Summer in the City

Summer's here.

Spring sort of went in and out of my consciousness this year. There were days in Buenos Aires -- warm days, a string of perfect days. I walked around with bare shoulders and sunglasses, while the portenos layered on light sweaters and shopped for leather boots. Fall was beginning there. But it was my spring.

There were also trips to the Northeast -- days spent wrapped up in a trenchcoat, wishing I had worn a wool sweater. There was rain, and inadequate footwear, and cold, wet feet.

My spring was a confusing back-and-forth, to-and-fro, are-you-or-aren't-you.

Summer, on the other hand, is unambiguous. With summer comes a totally different way of living, thinking, breathing.

In June, there will be new adventures, surrounded by some of the things and people I love best. There will be a weekend trip to New York, a 10K in which to set a new personal best (fingers crossed), and seventy-two hours in which to do "everything with that great mad joy you get when you return to New York" (Kerouac). I have big plans for those seventy-two hours. And then there might even be another 10K race a few weeks later, and there will certainly be lots of food -- cooking, baking, tasting, and shopping.

In July, there will be all-American celebrations for the Fourth, birthdays, and cocktails once the heat of the day has gone. There'll be an evening spent at a chef's table... I'll be the one with camera. There might be a film festival and there'll be escapes for a few hours or a few days to places where life is slower. 

In August... well I haven't gotten that far yet. But as the heat sets in, I'll install my window unit and look for ways to step away from the stove. Sushi takeout, here I come. And I'll be choosing races and planning trips for the fall. Where to go next? Where to run next? I'll be packing my calender full of runs and sprints in anticipation of longer distances and races. And maybe I'll be packing my suitcase too.

It's going to be a great summer. Stay tuned.

National Holidays Mean Cake

Here's to the start of summer... Happy Memorial Day!

[Boston Cream Pie recipe from Maida Heatter's Book of Great American Desserts]

Saturday Morning Baked Oatmeal

Some mornings, you just need something special for breakfast.

I love the idea of baked oatmeal and, after several tries, I've come up with a recipe that will make Saturday morning even better.

When you take a bite, the oatmeal is crisp and caramelized on top and nutty and moist in the middle. Your spoonful will finish with the sweet pears.

It's really, really good.

Baked Oatmeal with Pear and Toasted Hazelnuts

3/4 cup old-fashioned oats
1/3 cup milk (I use 2%)
2 ripe medium-sized pears, peeled and sliced
1/4 cup blanched and skinned hazelnuts, coarsely chopped
1 egg
2 tablespoons and 1 teaspoon brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Toast hazelnuts on a baking sheet for 10 minutes (hazelnuts should be golden brown and fragrant).

Mix the oats, hazelnuts, baking soda, cinnamon, and 2 tablespoons of the brown sugar in a medium bowl. Set aside.

Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a skillet over medium high heat. Gently saute the pear slices until they release their liquid and shrink in size (approximately 5-6 minutes). Drain off the liquid. Split the pears between two small ramekins or ceramic baking dishes. Set aside.

Lightly beat the egg with a whisk in a medium bowl. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter in a saucepan over low heat and add the melted butter, milk, and vanilla to the egg. Whisk together.

Pour the wet ingredients into the oat mixture and mix well. Divide the mixture between the two ramekins and pour it on top of the pears.

Bake for 35 minutes at 350 degrees. The oatmeal should be firm to the touch; the top should be crispy and slightly caramelized. (Bake for additional 5 minutes if you prefer a firmer consistency.)

Sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon of brown sugar over the top of each oatmeal. Broil for 1-2 minutes.

Serves two generously. A little bit of heavy cream is a terrific topping.

A Story and A Breakfast Bowl

This beautiful bowl of baked oatmeal was meant to happen yesterday.

But, yesterday morning, I walked in the kitchen and I saw something out of the corner of my eye – Is that a really big bug? Oh. No.

It’s not a plane. It’s not Superman. It’s a bird.

I have a teensy tiny fear of birds. And this bird is fast – it's on the countertop, then the stove, then a baking sheet (note to self: wash baking sheet immediately). And I’m stumbling around and I’m trying to figure out how the bird got in and the dog’s looking at me with those big, brown eyes ("What’s all this noise?") and I'm looking back at the dog ("You're no help!"). 

