Make way too much coffee in the morning, and make it really strong. Freeze the extra in ice cube trays, then pop the cubes into a bag in the freezer. Add more every day. One fine day, or one not-so-fine day, toss coffee cubes in a blender with milk, soy milk, or water. Add a little sweetness or don’t. Add a little chocolate sauce or don’t. Add a little ice cream (sigh) or don’t.
Aren’t leftovers beautiful?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
melon pops: summer comfort food IV
Once apon a time, my love for fresh foods nearly ran away with me, and I found myself with a large piece of watermelon—okay, half a watermelon—getting riper and over-riper by the day. I looked at it. I sighed that I am unable to eat half a watermelon in one sitting, or two sittings, and the texture was beginning to get grainy and disappointing.
So I did what any fruit lover would do, at least any fruit lover with a blender: I pureed the watermelon. (I have a fabulous blender. It liquefies the seeds.) After a cold glass of watermelon juice, I poured the rest into ice cube trays. After watermelon ice/sorbet came watermelon smoothies, then the watermelon popsicles. None of it tasted grainy, and every variation was better than the last.
There’s a giant watermelon on my counter, across the room…
So I did what any fruit lover would do, at least any fruit lover with a blender: I pureed the watermelon. (I have a fabulous blender. It liquefies the seeds.) After a cold glass of watermelon juice, I poured the rest into ice cube trays. After watermelon ice/sorbet came watermelon smoothies, then the watermelon popsicles. None of it tasted grainy, and every variation was better than the last.
There’s a giant watermelon on my counter, across the room…
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
andalusian gazpacho: summer comfort food III
I hosted a dozen high school students from Madrid one summer, ostensibly to teach them conversational English. They were surly, spoiled, and had less desire to learn than to be on vacation. Instead of enjoying life by the sea, they felt cheated not to live in New York City. Sammy, the group’s college-age chaperone, particularly disliked working with a woman. But he loved U2, and the students would liven up when I offered to parse Bono’s lyrics with them, at the end of a morning of classwork. We chipped away at one song per morning.
The students took away great experiences with their host families and an understanding of the lyrics of U2. I took away a firm conviction never to try that again, and a recipe for Andalusian Gazpacho.
I thought I loved gazpacho, before. I’d tasted a dozen different recipes. Sammy, determined to make an authentic Spanish gazpacho in quantity for an end-of-summer party, went shopping with me at the vegetable market.
“How many cucumbers, Sammy? How many onions?” I asked. The horror on his face!
“What are you talking about? Gazpacho has no onions, no cucumbers! You are talking about Mexican gazpacho. I will show you how to make real gazpacho.”
“Then what do you put in it?” I asked.
“Tomatoes. Garlic. Perhaps one quarter of a pepper, but probably not. Bread. Olive oil, vinegar, sugar. Salt and pepper. You have a blender, right?”
Personally, I love it when people get righteously indignant about food preparation. First, it means I don’t have to cook. Second, it means I will likely learn something. Third, whatever I learn will be authentic, and I’m unlikely to forget it.
At home, Sammy threw all the tomatoes into the blender with one clove of garlic and several ice cubes. He tore an entire loaf of French bread into small pieces and dropped them, one at a time, into the whirling mixture, stopping when the tomato soup had enough body to “stand” a little, on the spoon. He “finished” the cold soup with a splash of cider vinegar, a generous spoonful of sugar and a tablespoon of good virgin olive oil. A pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper.
Sammy held out a large spoonful to me. This gazpacho didn’t look like any I’d ever tasted—a puree, it had no chunks of vegetables, no smell of spice, little color. I put the spoon in my mouth and closed my eyes, a connoisseur in an instant.
“Tomato,” I said. “It tastes exactly like the coldest, most delicious tomato I’ve ever eaten. Where does the bread go?”
“It gives itself up for the tomato,” Sammy said. “This is how we make it in Spain. We live on this soup.” We spoke of Pedro Amaldovar’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, laughing together that the heroine had been drugged by lacing her pitcher of gazpacho with a sedative. After five weeks of raised hackles, all it took to laugh was a recipe and a memory of a funny Spanish movie.
