Cookbook Tour Advice: Rhubarb Scones

-Smile all the time. Even when you are tired of smiling.-

For those aspiring cookbook writers or for those about to go on their first book tour allow me to offer some helpful advice I wish I had been given.

Shit happens. Roll With It.

I had an event where after plenty of email communication it still went to hell.

The venue insisted that they did not want to sell books themselves so I organized a third party bookseller, a locally owned mom-n-pop shop, to come in and sell the books instead.

Home Hunting: Ginger-Maple Scones

Me Blogging Before Beginning the House Hunting Process:

Aaaaaaand Now:

THE END.

Or not. But really, this is insane.

According to Lyon Realty, the average American only stays in the home they bought for eight years before selling and starting the whole process again. I don't actually get this. I grew up in only two homes my entire life. The first one I was in until the age of six, but my parents had been there for 15 years, and my mother is still in her second house.

How does the process not mentally and emotionally scar people to the point where they never leave their new homes? I imagine myself at the end of this process sustaining on the unfortunate squirrels who happen into my backyards in order to avoid society. I would have to restrain myself around loan officers and realtors for fear that I might bludgeon them to death with mortgage insurance paperwork?

Chill and Warmth: Chocolate & Ginger Cookies

-Something toasty on a crazy cold day.-

I'm sitting on the floor next to my oven right now typing this because I am frozen. The pilot light has yet to be lit in the new place (and by pilot light I mean odd fuse-like device that needs to be installed in the electric heater; oh if only it were simply striking a match). The only source of heat right now is the layers of sweaters bulking up my wiry frame.

I mean, what else do you do when it is under 40 degrees Fahrenheit in your dwelling?

I am also somewhat relying on the ambient heat given off from my cantankerous oven. It's as senile as the average Floridian retiree and puts out heat based on similar whims. It's something that must definitely be looked at but right now it's at least reliably baking my cookies (double entendre that all you want).

I actually did buy a space heater, though. Some giant ceramic tower device that puts out more heat than an alley cat in August. Unfortunately, it's more intelligent than I am as programing it correctly is more difficult that setting the clock on the VCR my mom had in the 90's.

The whole situation has left me only the teeniest bit absolutely livid right now.

-I would be more upset if I wasn't buried under quilts.-

As I shivered in my new place the only thing that seemed to make any sense was to bake cookies. It would force the oven to (hopefully) grumble to life and heat the kitchen, which luckily has a door to it and therefore I can trap the heat and hotbox myself.

But cookies have another function - that of comfort. What other food turns a house into a home? Indeed, chocolate chip cookies are the first thing I ever learned to make. I have great memories of my mom teaching my brothers and I how to bake them. We'd always do it in fall and winter when turning on the oven and hot cookies was the only sane way to warm us up in our brisk 50 F Southern California winters. (It doesn't sound bad, but when that's what you grow up with that, well, 50F sets the standard of tolerable cold. Now that I live in Northern California where it hits an arctic death of 20F.) We would carefully crack eggs and beat butter, and my mom would pretend not to notice me and my siblings sneaking fingerfuls of cookie dough.

A more innocent time before salmonella scares and kids learned by making mistakes and hurting themselves and not being protected from every little thing, and parents were terrified that the entire would was out to destroy their young.

Seeking Approval: Chocolate Carrot Cake

-Can you guess how?-

In recent weeks I’ve learned that I crave two things in my life: approval and recognition. The two often go hand-in-hand and though they can be separated they are best enjoyed together.

Recognition without approval has another name: infamy. Never a good thing. The consequences usually being jail time, tears, or landing in a situation that my father would refer to as “totally screwed in every which way.”

On the other hand, approval without recognition is a fickle thing. How much pleasure can be reaped from the situation and its worth as a whole when its based on opinion and personal belief? Are you happy with the satisfaction that a job well done is its own reward? Some people are. Sometimes and in some cases that’s just fine enough for me.

However, I find that people do well with recognition for their hard work. Honey versus vinegar and all that. Parents worldwide can avow that positive reinforcement simply proves more effective, and any human resources manager, heck, anyone who has ever worked a job ever can tell you that people are more motivated to work when they’ve been praised and given positive, constructive critique. Even a smile, thank you, or simple "Good work," does wonders for a person's inspiration and self-esteem.

Together they create an epic and nearly unrivaled sensation. There is nothing better than being appreciated for competence. It boosts the ego, enriches the soul, and inspires us to do more and go farther than we thought we could.

Situations where neither one are received are disheartening, as if you’ve been told to beat a drum that doesn’t make any sound. The delivery of the message that no, you/your work/your passion aren’t approved of and that what you are/what you have done isn’t recognized is like being shot in the chest with a .48. You feel the life drain right out of you only to rise up as some dark cloud casting a pallor over your empty husk.

