasonTaste+pb+c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirWDYG2hYY7SnT520H_3qB2NUw1YZmZ6q-tKPu-DPS43be3mHyNZXmkv_QRo9iVUCl_ggyNg9rxe8-BArNVzAWsBXMHWRF_pN17THtKp7qlE7sXPg2letHEMd-X2O1z4v1JEl3/s400/SeasonTaste+pb+c.JPG" width="265" /></a></div>
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A little last-minute heads up for you local
Boston folk: I’m doing a reading tonight (Thursday, August 16) at <a href="http://www.portersquarebooks.com/event/molly-birnbaum-season-taste">Porter Square Books</a> in Cambridge.
7pm. Would love to see you there!<o:p></o:p></div>
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-7753012584099950882012-08-12T20:07:00.000-04:002012-08-12T20:07:26.017-04:00An Outlaw Wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I made another wedding cake.
This time, for my mother. She and <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/03/nigel-slaters-sausage-and-pumpkin-mash.html">Charley</a> were married last Saturday at their
house up in Maine. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldrNGJk9o1ZeLFuZ1bbesObowuN2rJcJHrXQ6Yf4thOUVliYSQNCrGDLpCUYo2IiHqaxZm8_NazkKRPKuMrcY-M5J5f9MXllQTID2T4xOEkz46yBBJ2c-ieTU2OBezfThLXuQ/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldrNGJk9o1ZeLFuZ1bbesObowuN2rJcJHrXQ6Yf4thOUVliYSQNCrGDLpCUYo2IiHqaxZm8_NazkKRPKuMrcY-M5J5f9MXllQTID2T4xOEkz46yBBJ2c-ieTU2OBezfThLXuQ/s400/DSC_0032.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJgbZJiC7iqQiO4u9kq_SuPqzukHyGffFpUOfJLvWvqycEflLa-qhdYwZ8W69gpSc9q7wFTISST1HWFfhr17AMTI8L_XAdEq_Oh4EYVlo4-QjaKM8v_unN8OkP7z5Bw3cTePp/s1600/DSC_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJgbZJiC7iqQiO4u9kq_SuPqzukHyGffFpUOfJLvWvqycEflLa-qhdYwZ8W69gpSc9q7wFTISST1HWFfhr17AMTI8L_XAdEq_Oh4EYVlo4-QjaKM8v_unN8OkP7z5Bw3cTePp/s400/DSC_0124.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">(Well, they weren't “married,”
not really, if we’re going to be legally exact. It was more of a commitment
ceremony. They called it their “outlaw” wedding.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The ceremony was simple and
quiet. A handful of my mom and Charley’s closest friends and family members
stood up, one at a time, to tell stories about the couple—some funny, others
serious, all beautiful and touching in their own ways. Ben, my little brother,
officiated. My mom and Charley each wrote their own vows. It was a clear, warm
day, but thunder rumbled in the distance as they read them out loud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">They are a quirky couple, an
unexpected match in many ways. But it works. They've made it work. They've been together for ten years. And
listening to them read their vows, it struck me again just how perfect they are
together. My mom and Charley <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> each
other, every part of each other. The good parts and the bad parts and all the
parts in between. And they love each other both because of and despite them
all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">After the ceremony, we
celebrated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Now, I will admit that this
wedding stressed me out for a number of weeks beforehand. After all, I was the
wedding planner, a task I assigned to myself without thinking too hard about
the details. And let me tell you: There were details. Rentals and hirings and
food and drink and lights and taxis and hotels and schedules and music and
flowers, oh my. But after a bit of hectic running around, a thick stack of “to
do” lists illegibly scrawled on legal pads, and a few last-minute orders
(kindly) barked at unsuspecting family members, it all came together.
Miraculously, we made a wedding. A real un-real wedding. It was perfect in its imperfections.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The evening began with
champagne toasts, moved on to dancing, and was filled with good food
throughout. Bryan and Dan, two of my buds from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/">Cook’s Illustrated</a>,</i> catered the whole thing. (If you’re in the
Boston area and are looking for a great team of caterers, let me know!) There was tomato bruschetta with boquerones, and Spanish
tortilla with preserved lemon aioli. Gravlax blini with red onion crème fraiche,
and octopus and potato brochettes. Bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with almonds.
Pork tostadas with queso fresco and radishes. When the plates of sliders came
out of the kitchen, guests hovered around them like
vultures, waiting to go in for the kill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">And then the cake. I made
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/09/wedding-cake.html">the same cake </a>that I made for my friends Ashley and Colin back in 2009. (If it isn't broken...) An
almond cake sandwiching layers of lemon curd and blueberry jam. Frosted with a
swiss buttercream. It was a rustic looking cake. A little splotchy. A tiny bit
lopsided. We ate it in the dim, blue light of dusk. It tasted damn good.</span></div>
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</style>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-57512957250569714772012-07-29T10:23:00.000-04:002012-07-29T10:30:54.805-04:00Ottolenghi's Soba with Mango and Eggplant<style>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I spent a good part
of this week trying to write a post about dating. Because, hey! I’ve been
dating! Slowly. Cautiously. But dating all the same. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The first date I went on in five years
took place about two months ago. It was a Thursday afternoon. A perfect summer
afternoon. We met at a bar in Cambridge after work. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I was nervous. I had forgotten what it
was like to position myself in the world of single people. What
it was like to judge and to be judged. That dating could be fun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">And this
guy was nice. He was smart. We sat at the bar and ordered drinks and talked
about work, family, and our favorite restaurants in Boston. But he looked only
a little like he did in his dating profile. (Yup, folks, I’m online dating! Why the hell not.) And though everything he wrote in his profile was true, a
writing voice is far from a talking voice. The stories we tell to sell
ourselves and the stories that exist deep within us are two very different
things. Anyway: There wasn’t a spark. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">But I’ve continued to date. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like</i> dating. I like meeting new people.
Different people. People who intrigue me. People who make me laugh. People who
challenge me to look at myself differently. People who look at the world
through a different lens. Of course not all of my dates have been stellar.
There have been some real doozies. But I love the possibility, the magic of a
spark, that split-second knowing: this could be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">However, this week when I sat down to
write about my experiences in dating—about the stories we tell ourselves, about
the stories we tell others—my mind kept looping back to a moment in 2009.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">That was the year I wrote <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=la_B005VQSEDS_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343568208&sr=1-1">my book</a>. The
year <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2007/12/evening-new-york.html">Matt</a> was deployed to <a href="http://hereandfar.blogspot.com/">Afghanistan</a>. One of many years I lived in the hectic
jumble of buildings and concrete called New York City. That fall I spent <a href="http://hereandfar.blogspot.com/2009/09/into-woods.html">a month</a> in <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/08/anniversary.html">a cabin</a> in Woodstock, New York. I was there as part of a <a href="http://www.woodstockguild.org/">writers’ residency</a>, a community of creative folk trying to be simultaneously alone and
together. I was 26 years old.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I remember how dark it got at night in
Woodstock, up there in the middle of the woods. The woods where bears trundled.