U2 gave Sammy a little respect for me, and gazpacho gave me a little respect for Sammy. I only wish we had begun the summer with soup instead of ending it that way.
Later I saw a nearly identical recipe titled Andalusian Gazpacho, made from roasted tomatoes instead of fresh, but it described the part of Spain where Gazpacho originated, and the simple tomato and bread soup served there. Make it by the pitcher, and serve it ice cold.
The students took away great experiences with their host families and an understanding of the lyrics of U2. I took away a firm conviction never to try that again, and a recipe for Andalusian Gazpacho.
I thought I loved gazpacho, before. I’d tasted a dozen different recipes. Sammy, determined to make an authentic Spanish gazpacho in quantity for an end-of-summer party, went shopping with me at the vegetable market.
“How many cucumbers, Sammy? How many onions?” I asked. The horror on his face!
“What are you talking about? Gazpacho has no onions, no cucumbers! You are talking about Mexican gazpacho. I will show you how to make real gazpacho.”
“Then what do you put in it?” I asked.
“Tomatoes. Garlic. Perhaps one quarter of a pepper, but probably not. Bread. Olive oil, vinegar, sugar. Salt and pepper. You have a blender, right?”
Personally, I love it when people get righteously indignant about food preparation. First, it means I don’t have to cook. Second, it means I will likely learn something. Third, whatever I learn will be authentic, and I’m unlikely to forget it.
At home, Sammy threw all the tomatoes into the blender with one clove of garlic and several ice cubes. He tore an entire loaf of French bread into small pieces and dropped them, one at a time, into the whirling mixture, stopping when the tomato soup had enough body to “stand” a little, on the spoon. He “finished” the cold soup with a splash of cider vinegar, a generous spoonful of sugar and a tablespoon of good virgin olive oil. A pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper.
Sammy held out a large spoonful to me. This gazpacho didn’t look like any I’d ever tasted—a puree, it had no chunks of vegetables, no smell of spice, little color. I put the spoon in my mouth and closed my eyes, a connoisseur in an instant.
“Tomato,” I said. “It tastes exactly like the coldest, most delicious tomato I’ve ever eaten. Where does the bread go?”
“It gives itself up for the tomato,” Sammy said. “This is how we make it in Spain. We live on this soup.” We spoke of Pedro Amaldovar’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, laughing together that the heroine had been drugged by lacing her pitcher of gazpacho with a sedative. After five weeks of raised hackles, all it took to laugh was a recipe and a memory of a funny Spanish movie.
U2 gave Sammy a little respect for me, and gazpacho gave me a little respect for Sammy. I only wish we had begun the summer with soup instead of ending it that way.
Later I saw a nearly identical recipe titled Andalusian Gazpacho, made from roasted tomatoes instead of fresh, but it described the part of Spain where Gazpacho originated, and the simple tomato and bread soup served there. Make it by the pitcher, and serve it ice cold.
Monday, June 26, 2006
mint infusion: summer comfort food II
Crush a large sprig or two of mint with a rolling pen, just enough to “bruise” the leaves, as the cookbooks say. Toss it in a jar of drinking water. Add a pretty slice of lemon, if you have one, and some ice, or don’t—it’s fine with no frills. The longer it “brews,” the more minty it tastes. Drink up and refill the water—the next batch will taste delicious, too. Your sprigs are good for a whole day’s worth of water. Your big Nalgene water bottle may never be the same.
I didn’t grow up with herbs. The running joke about “how you know you are a Hoosier” includes the list of spices in an Indiana kitchen: salt, pepper, and ketchup. When I lived in Erie, I raved about tabouli from a new restaurant, and Keith Sundberg walked me out to a Biblical Herb Garden, surrounding my house—a garden filled with any herb mentioned in the Bible that would also grow in North America. Beneath the water spigot in my own back yard was green, green spearmint.
“How will I know if I’m picking the right plant?” I asked.