-Knobby, awkward, colorful carrots from the Farmers' Market. So awesome that they don't care what you think of them-

It. Is. Miserable.

Recently, my thesis experience has been somewhat reminiscent of this - both the good and the bad. Assembled of hundreds of hours and years of work the thesis no longer feels like it exists just for a diploma - a state acknowledged and governor signed approval that I’m a smart guy. (For without it, how will I ever know if I am!?) Rather, it feels like an extension of me.

At this stage I am seeking the approval of my thesis committee, people I hold in high regards and assume know more about everything in my field of academia than I ever will. Essentially, they hold my thesis in their hands. (Given, in the broad view of things the thesis is all in my hands, but at certain points I have to simply let go and allow others to do their part.) Currently, they are reading my thesis chapter by chapter, and returning it with notes and critique. With each part I turn in I hope that they will enjoy it and give it to me with the go-ahead to continue.

My professors are honest and straightforward. In my world their word is final. While at times this may unnerve and even frighten me these are the reasons I asked them to read my thesis. I respect their knowledgeable approaches. It is because of this respect that I crave approval and recognition so badly from them. That, and, of course, graduation.

Recently, I received feedback via e-mail on my first chapter. The first thing I noticed was the length. It was epic, like a book of Psalms. My eyes began darting around plucking up small, disorienting keywords like pieces of broken glass off the floor. They were words like "problem," "concern," and "unclear."

-Chocolate and carrots. Add some spices and booze and you are so go.-

My breathing became shallow and quick as I attempted to read the e-mail in whole but found myself barely able to focus on a single idea. All I knew was that it seemed I had failed and my professor was displeased. With conflicting feelings of reluctance and desperation I pushed through the rest of the notes. It was like slowly pulling off band-aid. Each sentence was a sting that made me hesitant to continue. This, however, was worse - while you may choose to simply rip-off a band-aid in one quick tear-jerking tear, there is no equivalent for reading an e-mail from your professor.

Then, suddenly, at the end was a tiny blurb; barely even a paragraph: “Keep up the great work. You can bring the next chapter to me.”

I swear, my heart skipped a beat.

Approval and recognition achieved! It was if God himself had come down from the sky just to tell me how awesome he thought I was and asked if I wanted to go out for nachoes and beer. Yes, that little bit might not seem like much (like I said, my professors are succinct), but it meant the world to me. It was what I needed to hear.

I went back to the beginning of the e-mail and read through it with a new attitude examining the advice and comments that had been diligently and carefully written down for me. It was all practical, feasible, and a completely fair assessment of the work I had turned in.

The following day I submitted in the next chapter and went to work fixing the previous one.

-Honestly, sometimes, I wish I had stayed in genetics back in college...-

Still, I found the emotional turmoil of the situation draining. I had exhausted every ounce of energy I had in an adrenaline-fueled panic and was running on empty. When i find myself in such a situation I find that making cake is not only merited, it's darn well therapeutic.

This cake is sort of a motley character. It seems to be unable to decide what it wants to be; a chocolate cake, a carrot cake, a bourbon cake, maybe a spicy tres leches cake with some pizazz? Either way I find it best not to dwell and simply to eat.

At the same time I might very well say that dwelling can be beneficial. Time is this cake's best friend and the more of it that goes by the deeper the flavors become. I suggest you consider soaking it with heavy cream or bourbon. While the liquid soaks dwell on the accolades that will undoubtedly be heaped upon you once you serve the cake.

Sweet approval and recognition.

Blogging, work, school, hobbies, proposal, projects, friends, families and relationships. We seek approval for them all and from them all. We want out friends to recognize our struggles and family members to congratulate us for overcoming them. Isn’t dating the search for approval and recognition crystallized into something solid and far too tangible? (If so, then, is a successful relationship the embodiment of achieving them?) It's a constant search. Thesis wise, there is still a lot of mountain to climb.

Either way, I hope that you are getting the approval you seek and the recognition you deserve. If for some reason you aren't make this cake and serve it to whomever. Or, if you don't have whomever around, just get a plate of your own and pat yourself on the back.

Chocolate Carrot Cake

3/4 cup All-Purpose flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 heaping teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 Tablespoon freshly grated fresh ginger
Zest of one orange
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups grated carrots
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup plain whole milk yogurt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup cream (optional)
1/4 cup bourbon (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Butter and flour a 9×5-inch loaf pans (or line it with parchment paper.