And owls hooted. And ghosts of all kinds lurked. When I went outside at night,
looking up at those impossible shimmers of starlight, it was easy to believe
that the sounds of rustling leaves were whispers, that the moon had a voice,
that there was a lot of life to be lived under the cover of darkness. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">On one of my last nights at the
residency there was a party. Local community members attended. Some of us read our
work out loud. It was the first time I did a reading, in fact. I remember that
as I stood in front of the crowd, grasping a few pages of my words, my hands
shook. I had to take a few deep breaths in order to calm down. But then I read.
And when I finished, I could barely hear the applause under the thunderous tone
of my relief. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Afterward, as we all sat around
drinking wine, one guest announced that she was a palm reader. She was an older
woman with gray hair, deep wrinkles, and a voice like gravel. She took our
palms in her hands, one after another, tracing the delicate lines of our skin
with her fingers. I don’t remember what she told anyone else. But I’ll never
forget what she said to me. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Around the age of thirty,” she said,
“something big will happen. It’s something that will cause you to struggle. It
will change the way you look at life.”</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I nodded. That seemed like a lot to get
out of a palm. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Are you sure you don’t mean around age
20?” I asked. I told her about the <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/09/unexpected-changes_21.html">car accident</a> that cost me my sense of smell
and had almost cost me my life. I was 22 years old. “That was something that
caused a hell of a lot of struggle. It certainly changed everything.”</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“No,” she said, simply. This struggle was
still to come. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I didn’t think that this gravel-voiced woman
could tell the future from my palm. Not really. But I thought about her words a lot
after that night. I worried that she was right. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Sure we all struggle, at least a bit,
in our daily lives. But the struggle she spoke of felt large. And it grew
larger in my mind with each passing day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I've
already had </i>that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> kind of struggle,</i>
I thought, despite the fact that I know struggle isn't the chicken pox; you can
get it again. Recovering from my injuries after being hit by that car had felt like one Herculean effort after
another, moving slowly from broken back to whole, discarding painful skins of
my former self along the way. And when I emerged on the other side, I felt inhumanly
lucky. Could I do it again? I wasn't sure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But then, this winter, I again faced
something terrifying and large. A different kind of terrifying. A different
kind of large. As I <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">wrote</a> back in April "</span><span style="font-family: Times;">When Matt and I split, I felt like I was ripping my arm out of the
shoulder socket, or cutting my leg off at the knee, or tearing a pattern of tiny
holes in my gut, or all of that, or maybe none of that, but nonetheless it was
substantial and consuming and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">physical</i>
all at the same time.</span><span style="font-family: Times;">" For a while, I felt like I
would never be okay. Maybe you were right, palm lady: I am 29 years old. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But I got through it. I’m sitting here
at my kitchen table on a Sunday morning, sipping coffee and eating toast with
<a href="http://instagram.com/p/NhtP6UQLz0/">homemade jam</a>, and I am decidedly okay. It's still hard, but infinitely less
hard, and it certainly isn’t hard all the time. In many ways, I feel better
than I have in years.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">And so when I sat down to write about
my new adventures in dating, and I began to think about that woman in Woodstock
whose words caused me to dread turning 30 because I knew that before I got
there I would have to struggle, I realized that I was thinking about it all
wrong. </span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Yes, this woman told me I would
struggle. But she also told me that this struggle would change the way I see
the world. She was right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve been forced to look at myself in a
different way these last six months or so. I’m repositioning myself in my own
head. Among my family. Among my friends. I’m taking a closer look at the
stories I tell myself and the stories I tell those around me. The ones about who I
am and who I will be. This is hard work. But it’s good work. Work that needed
to be done. Work I’m not sure I would have had the guts to do if I hadn’t
already been forced to wage some kind of battle in my own mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">And this all ties into dating, a bit.
Because dating is storytelling, really, when you get down to it. But what I
really wanted to write about when I sat down to write about dating, I think, is
the biggest blessing of this whole struggle-recovery mess: My family. My
friends. The people who listen to my stories. Who help me to tell my
stories. The old ones. The new ones. All the ones in between. I couldn't have done any of this alone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Two of these lovely
people are <a href="http://www.sweetamandine.com/">Jess</a> and <a href="http://clp.libarts.colostate.edu/features/not-now-but-soon/">Mary</a>, fantastic writers and tellers of stories in their own
right. The first time I made this dish was for them. Thanks, ladies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXAOrTygIMOfO3WEvgCMZ8np6GKrExORBbEcG9_QcIwqrrofi2sE1O9f8NFMRluS58I3_T7tJIAnPPIgspO7tXPCFqqng8b2JKccetK-5CT-iUXE0sJ7HozY-DSPZM5N72a-6/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXAOrTygIMOfO3WEvgCMZ8np6GKrExORBbEcG9_QcIwqrrofi2sE1O9f8NFMRluS58I3_T7tJIAnPPIgspO7tXPCFqqng8b2JKccetK-5CT-iUXE0sJ7HozY-DSPZM5N72a-6/s400/IMG_0557.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">Ottolenghi’s Soba with Mango and
Eggplant</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">From Yotam Ottolenghi's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Plenty-Vibrant-Recipes-Londons-Ottolenghi/dp/1452101248/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343570486&sr=8-1&keywords=plenty">Plenty </a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times;">It’s
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/10/butternut-squash-salad-with-spices-lime.html">no secret</a> that I love Ottolenghi’s latest cookbook PLENTY. And this noodle dish
is the perfect summer meal: cool and light and packed with the bold flavors of sweet
mango, salty eggplant, fresh cilantro, and nutty toasted sesame oil. I like to
make the noodles and the dressing ahead of time, and then add the mango,
eggplant, and herbs right before serving. It’s a colorful dish and the perfect
backdrop for stories—the ones we tell ourselves and the ones we tell others,
too.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">½ cup rice vinegar<br />
3 tablespoons sugar (I’ve used both white and brown sugar; both are good)<br />
½ teaspoon salt<br />
2 garlic cloves, crushed<br />
½ fresh red chile, (seeds and pith discarded if you’re not that into spice;
retained if you are), finely chopped<br />
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil<br />
grated zest and juice of 1 lime<br />
1 cup sunflower oil<br />
2 eggplants, cut into 3/4-inch pieces<br />
8 to 9 ounces soba noodles<br />
1 large ripe mango, cut into ½-inch pieces<br />
1 ½ cup basil leaves, roughly chopped </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">2 ½ cups cilantro leaves,
chopped<br />
½ red onion, very thinly sliced </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">First, in a small saucepan,
mix the vinegar, sugar, and salt and warm it over medium heat for just 1
minute, until the sugar dissolves. Off the heat, add the garlic, chile, and
sesame oil. Let cool. Then, add the lime juice and zest. Set aside.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Meanwhile, in a large pan,
heat the sunflower oil and then shallow-fry the eggplant. Don’t overcrowd the
eggplant—do this in three or four batches. Allow the eggplant chunks to become
golden brown, flipping a couple times as they fry to get even color. When
cooked, remove the chunks to a colander, sprinkle (generously) with salt, and
let them drain. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Now, cook the soba noodles
in a big pot of boiling, liberally salted water. They should be tender but
still with a bit of a bite. This should take about 5 – 8 minutes. Drain, and
rinse under cold water. Shake ‘em off, and then let them drain completely on a
clean dish towel. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In a big serving bowl, mix
the noodles, dressing, mango, eggplant, half of the fresh herbs and the onion.