“Pick a stem, right now. Smell it.” My eyes flew open, a revelation. “That’s what was in the tabouli!” He showed me the parsley for tabouli, also, and the rosemary and thyme for chicken soup. And a dozen others. “All of these herbs have been growing right here around my house, all along?”
“Yep. You should look in the library for a tabouli recipe—any Middle Eastern herbs should be right here, if you need them.” I didn’t need to go to the library—I found the best tabouli recipe in my own Moosewood Cookbook, right in my kitchen.
Tabouli is pretty easy, though there is much chopping involved. But an infusion of mint in drinking water? A no-frills, no calorie treat. My mind traces a line right back to that water spigot in the Biblical Herb Garden, a treasure beneath my own nose and deliciously free. And my mind traces a beeline to my backyard, where I grow spearmint and chocolate mint. It spreads like the dickens. I like that in a plant.
Stay hydrated!
I didn’t grow up with herbs. The running joke about “how you know you are a Hoosier” includes the list of spices in an Indiana kitchen: salt, pepper, and ketchup. When I lived in Erie, I raved about tabouli from a new restaurant, and Keith Sundberg walked me out to a Biblical Herb Garden, surrounding my house—a garden filled with any herb mentioned in the Bible that would also grow in North America. Beneath the water spigot in my own back yard was green, green spearmint.
“How will I know if I’m picking the right plant?” I asked.
“Pick a stem, right now. Smell it.” My eyes flew open, a revelation. “That’s what was in the tabouli!” He showed me the parsley for tabouli, also, and the rosemary and thyme for chicken soup. And a dozen others. “All of these herbs have been growing right here around my house, all along?”
“Yep. You should look in the library for a tabouli recipe—any Middle Eastern herbs should be right here, if you need them.” I didn’t need to go to the library—I found the best tabouli recipe in my own Moosewood Cookbook, right in my kitchen.
Tabouli is pretty easy, though there is much chopping involved. But an infusion of mint in drinking water? A no-frills, no calorie treat. My mind traces a line right back to that water spigot in the Biblical Herb Garden, a treasure beneath my own nose and deliciously free. And my mind traces a beeline to my backyard, where I grow spearmint and chocolate mint. It spreads like the dickens. I like that in a plant.
Stay hydrated!
Sunday, June 25, 2006
usherette
Late for church, I grab my umbrella from the passenger seat and run up the steps to the sanctuary, and just as I suspected, Dan is ushering. He comes to church only when it is too rainy to sail.
“My girl!” he tries to maintain a whisper, but I haven’t seen him in a month of sunny Sundays. The congregation is in the middle of the first hymn, eyes to the front, so Dan throws his arms open for an embrace. When I whisper, “I miss you!” he lifts me up off my feet and shakes me. I worry when he picks me up off the ground—Dan is eighty this year, and I may actually weigh more than him. I step back and scruff up his beard, then mosey on over to the very back pew.
I haven’t sat in the back since last summer—I’m normally in the second pew on the right, where my children can see the organist and I can enjoy the breeze from the little window, where Scott is usually waiting for me. But summer is different. With no children’s programs, Scott and I each attend a worship service solo: he takes the eight a.m. and I take the ten a.m. The children enjoy the break, and they’ll be begging for church by September.
My priest told me once that my face looks different when I come to worship alone, and this doesn’t surprise me. “Reverie” is the word that comes to mind: my spirit ranges far and wide, and I can sing happily, unencumbered. It’s not like I don’t pay attention: I pay attention to what I need. I listen carefully to the sermon, while knitting a new pair of socks for my son. I listen better with my hands engaged, ears and heart flying. I curl up in the pew and lose myself.
I first attended Episcopal worship in a cathedral, and one day a friend visited with me. The place was big enough that one wrong turn after communion sent her wandering all over the building, trying to find her way back. When the dean of the cathedral asked her what she thought of the service, shaking hands at the door, she replied, sheepishly, “I got lost!”