I open all of the doors in the hope that the bird might fly on out. But it doesn't. It swoops fast and heads to the guest room.

Oh. No.

I know I'm in trouble. I close the door to the guest room and call animal control. 

I like to think I’m pretty good in a crisis. But I don't do wildlife.

Animal control arrives 30 minutes later; I point them towards the guest room and stay out of the way. I hear cursing and loud thumps. Finally, the bird is escorted out in a net and released.

And I spend the next 30 minutes with a roll of paper towels and Chlorox, wiping up bird poo. Fun morning.

This morning was much, much better.

What can I say? Some mornings, I get to chase a bird around my kitchen. Other days, I listen to jazz and make baked oatmeal.

* See the next post Saturday Morning Baked Oatmeal for more photos and the recipe. 

Leaving Sweet Behind for Savoury

As you know, there’s been a lot of baking around here recently.

I started to crave something savoury and I declared last night, “I’m making dinner tomorrow!” (No one put up a fight.)

Come lunchtime and face-to-face with a full CSA box, I decided to start cooking. Lunch was a fresh and simple salad for one; dinner for three was a rich Spanish tortilla, with flavors of early summer.

Chinese Chicken and Cabbage Salad
1 cup diced roasted chicken
1 cup diced cabbage
1 cup cooked white rice
3 tablespoons rice vinegar
¾ teaspoon hoisin sauce
¼ teaspoon sesame oil

Whisk the rice vinegar, hoisin sauce, and sesame oil in a bowl. Combine the chicken, cabbage, and dressing and toss well (One method is to combine ingredients in a Tupperware container, put the lid on, and shake.) Arrange the salad on top of the rice.

Serves one.

Spanish-Style Tortilla with Prosciutto, Asparagus, and Potato

(Adapted from Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef)

5 eggs

Black pepper
8 slices prosciutto, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

6 stalks asparagus, stems removed and stalks cut into small pieces
1 medium shallot, peeled and thinly sliced
1 russet potato, scrubbed
1 teaspoon fresh basil, finely chopped

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Whisk the eggs and black pepper in a medium bowl; set aside.

Cover the russet potato with water in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Boil the potato until it is fork tender (approximately 3-4 minutes). Cut the potato into thin, half-moon pieces.

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a medium cast-iron skillet over medium high heat. Cook both sides of the potato slices until golden-brown (approximately 2 minutes per side). Set aside and turn heat to medium.

Add the prosciutto slices and cook until they are slightly crispy (approximately 3 minutes). Set aside.

Add 2 teaspoons of olive oil and heat. Add the asparagus and cook them until green and tender (approximately 1-2 minutes depending on thickness of stalks). Set aside.

Turn heat to medium low and add the shallot. Cook, stirring, until the shallot begins to brown (approximately 3-4 minutes).

Stir the prosciutto, asparagus, potato, and shallot into the eggs. 

Add 1 teaspoon of olive oil to the skillet and heat until the oil moves around easily. Pour in the egg mixture and cook for 2-3 minutes until it is set. Lift up the tortilla with a spatula and shake the pan back and forth to allow runny eggs to run to the bottom.

Slide the skillet into the oven and cook until the top is firm (approximately 5 minutes).

Take the tortilla out of the oven and sprinkle the basil on top.

Serves 2-3 people. Best accompanied by red wine.

Teatime

Nothing beats a fresh loaf of brioche at teatime.

A Day Making Brioche

Brioche is always worth getting out of bed for.

Especially when you’re learning to make brioche with the immensely talented patissiere Annie Pambaguian of Sweet Little Something.

Learning to make brioche is on my bucket list and I’m thrilled to spend the morning with Annie. Using one of her recipes written out in her native French, Annie walks me through the steps. She laughs when she reads that the eggs are described as “frais et gouteux,” but then she concurs with the directions: “We will do fresh and tasty… because in brioche, the eggs really do matter. You want the butter to taste really good and the eggs to taste really good.”