Let sit for a few hours. This will allow all the flavors to seep and meld.
(I’ve also just mixed the noodles and the dressing at this point and let it sit
over night, adding the rest of the components the next day. This works out
well, too.) Just before serving, add the rest of the herbs, give it a mix, and
enjoy.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-45854118354351099392012-07-17T06:11:00.000-04:002012-07-17T06:11:33.841-04:00Lately<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">(hi.)</span></div>
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-11982109141496879972012-06-10T16:55:00.000-04:002012-06-14T07:17:34.161-04:00Gingered Strawberry Rhubarb Pie<style>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">As I write, I’m in Maine. I
drove up to the little house owned by my mom and <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/03/nigel-slaters-sausage-and-pumpkin-mash.html">Charley</a> on Friday after work.
They are out of town and needed someone to water their plants. It’s only an
hour away. I wanted somewhere to write. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’m sitting at the picnic
table in their back yard. It’s warm out, but not too warm. Ants are crawling
along the wooden boards; the occasional wasp buzzes by my head. I can see the Piscataqua
River, fast-moving to my left. It’s windy, getting windier by the minute. The
leaves are rattling in the trees. Rain, I think, is moving in. The air smells
briny and damp. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxuQL-KJea-hqJ-1dOSs_zXe9c6fM4qat2qzmSMZ-eQGyYVcbepMRUVo3dz72XkhlCGinsfPna3gb_fpPV6XNqxwMD9NGl2sHRYNFtrpPHWEHRur-btPXuNrzRWjxDBqaeZtV/s1600/DSC_0690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxuQL-KJea-hqJ-1dOSs_zXe9c6fM4qat2qzmSMZ-eQGyYVcbepMRUVo3dz72XkhlCGinsfPna3gb_fpPV6XNqxwMD9NGl2sHRYNFtrpPHWEHRur-btPXuNrzRWjxDBqaeZtV/s400/DSC_0690.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The last time I was up here
in Maine was Memorial Day weekend. My brother, Ben, and his girlfriend, Ashley,
had joined us from New York. It was fun. My mom made us go kayaking. My brother
made us a little drunk. I cooked. Fully embracing the occasion that Saturday
night, I went for the traditional: Burgers. Salad. Strawberry-rhubarb pie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve written about <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/06/pie-in-times.html">this particular strawberry-rhubarb pie</a> before. It’s the pie that I developed for the
New York Times when they ran <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/15/dining/molly-birnbaum-the-cook-who-couldnt-taste.html?pagewanted=all">an article</a> about <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/book/">my book</a>, just about a year ago.
When I was developing this recipe, I made a lot of pies. So many pies that by
the time I clicked “send” on the email to the editor containing the recipe, I
was pretty sure that I would never want to eat pie—or anything else, for that
matter—ever again. Surprise, surprise: I was wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I love this pie. It’s all warm
and spicy with fresh, crystallized, and powdered ginger; covered in a crunchy streusel
topping; and filled with a mixture of fruit that isn’t too sweet. Generally,
strawberry-rhubarb pies are a fierce reminder of <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2007/06/spice-and-time.html">my grandmother</a>, of my mother,
of myself as a child. They taste like the past. But because I revamped this
recipe, updated it, prodded and poked and tested it, this pie tastes new. Making it,
eating it, I am entirely present. Sometimes, that’s exactly what I want.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">(Just don’t forget your pie
plate when you bake this pie. Over Memorial Day weekend, I didn’t realize that
we were missing this key piece of equipment until I had already made, chilled,
and rolled the pie dough. This is why I baked the pie in a cake pan, as you can
see in this photograph, below. It kind of worked. It kind of didn’t. The pie looked
strange, but it tasted damn good.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dHTxxvPA8aLafjn0xEf2k4qs6_DeGtSAm-y0XnsOH1WgibadVOHVQXk2Qzh_ivNm1ih13epmnrGZqGoAbwaWkiGuipo1bwBvvX7RrEceqd-vsoaGjfzbNpU0CM3EPXCJp4Cz/s1600/DSC_0751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dHTxxvPA8aLafjn0xEf2k4qs6_DeGtSAm-y0XnsOH1WgibadVOHVQXk2Qzh_ivNm1ih13epmnrGZqGoAbwaWkiGuipo1bwBvvX7RrEceqd-vsoaGjfzbNpU0CM3EPXCJp4Cz/s400/DSC_0751.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Right now, in Maine, this time
alone, the sun is beginning to set. I’ve moved inside, and am watching the ominous
sky, which is practically shimmering with the threat of rain. A seagull just flew past
the window, screaming, a drape of seaweed hanging from its mouth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Lately, I’ve been reading a
backlog of the<a href="http://therumpus.net/sections/dear-sugar/"> advice columns</a> that <a href="http://www.cherylstrayed.com/">Cheryl Strayed</a> writes for <a href="http://therumpus.net/">The Rumpus</a> called "Dear Sugar." They
aren’t typical advice columns. They’re strong and sassy, straight-to-the-point and written with an almost
vicious beauty. Strayed is the author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wild-Found-Pacific-Crest-Trail/dp/0307592731/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1318028272&sr=1-1">WILD</a>, the book chosen by Oprah for her
revived book club, a book that is getting a lot of play. I haven’t read this
book. But I want to. Because if Strayed’s book is anything like her advice
columns, dudes, it’s probably great. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUrDBHXGbMLYx9ZVzz626olDXVwHGo0Dsh1AXAB8gZZd8su7HDeGLSy2J33NFO6ZGu6OPbqauauFyzbXLPIo8vIifNDZT6fo5FENSmlXf8MLm4GDSsEG-507qcBcK_yoXMO2m/s1600/DSC_0734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUrDBHXGbMLYx9ZVzz626olDXVwHGo0Dsh1AXAB8gZZd8su7HDeGLSy2J33NFO6ZGu6OPbqauauFyzbXLPIo8vIifNDZT6fo5FENSmlXf8MLm4GDSsEG-507qcBcK_yoXMO2m/s400/DSC_0734.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">In these columns, Strayed
writes a lot about things that I’ve been thinking about, that we’re all
probably thinking about in one way or another: love, trust, sex, money, children, identity, writing.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve been thinking a lot my own writing. The future direction of my writing. What I want. What I might someday want. Who I am. Who I will be. (Yowza!) Maybe this is all because I’ve recently
finished a big project, a book project, for the publishing house <a href="http://www.americastestkitchenfeed.com/">where I currently work</a>. Maybe it’s because the paperback version of my baby, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1339334850&sr=8-1&keywords=molly+birnbaum">my book</a>,
is out in the world. Maybe that’s just what happens when you
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">throw your life up into the air,</a> like confetti, and try and catch the
pieces—not all of the pieces, just some of the pieces, the important one—as
they fall back down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Strayed <a href="http://therumpus.net/2010/08/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-48-write-like-a-motherfucker/">responded to a letter </a>from a young woman writer named Elissa Bassist in August of 2010. Now, I
can identify with some of the things that this woman wrote in her letter, though
certainly not all of them. And Strayed and I have obviously had different
experiences and taken different paths. But I’ve been thinking a lot about what
it means to be a writer, to call oneself a capital-W writer, to write, to
publish, to continue to write and publish, to feel like you have stories
welling up within you, whether those stories come from within or from the world
around you. What does it mean to be a woman in the professional world? What
does it mean to be a woman writer? What does it mean to have talent, or to have
luck, or to simply have the resolve to work your ass off? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I like what Strayed says,
here:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“Writing is hard for every
last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think
miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They
do not. They simply <i><span style="font-family: Times;">dig</span></i>.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’m digging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I also like what Strayed
says, here, this line that has become a "Dear Sugar" tagline:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“So write, Elissa Bassist.
Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">That’s why I came to Maine
today, really. Not to water the plants. Or spend some time by the water. But to
write. Like a motherfucker. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times;">Gingered Strawberry Rhubarb
Pie</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">From me, and <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/15/dining/molly-birnbaum-the-cook-who-couldnt-taste.html?pagewanted=all">the New York Times</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Time: 2 hours and 30 minutes
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">FOR THE CRUST: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/4 teaspoon salt </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 tablespoon sugar </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">6 tablespoons butter,
chilled and cut into 10 pieces </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">4 tablespoons vegetable
shortening, chilled </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">2 tablespoons fresh ginger,
peeled and grated </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 large egg, beaten, for
glazing rim </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">FOR THE FILLING: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">4 cups rhubarb (about 5
large stalks), halved lengthwise and chopped into 1/2-inch pieces </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 pint strawberries, sliced </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">3/4 cup sugar </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/3 cup all-purpose flour </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Finely grated zest of 1
orange </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">FOR THE STREUSEL: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/2 cup all-purpose flour,
plus additional as needed </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/2 cup light brown sugar </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/4 teaspoon salt </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/2 teaspoon cinnamon </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/2 teaspoon ground ginger </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">8 tablespoons butter,
chilled and cut in pieces </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">3 tablespoons candied
ginger, minced </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1/2 cup pecans, lightly
toasted, chopped fine </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Vanilla <a href="http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/subjects/i/ice_cream/index.html?inline=nyt-classifier"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">ice cream</span></a>,
for serving. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1. To make the crust: In a
large bowl, whisk together 1 1/4 cups flour with the salt and sugar. Add the
butter and shortening and quickly break the large chunks apart with your
fingers until the mixture resembles very coarse meal. Stir in the fresh ginger.
Sprinkle 3 tablespoons ice water over the dough and mix the dough with your
hands, without over-handling, until it comes together. If too dry, add another
tablespoon or 2 of water. Cover in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes
to an hour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">2. To make the filling: Mix
the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar, 1/3 cup flour and orange zest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">3. To make the streusel: Mix
1/2 cup flour with the brown sugar, salt, cinnamon and ginger. Add the butter
and mix with your fingertips until it is broken into tiny pebbles. Mix in the
candied ginger and chopped pecans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">4. Heat the oven to 475
degrees with a rack in the middle. Cover a rimmed sheet pan with foil. On a
lightly floured surface, roll out the dough with a floured rolling pin into a
disk about 1/4-inch thick and a few inches larger than the <a href="http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/subjects/p/pies/index.html?inline=nyt-classifier"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">pie</span></a>
pan, pressing together if it breaks apart. Fold the disk in half and gently
place across the center of a 9-inch pie plate. Unfold. Crimp the edges of the
dough so that it ends along the rim. Press down around the edge with the tines
of a fork. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">5. Mound the filling in the
center and spread the streusel evenly on top, pressing down lightly. Brush the
exposed crust with beaten egg and place on the prepared pan. Bake for 15
minutes, then reduce heat to 375 degrees and bake until golden brown, about 30
to 40 minutes more, checking the pie as it bakes. If the crust begins to look
too brown, wrap a strip of foil around its edge. Cool for at least 20 minutes
before serving. Serve warm or at room temperature, with ice cream. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Yield: one 9-inch pie (8 to
10 servings). </span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-4042611568731103502012-06-06T22:01:00.000-04:002012-06-06T22:05:09.559-04:00Paperback Giveaway Winners<style>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Thanks to all who entered
the paperback giveaway. I loved reading all of your comments. Though I’ve
picked winners (thanks, random.org!), please do continue to tell us about your favorite scents and scent memories in the comments. Scent is so evocative, so moving, so telling, so present far beyond the here and now. I want more! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The numbers pulled for the paperback winners were comments #12
and #31. This means <b>Miss T</b> and <b>Leanne</b>. Please email me (<a href="mailto:molly.birnbaum@gmail.com">molly.birnbaum@gmail.com</a>) your
mailing addresses, and I’ll put those books in the mail, ASAP.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">In the meantime, I’ll finish this post with a
little sampling of my (many) favorite comments:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“My favourite scent comes
from tomato plants. That green, vegetal smell is something I wait for all year.” -- JB.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“I remember my whole
preschool class charging down a Baltimore street and screaming, trying to
outrun the putrid smell of crushed ginkgo seeds on the sidewalk. It's a
horrible, nauseating smell but for some reason I am now very fond of the
beautiful trees with their fan-shaped leaves that remind me of the wonder of
being a little kid.” -- Jenn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“My earliest memories of
realizing that I had no sense of smell are, reading a scratch and sniff book
with my mom and wondering why everything smelled the same and thinking that
maybe the books just don't work. I also remember playing a game in my
Kindergarten class where I'd be blindfolded and would pick an object from a bag
and then asked to figure out what it was simply by smelling it. And that
anxiety of hoping I wouldn't pull out perfume or hoping that I would pick
something out of the bag, like a rock, that I wouldn't have to smell but could
feel it and tell what it was. Unfortunately, I went home smelling of perfume
and a memory of the confused look on my teacher's face when I told her that I
couldn't smell.” -- Garrett.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“When I smell a clove
cigarette I'm back in college, wearing Doc Martens, listening to Seattle-based
grunge rock, planning political protests and falling in love.” -- Kerry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“I love the smell of
just-picked cucumbers, fresh from the backyard garden -- the kind that still
have white spikes on them and probably taste bitter at the ends.” -- D.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“A long time ago, Crayola
made crayons that smelled like their color. The brown one was labeled
"dirt" and smelled exactly like the grass and dirt after a rainstorm,
which is one of my favorite scents, it reminds me of being outdoors. I still can't
figure out how Crayola managed to nail that scent so precisely.” --
Michele. [<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ed note: I remember that! It
was like magic.</i>]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">And, “If I'm not too late,
it'd have to tack stores. Or, more specifically, new leather. Not at all animal
friendly, but the scent makes me swoon.” -- Jacqueline.</span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-90518404111453061462012-06-01T06:35:00.000-04:002012-06-06T22:04:55.867-04:00Paperback! Giveaway!<style>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">It’s been just about a <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/06/happy-publication-day.html">year</a>
since <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/book/"><i>Season to Taste</i></a> was published here in the U.S. And what a year it’s been.