“That’s the beauty of worship with the prayer book,” he said. “When you come back, you’ll know where to find us.” He was speaking profoundly. She nodded and didn’t have the heart to tell him she was not speaking metaphorically, but was actually physically lost. Nonetheless, the most refreshing way for me to approach worship, these days, is to lose myself. When I come back, I know where to find myself, it’s just as true as he said.
I realize, these summer Sundays, how much I anticipate and fill my family’s needs, how I am always fending off the next disaster with an activity, a hankie, a snack, a stick of gum—any preventative measure that might allow me quiet in my pew. Worship in summer, in contrast, is like breathing, like yoga, like a good walk, clearing all the clutter for one hour of listening, singing, prayer.
With the next hymn, I stand up and walk over to sing with Dan—his eyesight is dwindling. He can no longer read the hymnal, and it frustrates him. I know I remember words better with someone singing next to me. It's not mere generosity: he has a beautiful baritone, and he sings harmony. He chuckles at my dancing lilt—I can hardly stand still singing my favorites.
“Can you help me?” he asks.
“Just name it.” I say.
“Usher with me? It’s a two person job.”
Now, I teach church school, and I occasionally read scriptures in the service. I have sung solos, played guitar in worship. I have made truly obnoxious announcements. One day ten years ago, I arrived to serve as a reader and chalice bearer, and ended up carrying the processional cross, too—I joked that I would not give the sermon without prior notice, though I have done that, too. But I have never, ever been a church usher.
I think briefly of the huge Presbyterian church I once attended, with its phalanx of ushers in matching suits and ties, a precision drill team of ushers, and I swallow nervously. But this is just our little Episcopal church in a sleepy tourist town, on a rainy day. “Okay,” I answer. “You got it. Just tell me what to do.”
I see my mistake accepting this role when Dan tugs on my sleeve to pass the offering plates—wait, where is my mind? If I’m going to be an usher, I will have to switch on that sense of what-comes-next, that need-o-meter. Minutes later, we walk up the aisle with the bread and wine, and I slow when he slows—then I realize he is slowing to allow me to pass through the handrails first, rather than to squeeze us both awkwardly through. So I have to start up again. Do I reverence the altar, or not? I am watching, watching. This is no fun.
And then comes the next blow: I realize that the usher’s job is to be unobtrusive, to allow others to remain quietly attentive to God’s voice. But wait! Obtrusive affection is practically my job at this church! Unobtrusive means I can’t wink at the teenagers from my Sunday school class, or thread my arm through the arm of my octogenarian friends. I can’t reach over and mess up Lourdes’ choir music, as I’ve probably done every Sunday for a year. “Watch for trippers,” says Dan as I stand at the bottom of the steps, and I’m watching. Olive smiles at me when I climb up and help her, but everyone else avoids eye contact as if I might label them as “tottering.” Decorum, phooey!
I survive until the end of the service and then go douse my frustration in two cups of coffee and one three-month-old baby, borrowed from a young woman who needs to give her arms a break. The baby boy’s head is tucked under my chin, where I can’t see him, and everyone tells me he is smiling. I walk him around to show my octogenarians, one by one, to kiss them on the cheeks lest they think I’ve turned cold. I go flirt with Dan and harass my teenagers, and introduce a two-year-old named Noah to every adult in the room, merely so he will stop removing all the bibles from the bookshelves. I stay for an hour to talk with Althea—she came back from brunch just to catch up with me. My priest reminds me that we all speak very loudly after a conversation with Althea, whose hearing is a challenge. I confess to her, quietly this time, that I will never be an usher again. She just smiles and nods, “I was a little surprised to see you back there. I guess that means I don’t have to scold you and tell you and Dan to be a little quieter next time.”
I guess I’m not so good at being unobtrusive, which is fine with me: who wants unobtrusive? There are so many good ways to be involved in the church, but for me, ushering is definitely off the list. I make a plan for next Sunday: I will come early, sit in a place where no one expects or needs me, and be a different kind of unobtrusive, a disappearing kind of unobtrusive, until all the volunteer roles are filled. Then I'm going to get really, really lost.