In Annie’s kitchen, it’s not about exact baking times. It’s about using all your senses and paying attention. I bake often and I bake a lot, but I don’t fully understand food chemistry and I don’t always know what to look for in terms of texture.  

Annie has finely tuned instincts and relies even upon sound. She walks away from the standing mixer because she can hear when the dough is ready: It will slap against the sides of the mixing bowl.

She sends me home with a bucket (literally) of brioche dough. Precious cargo… I’m almost tempted to fasten a seatbelt around it.

I baby-sit the brioche through the afternoon. I’m careful to not depend too much on time. As the brioche rises in the refrigerator, I look at the height. As I gently mold it into pans, I press one finger down to check for springiness. Hours later, I slide the pans into the oven and watch for the golden brown color to develop. And then I fret and fret and fret as the buttery inside doesn’t cook: maybe I filled the molds too full? I run and pull Julia Child off the bookshelf – she recommends wrapping tinfoil over the brioche loosely, so I give it a try. Finally, it’s cooked through.

It tastes like everything I expect brioche to be. But I can’t take credit.

I know I have a lot of practice ahead of me.

No Logic

There are trays of chocolate-hazelnut rugelach and madeleines in my kitchen.  Huge trays of perfect, buttery goodness. Most reasonable people would be baked out by this point.

But Sunday evening rolls around and I want to bake. I need to bake.

I take a quick poll.  I rule out the frontrunner, croissants: With so much time needed for rising, they won't be ready anytime soon. 

D says, “Make something from the gooey lady.” The gooey lady?

Oh, he means Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies.

I pick a recipe and get down to business: Caramel Cheesecake Bars.  I press the shortbread dough into a metal pan and bake it for twenty-five minutes.

I pour the cream cheese, blended with sugar, vanilla, and eggs, onto the still warm shortbread and drizzle the top with dulce de leche.

And suddenly there’s a lot going on in the kitchen. I’m making a new-to-me recipe (stuffed chicken with asparagus and goat cheese)… and I’ve just decided to teach myself how to use the rice cooker.

The kitchen gods smile upon me: Dinner is plated; the rice is cooked perfectly; the cheesecake bars are cooling. So I’m in the clear.

But the recipe says to chill the bars for at least four hours, preferably twenty-four, and I’m not a very patient person.

I cut into the bars and lift out a piece; the warm cheesecake – almost like a thick custard, with swirls of dulce de leche – slides off the shortbread crust.

But that doesn’t stop us.

So we pour glasses of cold milk and eat our fill – using spoons to scoop up the sweet, creamy filling. And then I give into logic, obey the instructions, and put the bars in the refrigerator overnight.

I checked on the bars just now… You know, for rigorous taste testing.

You know what? They’re good even when you follow directions.

Satisfying the Need for Speed

When it's time for a sprint workout, I'm excited. Speedwork stands out from so many other training runs: it's purpose driven, it requires a huge amount of discipline, and it's exhausting.

So why do it? Oh, I don't know. There's reasons, and then there's the desire for it. When people ask me why I run or what I think about running, I always have the same answer: "You have to really love it... and you have to be a little crazy. Or a lot crazy." Runners are a different species.

I find something in the middle of a run that I can't get elsewhere. I can't qualify or quantify it; I can't put a name on it. But, last night, in the middle of an amazing 75 minute yoga class, we're flowing from twisted high lunge to extended side angle pose and I'm thinking about ordering sushi for dinner. With the right kind of run, the physical demand is so huge that I can't think. I'm only aware of my burning lungs and the sweat on my forehead.

Speedwork is perfect: total energy, then total exhaustion. And that's my idea of a good time.

So I begin. Four miles including warm-up, 3 x 800 meters in 3:19 with 400 meter recovery jogs, and cool-down. I drop my car keys and my workout, scribbled on a piece of lined paper, by the side of the track.

The thing about running is that anything can look reasonable on paper. Tempo runs? Marathon training for six months? Two races in a week? Sure! Sounds great! Sign me up!

But 800 meters work out to about a 1/2 mile. Do you know what a 1/2 mile in 3:19 feels like?