<a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/09/london.html">All</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/05/berlin.html">the</a> <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/events/">travel</a>. All the <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/07/state-of-wonder.html">people</a>. All <a href="http://www.mollybirnbaum.com/press/">the nice things</a> that have been said. It’s
been fantastic. And humbling. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Thank
you. Thank you for all the support, all the encouragement, all of the reading
and reading and reading. You guys are the best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">And guess what?
Paper. Back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">This week, <i>Season to
Taste</i> was officially published in paperback! It’s lighter, less expensive, and
has a new cover design, too. (I couldn’t love it more.) <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1338460584&sr=8-4">Check it out</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">And! I’ve never done this
before, but I’m going to do it now, because I’m just so pumped: A giveaway. After all,
a box of paperback <i>Season to Taste</i>s recently arrived in my office, all crisp
and clean and smelling like new paper and fresh ink, and I want to share. To
enter, leave a comment with your <b>favorite scent</b>. (Or your least favorite. Or your favorite scent memory. Or your least favorite. Or the first time you realized you <i>couldn</i>'t smell. We're talking smell, folks!) On Wednesday, June 6<sup>th</sup>,
I’ll pick two winners at random and mail you both a signed copy of the
paperback. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Here, I'll start. My favorite scent is that of the fresh herb, rosemary. It smells pungent and woodsy, warm and earthy, a deep dark green. I love that after working with the needle-like leaves, you can smell their fragrance on the tips of your fingers for hours. I love that rosemary was one of the <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/11/salsa-rosemary-and-james-bond.html">very first smells</a> to return when I was recovering from my accident. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">**UPDATE: Winners have been <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/06/paperback-giveaway-winners.html">selected</a>. </span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-9309722853287360962012-05-29T21:01:00.000-04:002012-05-31T06:59:00.017-04:00Austin<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5A5qtoa-8RmnZya1vONKVhWoWIAUhPY44v5ldbq4RxlytCHjdbNE0jnFsErLK24P9rohZHHDEr9bLetT1IclDlb_kGfGFfVCSZwSG3BRjy9T7oVEirMIN_HpF0GmveEor4PoAfg/s1600/DSC_0638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5A5qtoa-8RmnZya1vONKVhWoWIAUhPY44v5ldbq4RxlytCHjdbNE0jnFsErLK24P9rohZHHDEr9bLetT1IclDlb_kGfGFfVCSZwSG3BRjy9T7oVEirMIN_HpF0GmveEor4PoAfg/s400/DSC_0638.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve been busy. There was <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/05/berlin.html">Berlin</a>. Before that: <a href="http://www.philasciencefestival.org/events/2012/04/forgotten-sense-exploring-world-without-smell">Philadelphia</a> and <a href="http://www.newburyportliteraryfestival.org/">Newburyport</a>. After: Austin,
Texas, and then up to Maine. Call it distraction, escape, vacation,
whathaveyou. I won’t deny that the last four months <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">have been tough</a>; it’s been
nice to get outta town. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixFwJyr7knveLVWptbvYEF-oe6aSS5krCnZZwoWUNPQTFylaHk4XAM5xXh0n_6GJpmvOowjwQcCzIypzbkivexIZgYmcAvegc3dKo5EHmXWUhzN0cc4hRkUUMjfsCxyu5xSrrEQ/s1600/DSC_0647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixFwJyr7knveLVWptbvYEF-oe6aSS5krCnZZwoWUNPQTFylaHk4XAM5xXh0n_6GJpmvOowjwQcCzIypzbkivexIZgYmcAvegc3dKo5EHmXWUhzN0cc4hRkUUMjfsCxyu5xSrrEQ/s400/DSC_0647.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Austin, especially, was
great. I met my friend Becca there for an extended weekend of nothing-but-fun.
(Long-time readers may remember Becca. Seven (!) years ago we were <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2005/05/iron-chef-providence-battle-everything.html">reenacting Iron Chef</a> in the kitchen we shared in Providence.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">In Austin, Becca and I
walked a lot, ate and drank a lot, exploring the nooks and crannies of this odd
Texas city where neither of us had ever been. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgeLYvG8exQ3Tpsbgbk2UYOfhHVME7o1R6nv9pNa0DRP4JuiMh-PO-1L_zjvMhmIJfW2NEviEfQgBtaeenVg5I7gftvxJp2hgtOksmGPtzAPPAsulvjliWsawqynkK7Ax80FvBQ/s1600/DSC_0637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgeLYvG8exQ3Tpsbgbk2UYOfhHVME7o1R6nv9pNa0DRP4JuiMh-PO-1L_zjvMhmIJfW2NEviEfQgBtaeenVg5I7gftvxJp2hgtOksmGPtzAPPAsulvjliWsawqynkK7Ax80FvBQ/s400/DSC_0637.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Some highlights include the
dinner that we ate at the bar of <a href="http://uchiaustin.com/uchiko">Uchiko</a>, a “Japanese farmhouse” restaurant, and
the “<a href="http://drinks.seriouseats.com/2012/04/first-look-new-cocktail-menu-at-bar-congress-in-austin-texas-slideshow.html#show-232263">Dark and Amari</a>” cocktail I <s>inhaled</s> sipped at <a href="http://congressaustin.com/bar-congress/">Bar Congress</a> downtown. We ate
everything from tacos to snow cones out of the omnipresent food trucks lining
the city streets.</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">One afternoon we drove
out to <a href="http://www.smittysmarket.com/">Smitty’s Market</a> in Lockhart, Texas, to consume barbecue. A half-pound of
brisket and ribs later, I smelled like meat and like smoke and, man, that was awesome.