“My girl!” he tries to maintain a whisper, but I haven’t seen him in a month of sunny Sundays. The congregation is in the middle of the first hymn, eyes to the front, so Dan throws his arms open for an embrace. When I whisper, “I miss you!” he lifts me up off my feet and shakes me. I worry when he picks me up off the ground—Dan is eighty this year, and I may actually weigh more than him. I step back and scruff up his beard, then mosey on over to the very back pew.
I haven’t sat in the back since last summer—I’m normally in the second pew on the right, where my children can see the organist and I can enjoy the breeze from the little window, where Scott is usually waiting for me. But summer is different. With no children’s programs, Scott and I each attend a worship service solo: he takes the eight a.m. and I take the ten a.m. The children enjoy the break, and they’ll be begging for church by September.
My priest told me once that my face looks different when I come to worship alone, and this doesn’t surprise me. “Reverie” is the word that comes to mind: my spirit ranges far and wide, and I can sing happily, unencumbered. It’s not like I don’t pay attention: I pay attention to what I need. I listen carefully to the sermon, while knitting a new pair of socks for my son. I listen better with my hands engaged, ears and heart flying. I curl up in the pew and lose myself.
I first attended Episcopal worship in a cathedral, and one day a friend visited with me. The place was big enough that one wrong turn after communion sent her wandering all over the building, trying to find her way back. When the dean of the cathedral asked her what she thought of the service, shaking hands at the door, she replied, sheepishly, “I got lost!”
“That’s the beauty of worship with the prayer book,” he said. “When you come back, you’ll know where to find us.” He was speaking profoundly. She nodded and didn’t have the heart to tell him she was not speaking metaphorically, but was actually physically lost. Nonetheless, the most refreshing way for me to approach worship, these days, is to lose myself. When I come back, I know where to find myself, it’s just as true as he said.
I realize, these summer Sundays, how much I anticipate and fill my family’s needs, how I am always fending off the next disaster with an activity, a hankie, a snack, a stick of gum—any preventative measure that might allow me quiet in my pew. Worship in summer, in contrast, is like breathing, like yoga, like a good walk, clearing all the clutter for one hour of listening, singing, prayer.
With the next hymn, I stand up and walk over to sing with Dan—his eyesight is dwindling. He can no longer read the hymnal, and it frustrates him. I know I remember words better with someone singing next to me. It's not mere generosity: he has a beautiful baritone, and he sings harmony. He chuckles at my dancing lilt—I can hardly stand still singing my favorites.
“Can you help me?” he asks.
“Just name it.” I say.
“Usher with me? It’s a two person job.”
Now, I teach church school, and I occasionally read scriptures in the service. I have sung solos, played guitar in worship. I have made truly obnoxious announcements. One day ten years ago, I arrived to serve as a reader and chalice bearer, and ended up carrying the processional cross, too—I joked that I would not give the sermon without prior notice, though I have done that, too. But I have never, ever been a church usher.
I think briefly of the huge Presbyterian church I once attended, with its phalanx of ushers in matching suits and ties, a precision drill team of ushers, and I swallow nervously. But this is just our little Episcopal church in a sleepy tourist town, on a rainy day. “Okay,” I answer. “You got it. Just tell me what to do.”
I see my mistake accepting this role when Dan tugs on my sleeve to pass the offering plates—wait, where is my mind? If I’m going to be an usher, I will have to switch on that sense of what-comes-next, that need-o-meter. Minutes later, we walk up the aisle with the bread and wine, and I slow when he slows—then I realize he is slowing to allow me to pass through the handrails first, rather than to squeeze us both awkwardly through. So I have to start up again. Do I reverence the altar, or not? I am watching, watching. This is no fun.
And then comes the next blow: I realize that the usher’s job is to be unobtrusive, to allow others to remain quietly attentive to God’s voice. But wait! Obtrusive affection is practically my job at this church! Unobtrusive means I can’t wink at the teenagers from my Sunday school class, or thread my arm through the arm of my octogenarian friends. I can’t reach over and mess up Lourdes’ choir music, as I’ve probably done every Sunday for a year. “Watch for trippers,” says Dan as I stand at the bottom of the steps, and I’m watching. Olive smiles at me when I climb up and help her, but everyone else avoids eye contact as if I might label them as “tottering.” Decorum, phooey!