It's fast. I have that "Oh no!" moment when I realize just how fast it is. Counting laps and breathing hard, I hit the 800 meter mark just as my watch ticks to 3:19. When I slow for recovery, every muscle between my hips and knees seizes up. The first round is always the hardest.

As I speed up for my second 800 meters, I'm warm already and it's like revving an already running engine. I finish in a sweaty 3:07. In a few minutes, I've gone from "Do I really want do this?" to "No way am I stopping."

But I can't decide where to go from here. Do I go back to the original 3:19 goal or do I just run?

Running wins out. I fly around the curves of the track so fast I think I'm going to roll an ankle and my sneaker laces begin to loosen. T-Pain and Chris Brown sing in my ears about putting your hands in the air, but I can't really make out the lyrics because literally every bit of my consciousness is focused on making my legs cover more ground, driving my elbows back, and breathing raggedly. All the oxygen goes to my lungs and legs, none leftover for coherent thoughts. 3:06.

My last 400 meters is slow, as close you can get to walking but still call it running. By the time I ease into my cool-down, I feel good enough to bring up the pace again and, when I finish my four miles, I feel really good and, yeah, there's a little bit of a swagger as I walk off the track.

There's nothing like coming off an adrenaline high.

* I'm looking for some new running blogs to read -- leave a comment or shoot me an email with suggestions!

5 Reasons to Make Madeleines

1. Madeleines are the best excuse to use a pretty tin. In my case, the tin is a never-used Christmas present.

2. Simple ingredients -- flour, eggs, sugar, vanilla extract, lemon zest, baking powder, and butter – never fail.

3. They’re one more excuse for me to bake.

4. They smell (and taste) incredible coming out of the oven -- warm, buttery, and sweet.  

5. They’re lovely with a cup of tea. 

[Classic Madeleine recipe from Paris Sweets: Great Desserts From the City’s Best Pastry Shops by Dorie Greenspan]

Today's Run, By the Numbers

6:56 -- minutes shaved off my personal best time for a 4.16 mile trail run

23 -- days left of training for the NYRR Modern Mini 10K race

26:23 -- minutes of restorative yoga

2 -- post-run ice packs, one for each shinbone (ow)

1 -- glass of wine

In the Kitchen

Katharine Hepburn once said, “If you always do what interests you, at least one person is pleased.”

Well, in that case, I am very pleased. Because I spent the afternoon baking chocolate-hazelnut rugelach.

Here’s how it went down:

[Recipe from Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-In-Your Mouth Cookies]

Mixing the dough (I had no idea how much butter goes into rugelach).

The filling: chocolate, vanilla, sugar, and chopped, toasted hazelnuts.

Rolling up the dough and filling together. Holy cuteness. 

Baking away.

And then I had the best excuse to keep on cooking: After all that chocolate and sugar, I needed real food.

Prepping dinner.

Potato, asparagus, and parmesan cheese flatbread brushed with extra virgin olive oil and seasoned with fresh ground black pepper and kosher salt.

I love doing what I love. 

The Sweeter Side of Boston

Thursday: Iced dark chocolate at L.A. Burdick. What's not pictured: a bar of Venezuela Single Source chocolate.... because it's long gone. Burdick touts the flavors of single source chocolate and you know how much I love terroir.

Friday: A coconut macaroon from L'Espalier, enjoyed out on Boylston Street in the sunshine.

Saturday: A oatmeal maple scone at Flour Bakery, brightening up a chilly morning.

Sunday: Banana-chocolate chip pancakes at The Friendly Toast. Delicious, especially with a glass of milk. Sometimes, eating like a five-year old is the absolute best. I'm going back soon to have the Coconut Cakes (pancakes with cashews, coconut, chocolate chips, and coconut sauce).

Water to Water

With MIT at my back, I run over the Longfellow Bridge. I've crossed this bridge countless times on the Red Line train -- As the train rises from underground to a panoramic view of the Charles, I always twist around in my seat for a look. The first time I ran over this bridge was unbelievable and crossing the Charles today is just as good.

In the sunlight of this perfect Friday morning, the river shimmers. To the right, the Statehouse's gold dome, the bricks and the leafy trees of Back Bay, glass skyscrapers, and the CITGO sign, looking not so tall. To the left, the cables of the Zakim Bridge, framed by Science Park and stocky MGH buildings.