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbo6kd9s0alxb-8G0ZBEO0IaVD4H7wnFLF0zrsfbV0xNgU3Qoe7wuNYBnxgNac1yG5M-iLqpHCAinkjz_BT2gCoh4rUFYX8g9oFiEnjOT9EeMTYlYVc9fsZ72vTxHp3IZA4Vakfw/s1600/DSC_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbo6kd9s0alxb-8G0ZBEO0IaVD4H7wnFLF0zrsfbV0xNgU3Qoe7wuNYBnxgNac1yG5M-iLqpHCAinkjz_BT2gCoh4rUFYX8g9oFiEnjOT9EeMTYlYVc9fsZ72vTxHp3IZA4Vakfw/s400/DSC_0652.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Over the course of the
weekend, Becca and I wandered among coffee shops, antique stores, and clothing boutiques,
where I bought, among other things, a (couple) cocktail dress(es) that I certainly don’t need. We
visited the Whole Foods flagship store, and sampled (tart) blackberries and
(sweet) green tomato jam at the farmer’s market. At night, we moved between
restaurants and bars, taking in the scene, the smells, the music that never
seemed to end. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPSBXMQq5iAibxnMnipfb5oJwBwLyYEWCmCxEL-AW72vnwBsB0BJtQStt0sqmfWZfMFeH5XS_FKzCrGBiVtcLPjgL9WuzrCS9fYxMC3RGcCFUD8Jfzs-hxNiTlrfTfID9FBVjQg/s1600/DSC_0648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPSBXMQq5iAibxnMnipfb5oJwBwLyYEWCmCxEL-AW72vnwBsB0BJtQStt0sqmfWZfMFeH5XS_FKzCrGBiVtcLPjgL9WuzrCS9fYxMC3RGcCFUD8Jfzs-hxNiTlrfTfID9FBVjQg/s400/DSC_0648.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve been sitting here on my
couch back in Cambridge for a while, trying to come up with a kicker to this post, to leave you with something beyond the
laundry list of things I did in Austin. I’m trying to figure out how I can
relate barbecue to the fact that I’m feeling better than I have in a while. Or to
the fact that I’ve been thinking about how much I value the female friendships
in my life, how much they buoy me up, keep me floating, moving me swiftly along
toward whatever will come next. But as I write it’s the Monday night of Memorial Day
weekend, and my brain is as frizzled as my hair from the last few days in the
sun, and I think that I’ll just leave you with a piece of advice. First and
foremost it’s advice for eating at Smitty’s Market in Lockhart, Texas. But it’s
probably advice for a lot more:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">When it comes to brisket,
and you have the choice between lean and fatty, pick the fatty. It's better. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3FgrT4jwZNvz1y5VDLP4ovbCl4rE5L_C66lmliI6mjQdfWBTvaeKAA8egaXGWVNMNaGmFVEypEGjiDfncuz4YN8f6ES4AZvcsXcdyU6_fvJ3QxSs9qSzcAafsSOIxQ-rCKcJsgw/s1600/DSC_0634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3FgrT4jwZNvz1y5VDLP4ovbCl4rE5L_C66lmliI6mjQdfWBTvaeKAA8egaXGWVNMNaGmFVEypEGjiDfncuz4YN8f6ES4AZvcsXcdyU6_fvJ3QxSs9qSzcAafsSOIxQ-rCKcJsgw/s400/DSC_0634.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-87020616825999818792012-05-11T06:26:00.000-04:002012-05-12T16:47:50.924-04:00Berlin<style>
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The <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2008/09/bavarias-best.html">last time</a> I was in Germany I was with Matt. It was 2008.
I had just been laid-off from my job as a newspaper reporter in <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2008/06/california.html">California</a>. He
was working as a journalist in France. We spent a few days exploring Paris and
then drove into Germany to see the tiny towns of Bavaria, where Matt had lived
during his Army years. On that trip we skirted the cities, moving quickly from
spot to spot, hitting the historical locations, the tourist attractions,
planning and unplanning and trying to see it all. </div>
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It was just barely autumn, and I remember that the weather
was perfect. I remember the exhilaration I felt when Matt drove—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fast</i>—along the autobahn. I remember being
anxious about money. I remember the beer. The beer in the tiny German town of
Bamberg, in particular. It was a <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/germany/7929916/German-beer-tasting-in-Bamberg-Franconia.html">smoked beer</a>, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rauchbier</i>, and, as a result, it tasted kind of like bacon. It was
an acquired taste. I acquired it pretty fast.</div>
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I landed in Berlin last Wednesday afternoon for my second
attempt at Germany, this time alone. I went to be part of a symposium on the
sense of smell, hosted by the <a href="http://www.einsteinforum.de/index.php?id=938">Einstein Forum</a>, in the charming town of Potsdam.
There were seven of us speakers, all from different corners of the small and
strange world of smell. We each gave a talk, one after the other, over the course
of one day. It was a long day. A fascinating day. My mind is still buzzing, in
fact.</div>
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After the symposium, I spent the weekend in Berlin by
myself. </div>
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While there, I walked around the fancy boutiques and funky
galleries of Mitte. I meandered through the gentrified streets of Prenzlauer
Berg. I visited the Neues Museum, where I saw the bust of Nefertiti, which
looked just like it did on the cover of my art history textbook years ago. A local friend gave me a tour of Kreuzberg, all parks and impromptu concerts and smoky cafes, wandering along the canal in a rainstorm.<br />
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I read novels in bars, nursing a Pilsner or two. I lunched
at <a href="http://www.lokal-berlin.blogspot.com/">Das Lokal</a> with <a href="http://www.berlinreified.com/2012/05/two-or-three-lunches-at-das-lokal.html">a friend</a> of a friend, and took myself out to dinner, chatting
with friendly people who sat nearby. I ate mackerel and potato salad, schnitzel
and sauerkraut and pretzels, carrot soup and delicate greens,
hearty breads with sour cherry jam, and more. The food was often good,
sometimes great, but in the end it wasn’t the food that mattered.</div>
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It’s been a while since I’ve traveled alone. I’d forgotten
the freedom of it. The in-the-moment-ness of it. The hours spanning out ahead,
the hours in which anything could fill. I’d forgotten the pleasure of that. And
a bit of the stress. But mainly I’d forgotten the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">possibility</i> of being somewhere foreign, somewhere new, somewhere
completely on my own. A <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/06/happy-publication-day.html">lot</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2011/05/tuscan-style-rosemary-garlic-pork-rib.html">has</a> <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">changed</a> since I was last in Germany. And as I
walked through the streets of Berlin—streets that burst with the musky scent of
people, of brewing coffee, of car exhaust, of fresh fish and old trash and new
rain—for the first time in a long time I thought: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hey, okay, I can do this on my own.</i><br />
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</div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-14141898646286327652012-04-16T07:18:00.001-04:002012-04-16T07:19:06.763-04:00Canal House Ginger Spice Cake with Dried Cherries<style>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I spent Sunday morning
reading. I don’t yet have a bookcase in my <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-feet-ahead.html">new apartment</a>, so my books are
stacked against the walls. In some ways this is a bother: I have to pull my chosen
novel out of an already unsteady pile of fiction—cautiously, so that it won’t all topple over onto the floor. But because my books are in piles rather than
on shelves, horizontal rather than vertical, mismatched and out of order, they
look different than they ever did before, and therefore they seem new. I find myself noticing
more among them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Yesterday morning I pulled a few
books out of the stacks—old books, mainly books of poetry, ones that I haven’t
picked up in a long time. I read some <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/billy-collins">Billy Collins</a>. He reminds me of college,
my freshman year dorm room, and the way I used to scribble my favorite quotes
on Post-It notes and stick them to my wall. </span></div>
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<span id="goog_77553939"></span><span id="goog_77553940"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I read some <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/robert-pinsky">Robert Pinsky</a>. I
interviewed Pinsky one afternoon on the phone a few years ago. I remember him
as smart and generous and quite kind. Even after we spoke, I reread his poetry
for months. Today, the rhythm of his words remind me of the tiny studio in
Brooklyn where I lived when I was <s>freaking out about</s> writing <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915327/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334572377&sr=1-2">my book</a>.