I survive until the end of the service and then go douse my frustration in two cups of coffee and one three-month-old baby, borrowed from a young woman who needs to give her arms a break. The baby boy’s head is tucked under my chin, where I can’t see him, and everyone tells me he is smiling. I walk him around to show my octogenarians, one by one, to kiss them on the cheeks lest they think I’ve turned cold. I go flirt with Dan and harass my teenagers, and introduce a two-year-old named Noah to every adult in the room, merely so he will stop removing all the bibles from the bookshelves. I stay for an hour to talk with Althea—she came back from brunch just to catch up with me. My priest reminds me that we all speak very loudly after a conversation with Althea, whose hearing is a challenge. I confess to her, quietly this time, that I will never be an usher again. She just smiles and nods, “I was a little surprised to see you back there. I guess that means I don’t have to scold you and tell you and Dan to be a little quieter next time.”
I guess I’m not so good at being unobtrusive, which is fine with me: who wants unobtrusive? There are so many good ways to be involved in the church, but for me, ushering is definitely off the list. I make a plan for next Sunday: I will come early, sit in a place where no one expects or needs me, and be a different kind of unobtrusive, a disappearing kind of unobtrusive, until all the volunteer roles are filled. Then I'm going to get really, really lost.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
grapefruit sorbet: summer comfort food I
Elizabeth came by yesterday to make a recipe of Grapefruit Sorbet. Elizabeth is just about the most amazing cook in the world, but I own a Fabulous Blender. She loves me for my blender?
In a favorite, deeply troubled movie, Time Bandits, several characters find themselves in a quest for The Ultimate Object in the World, and the Ultimate Object turns out to be a game show kitchen equipped lavishly. I’m certain my blender is in that kitchen.
I purchased this Fabulous Blender years ago when my daughter needed a dairy-free diet—I hoped to make our own soy or rice milk, but I never stumbled upon the right recipe for that. Or I ran out of patience for it, or the dairy products no longer seemed the culprit of her stomach upset. Meanwhile, I made loads of baby food, smoothies, soups, and ice cream.
And Grapefruit Sorbet. Grapefruit juice, ice, and a simple syrup.
My children were scheduled to go out to the beach, but they adore Elizabeth and insisted on staying to cook with her.
“Can he stir?” she asked of Brendan.
“Yep. He’s good at the stove.”
“Okay, he can stay then.”
If you find good Ruby Red grapefruit juice (Elizabeth brought fresh Odwalla juice, really top of the line) at the grocery and two nice grapefruit, bring them home with some crushed ice. (I don’t need crushed ice because my blender crushes anything.) Now you have two choices, depending on your time frame: you can either pour grapefruit juice into ice cube trays and freeze it for a few hours, then blend, which will give the most potent flavor to your sorbet, or mix juice and crushed ice for a faster, lighter sorbet. We used the lighter, faster method..
Wash the grapefruit and use a vegetable peeler to remove only the colorful zest of the peel, in long strips if you can-- leave the white part. Save the partially-peeled grapefruit in the refrigerator for another day. Cut the strips into matchstick-width strips with the tip of a knife. Boil one cup of sugar with one cup of water, and toss the peel into the pan when the sugar melts—boil for a minute or so until the peel is translucent. You have made a “Simple Syrup” infused with grapefruit— the scent is irresistible! Let it cool in the pan for a moment.
Pour the grapefruit juice into the blender with ice—less ice than juice to begin with—and blend. Scoop a half cup of simple syrup with peel into the blender, and add more ice. Blend again. Stop and taste, and check for texture. (It should stand up a little or look exactly like sorbet, if you have a fabulous blender.) If it needs more sweetness, add more syrup, but this time pour it through a metal sieve, then park the sorbet in the freezer to solidify a bit more. Pour sugar into a shallow bowl and place the remaining Candied Grapefruit Peel into the sugar, one or two pieces at a time. Serve the sorbet topped with three or four strips of candied peel. (Or more.)