2. Sift together the the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, ground ginger, and salt (do nto skip this step as likely your cocoa powder will have large clumps). In another bowl, mix together: the carrots, orange zest, and ground ginger.

3. In a large bowl, whisk the oil and sugar together. Once the sugar and oil have been combined, whisk in the yogurt until the mixture is smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating until the batter is smooth and light. Add the carrot, orange zest, and grated ginger.

4. Add the flour mixture to the egg mixture in two additions, folding in until just combined. Pour into the prepared pan.

5. Bake for 30-45 minutes, until well-risen and firm to the touch, or until a cake tester comes out clean. If the top begins to get a little overdone, place a piece of foil over it to prevent burning.

6. Cool the cake in the pan on a cooling rack. You can serve this right away but it is best to keep self-control and let the cake sit for a day or two wrapped in plastic wrap to allow the flavors to intensify. This cake is great on its own but cream or bourbon can be added. 10 minutes before serving pour the cream or bourbon over the cake and allow the cake to soak up the liquid. (Do not use both as the bourbon can curdle the cream.) Serve slices with a little extra liquid for good measure.

That Christmas Cheer in Late-November: Chipotle Gingerbread Cookie Recipe

-Classic gingerbread cookies with a delightful, Mexican-inspired kick of chipotle chilies.-

I went out and bought a Christmas tree today. Not a live one, but a good quality fake one. To be honest, I prefer it that way at the moment.

I grew up going to the tree lot every winter with my family and getting a real one. We would go the day after Thanksgiving while everyone else was at the mall fighting to the death over Tickle-Me Elmos and half-price cashmere pashminas. My brother and I would race down the tight coniferous alleyways, slapping into branches and inspecting every Douglas and Blue Spruce in order to find the fattest, tallest, and fullest tree we could. Eventually, we would find it and call over our parents to come see and approve. Then the tree would be hogtied and strapped to the roof of our car. Dad would set it up inside and we would all begin the lavish decoration.

However, these days my dad isn't here to do the heavy lifting. He also isn't crawling under the tree to water it every morning. My mom isn't vacuuming up the fallen needles or cleaning up the bits of tinsel the cat has thrown up. Honestly, I don't have the energy for any of that. It's a pain in the ass.

Personally, I love a good fake tree that can be stored in the closet during the year and be propped out during the holidays. These days you'll find that a high quality fake tree is nearly indistinguishable from a real one. It's almost shocking. My mother went and got a fancy one that, swear to God, unless you touch it with your fingers you would never know it didn't grow in the ground from humble little seed. Given, I do miss coming into a room on a cold morning and having it smell like winter in the high Sierras, but it's a sacrafice I am willing to make.

-The smell of these cookies is just as good as the scent of fresh pine.-

And, yes, I am aware it's November and that it isn't even Thanksgiving yet. I grew up putting the Christmas decorations early so it seems natural to me. I'm like WalMart, I begin to think of stringing up lights and mistletoe before the Trick-or-Treaters have even knocked on the door. BF hates it, but that's his business. At least, there aren't fuzzy, Santa-faced toilet seat covers in the bathroom. Not like when I was a kid. It was like Chris Kringle hosted a Yuletide orgy at our house. Candles, bells, crystal angels, throw pillows... we went all Christmas'd out. I loved it.

Now that all the kids are out of the house both mom and dad do it a bit more tasteful now. Christmas chic. Martha would be proud of Mom's giant tree covered in white lights and designer ornaments and ribbon in gold, cream, and mauve in its many tasteful shades that I didn't know mauve had.

Of course, the reason I had to buy a tree at all this year was because of the fire. It's the only thing I hadn't replaced yet. The fire had happened two days after Christmas so the tree had still been up. It was also a fake one, a high-quality one, with the ornaments and garland in a trendy color scheme of key lime, navy blue, and teal, which I was ecstatic over for the fact that it matched my living room. When I wandered into the wreckage the next day I found my tree smashed onto the floor. Bent and broken, then firemen had knocked it over and in order to get upstairs had continued marching over it. I don't blame them as they were just doing their job, and a plastic tree isn't something they're going to concern themselves with when the roof is on fire. Anyways, everything was destroyed that night and the tree was just another casualty.

As I stood there in the husk of my old home, the carpet black and wet from ash and melted water pipes, I carefully bent down through the wrecage and moved some of the collapsed ceiling off of the tree. I found that a few of the ornaments were still intact. Somehow, miraculously, these big delicate objects had survived the carnage. I picked up one of the big teal glass balls and blew some of the debris and dust off. A little rub and it was shiny as ever, and I could see my fisheyed reflection looking back at me.