That apartment was so small there wasn’t space for a sink in the bathroom. I
brushed my teeth at the kitchen counter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Finally, I read some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Schultz">Philip Schultz</a>. Just a little. I had picked up <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-God-Loneliness-Selected-Poems/dp/0547249659"><i>The God of Loneliness</i></a>, and, well, I
didn’t need too much of that. But in it I read a poem called “<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/audioitem/522">Pumpernickel</a>.”
It’s a poem about his grandmother, and how she baked bread on Monday
mornings—challah and rye, but pumpernickel was the kind that mattered. Pumpernickel
was the one that “…demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes &
several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for which
she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat as an apple-cheeked
peasant bride.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">For some people, bread is
just bread, and baking it seems a bit much. But it’s worth the bother, and Schultz
tells us why:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">“For the moment when the
steam curls off the black crust like a strip of pure sunlight & the hard
oily flesh breaks open like a poem pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a
single glistening truth & who can help but wonder at the mystery of the
human heart when you hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor
& I tell you we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I haven’t made bread in a
while. Definitely not pumpernickel. But last week I did bake a cake, for Easter dinner at my mom's house. It was a ginger
spice cake with dried cherries, from the most recent issue of <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/blogsandforums/blogs/badaily/2012/04/easter-sunday-canal-house.html">Bon Appetit</a>. It’s
a simple cake with rich flavor—a compendium of fresh, candied, and powdered
ginger; strong coffee; molasses; Dijon mustard (!); and tart dried cherries.
It’s spicy and smoky and sweet and when served warm with vanilla ice cream
might even be capable of pulling a single glistening truth out of its own
complexity. </span><span style="font-family: Times;">Well, maybe not quite. But close.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><b>Ginger Spice Cake with Dried
Cherries</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Barely adapted from Christopher Hirsheimer
and Melissa Hamilton (otherwise known as the folks behind <a href="http://thecanalhouse.com/"><i>Canal House Cooking</i></a>) in <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2012/04/ginger-spice-cake-with-dried-cherries">Bon Appetit</a></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times;">I baked this in two loaf pans, rather than in a bundt
pan, so don’t be surprised that mine looks nothing like the Canal House version in the magazine. Because of this pan switch, I baked the cakes for less time then they
call for, and was careful to keep a careful watch on their progress. Yes, this
cake contains Dijon mustard. And black pepper. That sounds a little wonky, but
the cake doesn’t taste like mustard or pepper at all. These ingredients simply
heighten the soft and spicy depth of flavor, I promise. The authors recommend
serving this with a “luscious chocolate icing.” I think it’s lovely with just a
sprinkling of powdered sugar, or served warm with vanilla ice cream. I also think
it’s nice for breakfast on its own, but that may be just me. I'm a dessert for breakfast kind of gal. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 cup dried tart cherries,
finely chopped</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">½ cup crystallized ginger,
finely chopped</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 tablespoon finely grated
peeled ginger</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 tablespoon Dijon mustard</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 cup hot, strong coffee (they
recommend espresso; I made coffee in my French Press, and let it sit a bit
longer than usual)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">2 ½ cups flour (all-purpose)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 tablespoon ground ginger</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">2 teaspoons baking soda</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 teaspoon ground allspice</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1 teaspoon ground cinnamon</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">½ teaspoon freshly ground
black pepper</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">½ cup (1 stick) unsalted
butter, room temperature</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">½ cup dark brown sugar,
packed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">3 large eggs</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">1 cup molasses</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Preheat oven to 350 degrees
Fahrenheit. Butter two loaf pans, or one 6 – 8 cup Bundt pan. Dust the pans
with flour and tap out the excess. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In a medium bowl, combine
the cherries, crystallized ginger, fresh ginger, and Dijon mustard. Pour the
hot coffee over the mixture and set the bowl aside. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In a large bowl, whisk
together the flour, ground ginger, baking soda, salt, allspice, cinnamon, and
pepper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Using your electric mixer,
cream the butter until light and fluffy, on medium speed for a couple of minutes.
Add the brown sugar and beat for a couple of minutes more. Add the eggs one at
a time, mixing in between. Then beat in the molasses.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Return to the cherry mixture
and strain it into a small bowl, reserving the soaking liquid. Add the dry
ingredients to the butter mixture in three additions, alternating with the soaking
liquid, blending in between. Remove the bowl from the mixer and fold in the
cherry solids. Scrape the batter evenly into the two loaf pans, or all of it
into a bundt pan. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Bake the loaf pans for about
30 – 40 minutes (for loaf pans), checking carefully. The bundt pan should bake
for about an hour. The top of the cake will spring back lightly when pressed in
the middle. If you insert a toothpick into the cake’s center and it comes out
clean, the cake should be done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Let the cake cool in its pan
on a wire rack. When ready to eat, remove it from the pan, cut it into nice fat
slices, and enjoy.</span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12829830.post-65826675110494640712012-04-09T21:01:00.000-04:002012-04-09T21:01:56.511-04:00Three Feet Ahead<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last few weeks, I’ve
tried to write about many things. Seared fennel things. Roasted pork chop
things. Whole wheat chocolate chip cookie things. Cooking things. Eating
things. The thing about how my mind wanders into the feathery netherworld of recipes,
or novels, or both, when I walk along the Charles River to <a href="http://www.cooksillustrated.com/">work</a>.<span style="font-family: Times;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">But I haven’t been able to
get anything down onto this Word document. Not
anything that isn’t a poorly veiled excuse. An attempt to kill time before I
write about what I’m actually thinking about.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ll just get down to
business. Here I go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Matt and I broke up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">There is it. That sentence.