God, it's a gorgeous day -- the kind of day Bostonians pray for -- and I'm sharing the bridge with runners and others walking to work. A right on Charles Street, and I'm in Beacon Hill. I'm aware of few things -- the smell of coffee brewing, commuters in shirtsleeves and spring skirts, the uneven sidewalk. My right sneaker strikes the bricks in time with the beat of DMB's American Baby.

A left on Beacon Street, up the hill, past the Statehouse. I cross Tremont Street, sprinting across the street as the light changes. Left on Washington, right on State. The small streets of the Financial District are busy -- black cars and black suits -- and I'm weaving through crowds.  It's a straight shot now to my destination. I pass office buildings, construction sites and cops, Irish bars. The blocks go by quickly and I'm across Atlantic, passing the Aquarium T stop and the Chart House, and then suddenly at the end of Long Wharf. River to harbor, water to water.

The harbor is spectacular and I give it a moment's look, knowing I can't possibly appreciate the view fully. Then I turn to find landmarks laid out in front of me. I pick out the neoclassical Custom House Tower -- I just read Dennis Lehane's Prayers for Rain, so I think right away of the character who jumps off the observation deck, commits suicide, and sets in motion the intrigue of the book.

Is that the Old Grain Exchange off to the left? There was a time when I knew every monument and historically significant building in Boston and could cite the year built, the architect, and the style. I'm an architecture and urban design junkie: I like old maps, floorplans, and photographs of intricate moldings and ironwork. I like the way that Beacon and Commonwealth run parallel to each other, converge and cross at Kenmore Square, and then switch names. I like that the only building Le Corbusier designed in North America is on the Harvard campus and I like the elegant curve of the Sears Crescent block, following the curve of a road that no longer exists, in contrast to the angular and imposing City Hall building. These facts and landmarks frame my consciousness, my understanding of Boston, my sense of distance, place, orientation. And I play a game of Connect-the-Dots: I string together buildings, roads, alleys, and views to make my own mental map and to choose my routes through Boston.

But, enough about architecture. I begin again, picking up my pace quickly. This time, harbor to river.

Lunch at Clover Food Truck

On Thursday, I crossed a Boston food experience off my to-do list.

Clover Food Lab has five trucks in Boston and Cambridge and I went in search of the Government Center truck. It's tucked to the right of City Hall between two Asian food trucks: a little foodie enclave in an unlikely location. The Government Center and State Street areas are tricky for lunch and, having had more than my share of Midtown Manhattan deli salads, I was delighted to steer clear of the sandwich-and-salad shops and to order the $5 chickpea fritter sandwich instead.

It's a fresh, colorful sandwich: chickpea fritters (lighter and smaller than your usual falafel), carrots, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, shredded cabbage, hummus, and yogurt stuffed in a whole wheat pita and wrapped in tinfoil. All together delicious and, since I arrived just after the lunch service began, the fritters were also made-to-order.

As I sat on a bench near the Old State House, a woman wrapped up in a long, black raincoat stopped, eyes wide, to ask me where I got the sandwich. Between bites, I pointed around the corner.

So, a heartfelt thank you to Clover. Thank you for saving us from deli salads.

* For more on the Boston food truck scene, check out the May 11th - 24th issue of The Improper Bostonian, page 10. The short profile maps out some food carts and trucks along the Rose Kennedy Greenway. I'd love to spend a day working my way down the Greenway, cart by cart. The Cupcake Cart sounds good....

Here's to Boston

I've always loved the descent into Boston. You see, I've always had kind of a love affair with Boston. Good connotations for me started at an early age -- All those summers spent in Nantucket began with a stopover in Boston. Boston was the "so close I can almost taste the lobster" stop, the beginning of vacation. And after years living in Boston and then years living away from Boston, I still get a sense of good things to come when the plane begins its descent.

As we come in low over the water, a local a few rows ahead of me points to the left, to a baseball field and his childhood home, just adjacent to the field. The guy next to him goes, "No shit!"

Here's to Boston.