-If you want, you can also poke a tiny hole into each cookie and hang them from your tree as ornaments.-

I hurled the ball as hard as I could against the nearest wall. The explosive pop was exciting. The shards tinkled in the air, like diamond dust, and fell to the ground with a hushed applause. I picked up another and hurled it too. And the next one. I laughed as each one burst like a miniature fireworks. My own little bombastic display. It was fun, and I laughed with each one.

It was cathartic. I guess. I'm still not sure what I was thinking then. I know that part of it was enjoying the simple act of wanton destruction. In that roofless room it didn't really matter what I did. I could be a small engine of pure ruination. I reveled in the sound of each delicate sphere crushing into a cloud of colored dust and cheap glass. It felt great to be so damn careless.

How often do we really get to experience something like that? Probably not often enough.

Normally, I wait until after Thanksgiving to put up a tree. This year, I did it earlier. The tree was the last part of putting my life together as it once was. Maybe, I'm just poorly psychoanalyzing myself but that's how it feels. This year, I just needed the tree up and I needed it now.

-Quite spicy, these are best served with a tall glass of milk.-

Still, part of Christmas for me isn't just the tree in your home or the people you enjoy it with. It's also the food. Not every year, but some, my family would make gingerbread cookies. One or two would get decorated and I would pierce the top of the cookie with a ornament hook and hang the cookies on the tree. Edible decorations that added the scent of spiced bread to the room. I loved those ornaments, but I loved the cookies that we saved to eat even more. (We also lost a freshly made plate of cookies in the fire. Ugh.)

These cookies are an adult version of the classic gingerbread cookie. Something a bit more daring and adventurous. A cookie for those with a trendy tree who want to take a small step outside of the traditional holiday treats. This gingerbread cookie is spiced with a hint of chipotle chili powder, a small suggestion I picked up from renowned rock-n-roll baker, Elizabeth Falkner. The chipotle adds another layer of heat and a slight smokiness that enlivens the gingerbread and warms the palate.

The base recipe comes from Kate Washington, a local food writing celebrity here in Sacramento. She, in turn, got it from a random woman named Mrs. Morrissey, whom she met in line in a grocery store. Encouraged that this was the best recipe ever, Mrs. Morrissey gave Kate her address and told her to stop by her home and pick it up. Kate did, and she has never used anything since. I can see why too, it's a flavorful cookie with a snappy texture. A perfect cookie for lighting up the holidays (you know, in a good way).


Chipotle Gingerbread Cookies
Makes 4-6 dozen, depending on size of the cookies.

1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup molasses
1 egg, beaten to blend
2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 Tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon chipotle powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

1. In a stand mixer cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in molasses and egg, being sure to scrape down the sides and bottom, until light and uniform.

2. Sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and spices. Mix in the dry ingredients to the butter mixture until the entire thing comes together in one uniform batter.

3. Divide the dough into two equal parts and put them on a swath of plastic wrap. Roughly form each piece into a disc. Wrap well in plastic wrap and chill for three or more hours. The dough will still be somewhat soft for a chilled dough.

4. Preheat oven to 325F. Generously flour a flat work surface and the dough and roll out the dough to 1/4-inch thick; cut into shapes and place on a cookie sheet, preferably lined with parchment paper. Bake for 12-15 min; do not let brown. Cool on the sheets for a minute or two before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

-A little fiery kick to help one finally recover from a fire.-

Balls (Plus a Recipe for Vanilla Bean, Lemongrass, & Ginger Tapioca)

Two people want to write this post. One is the part of me that’s a responsible food writer, eloquently describing the childhood regression I experience when eating this dish. The other is the product of that regression that wants to make jokes about balls.

It’s just an inevitable pitfall when your topic is tapioca.

Right now I’m doing my best to keep the Little Garrett at bay, but every time I get a hold on him he wriggles right out of my hands. He’s on a sugar rush. You know, from all that tapioca. His smile bubbles up with each spoonful and I scold my inner rugrat, “No, you can’t have another bowl.” He then proceeds to ignore me and begins his work on a third helping.

It's not just the taste and smell of tapioca. It's how it looks. To a child it's an alien dessert; amphibious eggs lying in the primordial ooze. (A good imagination can take tapioca a long way.)

As the inner food writer eats the tapioca his friend calls and asks what he’s doing. Before he can answer the inner child grabs the phone and gleefully giggles out that he’s busy shoving balls in his mouth. All I can do is sigh, shoo him away and apologize. Then the inner food writer can't help but laugh a little as well.

My regression is right; the balls are the fun part of tapioca. The slimy orbs slide around like rubber bumper cars. The food writer in me makes a game out of trying to pin one to the roof of my mouth with the tip of my tongue.