It’s a short sentence. Just five words. Words ridiculously painful in their
brevity. As I typed them, I could feel my insides seize up, clench tight,
prevent me from moving, feeling, thinking beyond the sound of my fingers
clacking on my computer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Click, clack, click. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">When <a href="http://juliepowellbooks.com/">Julie Powell</a>, author of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Julie-Julia-Year-Cooking-Dangerously/dp/031604251X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333918633&sr=1-1">Julie and Julia</a></i>, separated from her husband of seven years, she moved into a small
sublet apartment. On her first night there, she ordered a pizza. “There's a New
York rule, one of those we osmose through the soles of our stylish yet
affordable boots, that on your first night in a new apartment, you must order
takeout,” she <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/02/magazine/02food.html?pagewanted=all">wrote</a> in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>.
There’s another rule, she added, and that is on your second night, you cook.
Powell made garlic soup. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">On the first night in my new apartment,
the one I moved into about a month after leaving Matt, who was my boyfriend for
almost five years, I didn’t want to order pizza. Or anything else. Take-out
seemed too sterile, too greasy and cold. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Cooking for just one, however, felt
foreign and strange. I had grown so used to cooking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">meals </i>with Matt—big meals, rich meals, ones that would satisfy a
burly man who believed red meat and potatoes were all you really needed to
survive. I didn’t even have a table in my new place. My empty, echoing place.
The apartment is a studio, but a big studio, and despite the fact that I grew
up in a cavernous suburban house in farm-town Massachusetts, no place has ever
felt so large. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In the end, I roasted a sweet potato on
a piece of foil in the oven until it was tender and sweet. I ate it sitting on
my bed. With barbecue sauce. That was all I had in the fridge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">They call it a “broken
heart,” and it wasn’t until recently that I began to think about that term as
more than a metaphor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Matt and I met when I was
just beginning to take my writing seriously, when I was just beginning to feel
confident in <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2007/12/evening-new-york.html">my returning sense of smell</a>, in the direction I wanted to take my
career. We finished graduate school side by side, and then stayed together when
I worked in <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2008/06/california.html">California</a> and he in Europe. He was there when I sold my <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/05/news.html">book proposal</a>. I was there when he was <a href="http://mollysmadeleine.blogspot.com/2009/02/enough.html">called back</a> off the Individual Ready Reserves
to serve his third tour of duty at war, <a href="http://hereandfar.blogspot.com/">that year in Afghanistan</a>. He has been a
huge part of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-Taste-Sense-Smell-Found/dp/0061915319/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1290523160&sr=8-1">my writing</a>. A huge part of this website. A huge part of my life.
In fact, I’m not sure I remember who I am alone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">At a certain point it no
longer matters what happened, who is to blame for what, why, when, or how.
Because in the end it’s just you. Facing the end of something, something big,
something way bigger than you ever were alone. And it hurts. Emotionally, of
course. But physically, it hurts, too. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In those first few weeks I
remember wondering how it was possible that the decision to go our separate
ways could be so physically painful. This decision didn’t touch my skin. It
didn’t make contact with my muscles or my bones. Yet I sat on my bed, waiting
for that goddamn sweet potato to bake, and my body ached.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #141413; font-family: Times;">Of course, I began to
read.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #141413; font-family: Times;">“… [It] seems difficult
to imagine that these social experiences that do not physically wound us could
truly lead to the same kind of pain as a broken bone or an aching stomach,”
writes scientist <a href="http://web.mac.com/naomieisenberger/san/Naomi_Eisenberger_SAN.html">Naomi Eisenberger</a> in her 2012 paper, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Broken Hearts and Broken Bones: A Neural Perspective on the
Similarities Between Social and Physical Pain</i>. “However, accumulating
evidence demonstrates that experiences of social and physical pain actually
rely on some of the same neurobiological and neural substrates.”</span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">So there’s evidence that the
same parts of the brain light up when you feel social pain as when you feel
physical pain. When Matt and I split, I felt like I was ripping my arm out of
the shoulder socket, or cutting my leg off at the knee, or tearing a pattern of
tiny holes in my gut, or all of that, or maybe none of that, but nonetheless it
was substantial and consuming and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">physical</i>
all at the same time. My brain, it seems, was processing it in a similar way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><a href="http://www.dianeackerman.com/">Diane Ackerman</a> puts it more
succinctly. “That’s why being spurned by a lover hurts all over the body, but
in no place you can point to,” she recently <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/24/the-brain-on-love/">wrote</a> in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times</i>. “Or rather, you’d need to point to the dorsal anterior
cingulate cortex in the brain, the front of a collar wrapped around the corpus
callosum, the bundle of nerve fibers zinging messages between the hemispheres
that register both rejection and physical assault.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve been re-reading Anne
Lamott’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bird-Some-Instructions-Writing-Life/dp/0385480016"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bird by Bird</i></a>. That is, in fact,
what I’ve been doing this morning, this Sunday Easter morning, here at my new
kitchen table, for the last hour. As I write, it’s early. My head is fuzzy. My throat feels
a little swollen. I’m not sure if this is because of spring allergies, or
because of the (one too many) cocktails I shared last night with my friend
Mary. But it’s sunny outside. I can hear a student at the nearby music school
playing the tuba—long, slow groans that should probably make me feel sad, but
for some reason don’t, probably because it’s sunny, I’m surrounded by
books, and this afternoon I plan to <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2012/04/ginger-spice-cake-with-dried-cherries">bake a cake</a>. Filling this apartment with
the warm scents of molasses and coffee and sour cherries will no doubt make me
feel a bit more at home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Anyway, Lamott’s book is
important to me, as I know it’s important to countless others. I also know that
I’ve written about this book before, and others have written about it, too,
perhaps so much so that what I’m about to type out is insufferably cliché. But
I don’t care. I’m a re-reader. Especially when I’m sad, I will return to the
books that moved me, that helped to define me, that brought me to where I am
today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Lamott writes:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">E.L.
Doctorow once said that “writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You
can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that
way.” You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your
destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two
or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice about
writing, or life, I have ever heard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">On the next page she writes
about an oft-repeated story, the title story, the one that helps her to get a
grip:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">...
thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was
trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write,
which was due the next day. We were at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was
at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and
unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my
father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said,
“Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">That’s what I’m trying to
do, too.</span></div>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17344473202233770084noreply@blogger.com22