The Secret Life of a Baker, Runner, Writer

There are days I wake up literally craving baking. Not the pastries themselves, but rather it’s the process of stirring chocolate into cream and blending sugar and butter that I crave. I might glide a knife piled high with butter cream frosting across the tops of cupcakes or press my flower-shaped cookie cutters into sugar cookie dough.  I have stashes of pastry tube tips and high-quality dark chocolate. The night before Mother’s Day, I baked classic chocolate macarons and I watched really bad TV that I would never admit to watching, like Mob Wives (darn… I guess my secret’s out).

I set my alarm early for runs. I travel everywhere with sneakers and a baseball cap. I’ve become dedicated to physical therapy exercises and ice packs, so that I can run. The reasons why I run are countless and they change. But whatever these reasons are, they’re compelling enough that what I do never feels like a sacrifice. It’s just what I do. And I can’t imagine not doing it. There are weeks, months even, when I run maybe only once a week and there are months of training, with carefully planned speed workouts… and then there’s everything in between. I love the “in between”… when I lace up my sneakers to explore.

I write sentences in my mind everywhere. In the shower; during downward dog in yoga class; on the treadmill. I jot down little notes on the backs of envelopes, on receipts, on napkins. And then, later, I sit down and try to piece my phrases together into something logical or, at a minimum, at least grammatical.  I write for five minute or for hours. I just opened a new Moleskine sketchbook, gently cracking the leather spine and taking a marker to the first page, and I wonder what these pages will be filled with: lists, crummy sketches with mistakes that I’ll scribble out, directions and subway schedules, and clusters of words that I’ll separate with hyphens because I’m trying to capture a moment and can’t be bothered with commas and periods. 

Borrowing Inspiration From Ferran

I’ve started training for the NYRR New York Mini 10K. The first few weeks of my training plan are straightforward: a mix of two, three, and four mile runs. Nothing too challenging.

But, given that the race is in New York during a summer month, I better swap out the air-conditioned comfort of the gym treadmill for outdoor runs.

There are times and moods when I really do prefer running outside. I like the scenery; I like controlling my own speed. And I especially like running in cities – As I pass lively restaurants and weave through 5pm crowds, I absorb the energy until I’m amped up and nearly shaking with joy. As a result, I always run too fast in cities. And then I usually get lost.

My last outdoor run was a little different. It was a four mile run of punishing hills, long stretches with no shade, and humidity. Near the end of my run, I considered vaulting over a moving truck ramp that was in my way. But I decided that one broken bone (left ankle, 2005) in a lifetime is too many, so I went around the long way. And then I eyed the neighbors’ lawns, wondering if they would mind too much if I spat in the grass. I know, just gross.

When runs turn out to be sort of gruesome, there’s a point when I start bargaining with myself. I begin by telling myself that I’ve run a marathon – what’s four miles compared to a marathon? And then I tell myself that I’ve only got another mile to run, so I better man up.

Tough love doesn’t always work.

Then I resort to mantras. A recent Runner’s World article explains the benefits of using a mantra during training and then calling upon the same word or phrase during the race. When I trained for the EDP Lisbon Half Marathon, I used “Tough.” Simple and to the point.

I’ve chosen my mantra for my 10K training: “Go in and win.” You’ll laugh when you hear where I picked it up: Ferran Adriá of El Bulli fame.

I recently had the opportunity to see the documentary El Bulli: Cooking in Progress at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival. The documentary is a loony two hours of vaporized sweet potatoes and icy tangerines and it’s fascinating.

The filmmaker Gereon Wetzel follows Adriá and his team through a year as they spend months in a Barcelona laboratory and then return to El Bulli for a season. One night, Adriá sends his right-hand man, Oriol Castro, into the dining room to serve a water and oil cocktail. Yes, water and oil. That’s it. It’s incredibly ballsy. And Adriá sends him off with simple instructions: The English subtitles read, “Go in and win.”

Well, it turns out that Adriá accidentally gave him a bottle of sparkling water and, when Castro returns to the kitchen, he confesses that he almost fainted when he saw the bubbles. But the consensus among the team is that maybe they hit upon something brilliant.