Hiding under your bologna sandwich, tapioca was the one part of your school lunch you never traded. The freakishly saccharin taste of vanilla. The muddled and strange texture. Tapioca was coveted kids food on the playground. As good as buried treasure, Saturday morning cartoons and swimming lessons.

The food writer, brimming with nostalgia, still covets it today. He can’t help but purr at the taste of the vanilla bean flecked custard. Served warm the scent of sprightly lemongrass lingers and what might be considered by most as far too much ginger - a concept I can’t quite wrap my head around - permeates the room.

It’s adult tapioca; a pudding that’s been doted over and cooed at while being stirred for forty minutes. No chemically faux-vanilla aftertaste and not so sweet that suddenly *poof* you’re a diabetic.

Still, my inner child and inner food writer can reconcile for this post and agree that homemade tapioca is balls to the wall good. A bit of time and attention (and maybe some inner mediation) is all that's required.

Spiced Tapioca
This is a riff on the tapioca from Heidi's blog, 101 Cookbooks.

3 cups of whole milk
1/3 cup small pearl tapioca
2 extra-large egg yolks, lightly beaten
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped (or 2 teaspoons of vanilla extract)
1 1/2 tablespoons of freshly grated ginger
1 stalk of lemongrass chopped into lengths and bruised

1. Pour 3/4 cup of the milk and the tapioca pearls into a medium-sized, thick bottomed pot and let soak for an hour.

2. Whisk in the rest of the milk, yolks, sugar, salt and vanilla bean scrapings. Add the vanilla bean husk and the lemongrass.

3. Over medium heat slowly bring the mixture to a boil, stirring constantly. This will take about 15 minutes. When it's just about to boil turn the heat down to a mild simmer. Stir constantly for 20 minutes. (Seriously, just turn on the TV and stir. This is to keep it all from scorching, which will happen.) The tapioca pearls will become mostly translucent.

4. The tapioca will be slightly loose. Don't worry it, will thicken plenty when it cools. Furthermore, it risks developing a slightly grainy texture if you keep it on the heat too long.

5. Delicious served warm, but I prefer it chilled the next day.

Cravings

Cravings are an electromagnetic force. A natural phenomenon that few have any hope of even fighting against. Subconscious desires which become conscious obsessions.

Cravings send all-encompassing currents to your brain and stomach, making them stand at attention like excited iron shavings. Every charged thought aligns itself towards the polar source of yearning.

A few weeks ago that force caused me to be drawn to grilled cheese. Why grilled cheese and not something like banana cream pie or roast beef, I don't know. Cravings are a random and mysterious lot, activated by the most random stimuli. I wasn't even sure what kind of grilled cheese. I just knew that I had to have that raspy sound of crunchy bread and oozy cheese seeping into the crevices between my teeth.

Eventually BF and I met my friend Kate and her husband Ken for a night of hearts. Each couple planned on making one kind of grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. She made pears and brie on french. I made feta and white cheddar on garlic rubbed rye. Both were raspy and oozy but fell short in satisfying me.

It was only on a whim I made the grilled cheese combo that would calm my cravings. Rye bread with white cheddar adorned with a tangle of basil leaves that Ken had just brought in from his garden. The rye was a perfect scale to balance the stern and salty cheese against the perky basil.

The craving was pleased.

Like all cravings the first bite is electric. Every nerve excites with the achieved taste. A completed circuit. You can't find peace in the first bite. Cravings don't work that way. The first bite is an ignition.

The second bite and, consequently, each successive bite after that is a poultice to the cravings. They charm you into a relaxed state. Floodgates open releasing waves of smile inducing endorphins. Electricity dissipates and all you're left with is a static buzz.

The cravings hit again the other day. This time the spark was ginger. It took over my mind making me a mess at work. I'm sorry were you saying something? I was thinking about ginger. What? Is the ginger broken again? I'll call the ginger and see if they can't ginger the ginger.

By the end of the craving had consumed me. I zoomed home at the speed of ginger.

An hour later I was blissfully awash in ginger. Warm gingerbread served with a cup of ginger tea. The force of the cravings dissipated, stomach and brain were appeased.

Ginger Tea

For the gingerbread I just used my recipe for gingerbread cupcakes but poured all the batter into a buttered and floured 9X9 pan and baked it for 35 minutes. The ginger tea is beyond simple, a quick way to satisfy ginger cravings (not to mention calm upset stomach and cure colds).

Place a few slices of peeled ginger into a saucepan with 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil then simmer until the liquid has reduced by half. Stir in a tiny bit of honey. Serves one. Recipe can easily be doubled, tripled, etc.