So that’s my mantra: “Go in and win.” And I’m hoping it will stand me in good stead as I go through six more weeks of training in hot and humid weather and then try to set a PR in New York. So far, so good.

* For more interesting tidbits on Ferran Adriá and El Bulli, check out Anthony Bourdain’s recent blog post on his behind-the-scenes look. 

You Can't Keep a Good Baker Down

I’ve been told to try a gluten-free diet for a few weeks. Of course, that puts a crimp in my style.

My baking style, that is.

But, luckily, Alice Medrich offers some wheat-free alternatives in her newest book, Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies. I chose the Wheat-Free Gooey Turtle Bars (layers of toasted pecans, chocolate and caramel atop shortbread) and spent a confusing hour at Whole Foods, picking out gluten-free oat flour and rice flour. You know things have gotten complicated when you’re checking the label of the Scharffen Berger semisweet chocolate bar to make sure there’s no errant gluten.

While the wheat-free shortbread crust was baking, I set to work on the caramel. Confession: I did not read the instructions well, so my timing was off.

A few minutes into stirring the caramel, panic set in. I knew I couldn’t step away from the stove --- the potential for burning or boiling over was high --- and I had to check on the shortbread and the toasting pecans. I wound up half-heartedly stirring with my left hand, did a full body stretch, and reached across the kitchen to pull the pecans out of the oven.

And then there was another snafu ten minutes later: The caramel was done and in danger of hardening, the shortbread wasn’t golden-brown yet, and the chocolate wasn’t chopped. Oops. I set the oven timer for another five minutes, took the caramel off the heat and kept on stirring, and enlisted help for chopping.

Finally, I'm done. The caramel is hardening, the chocolate chunks are melting, and the pecans are settling into the layers. It all has to cool before I can lift the pastry out of the pan and cut it into bars.

I can’t wait. 

Bringing Flavors Home

After our trip to Argentina, there’s been talk of making homemade dulce de leche. One recipe calls for continuous stirring for three hours. I volunteered my arm muscles.

But there is no way I will be making empanadas. Sure, they’re tasty and cute. I have absolutely nothing against empanadas, especially when they’re right out of the oven.

But, when we got a behind-the-scenes look at Essenza Pasteleria in Mendoza, I realized that there is so much skill involved. The filling is tucked into dough and the sides are pinched to create the half moon shape -- and it all happens in about five seconds.

 

I don't have that kind of dexterity. But I’m really good with a blender. And a cocktail shaker. So, what I’ve recreated at home so far are drinks: a pineapple licuado (smoothie) inspired by the licuados at the Park Hyatt Mendoza pool and a Metropolitan cocktail, which I enjoyed (twice) at Cluny in Buenos Aires.

First, the licuado.  We’d already been out for an early morning of sightseeing and we were happy to stretch out by the pool for a few hours. It was sunny and hot – another perfect Mendocino day -- and licuados seemed just right.

I’ve put my own twist on the drink, adding mint and substituting coconut water for milk. It’s light and very drinkable.

Pineapple-Mint Licuado:

2 cups chopped pineapple

1 to 2 teaspoons chopped fresh mint (amount depends on your taste)

½ cup coconut water

½ cup ice cubes

Blend all ingredients. Serves two, best accompanied by tango lounge music.

And now for the cocktail...

Cluny is a celebratory kind of place. By far, one of our favorite restaurants in Buenos Aires.

And the Metropolitan is a celebratory kind of drink. It’s pink (already a winner in my book), well-balanced, and makes you wonder why anyone would ever order a Cosmo. 

But be careful -- there are a lot of recipes on the web, with some seriously strange proportions (2 ounces of Cointreau? That’s just crazy). And there’s also a cocktail by the same name that is brandy-based.

I’m sticking to Cluny’s version. Here is my best effort to recreate the drink.

The Metropolitan:

2 ounces Absolut Kurant vodka

1 ounce cranberry cocktail juice

1 ounce Cointreau

¼ ounce fresh lime juice

1 teaspoon simple syrup

Shake all ingredients well in a cocktail shaker with ice; strain into a martini glass. Makes one drink, but don’t be surprised if you’re asked to make more….