You now have four delicacies: Grapefruit Sorbet, Candied Grapefruit Peel, Grapefruit Simple Syrup, and Fruited Sugar. Freeze the peel on a cookie sheet or plate, then scoop it into a Ziploc bag to store in the freezer. Put the fruited sugar in a jar with a tight lid and keep it near your tea, or in humid weather, store in the refrigerator. Might you like a hint of citrus when you sweeten strawberries? Or atop muffins? Maybe a sprinkle with cinnamon, on toast— anyplace you’d use sugar, anyway. If you haven’t included all the simple syrup in your sorbet, refrigerate it in a jar with a tight lid—add it to iced tea, or make another batch of sorbet, later!
If you are not serving the Sorbet immediately, you will need to thaw it twenty minutes or so before attempting to scoop, as it will get very hard. Even if it’s a lot of work to scoop it, you will not be sorry for the effort. It’s a pretty dessert in glass bowls. Enjoy!
Elizabeth had some good laughs with my adoring children-- it's great to see someone else boss them around playfully for awhile (cooking at a stove requires a little bossing, just for safety.) She loves me for more than my blender, certainly, but if it's a blender that brings her to my house on a hot summer afternoon, then maybe it really is The Ultimate Object in the World, especially when filled with a light, refreshing dessert I will serve after my dinner, too.
In a favorite, deeply troubled movie, Time Bandits, several characters find themselves in a quest for The Ultimate Object in the World, and the Ultimate Object turns out to be a game show kitchen equipped lavishly. I’m certain my blender is in that kitchen.
I purchased this Fabulous Blender years ago when my daughter needed a dairy-free diet—I hoped to make our own soy or rice milk, but I never stumbled upon the right recipe for that. Or I ran out of patience for it, or the dairy products no longer seemed the culprit of her stomach upset. Meanwhile, I made loads of baby food, smoothies, soups, and ice cream.
And Grapefruit Sorbet. Grapefruit juice, ice, and a simple syrup.
My children were scheduled to go out to the beach, but they adore Elizabeth and insisted on staying to cook with her.
“Can he stir?” she asked of Brendan.
“Yep. He’s good at the stove.”
“Okay, he can stay then.”
If you find good Ruby Red grapefruit juice (Elizabeth brought fresh Odwalla juice, really top of the line) at the grocery and two nice grapefruit, bring them home with some crushed ice. (I don’t need crushed ice because my blender crushes anything.) Now you have two choices, depending on your time frame: you can either pour grapefruit juice into ice cube trays and freeze it for a few hours, then blend, which will give the most potent flavor to your sorbet, or mix juice and crushed ice for a faster, lighter sorbet. We used the lighter, faster method..
Wash the grapefruit and use a vegetable peeler to remove only the colorful zest of the peel, in long strips if you can-- leave the white part. Save the partially-peeled grapefruit in the refrigerator for another day. Cut the strips into matchstick-width strips with the tip of a knife. Boil one cup of sugar with one cup of water, and toss the peel into the pan when the sugar melts—boil for a minute or so until the peel is translucent. You have made a “Simple Syrup” infused with grapefruit— the scent is irresistible! Let it cool in the pan for a moment.
Pour the grapefruit juice into the blender with ice—less ice than juice to begin with—and blend. Scoop a half cup of simple syrup with peel into the blender, and add more ice. Blend again. Stop and taste, and check for texture. (It should stand up a little or look exactly like sorbet, if you have a fabulous blender.) If it needs more sweetness, add more syrup, but this time pour it through a metal sieve, then park the sorbet in the freezer to solidify a bit more. Pour sugar into a shallow bowl and place the remaining Candied Grapefruit Peel into the sugar, one or two pieces at a time. Serve the sorbet topped with three or four strips of candied peel. (Or more.)
You now have four delicacies: Grapefruit Sorbet, Candied Grapefruit Peel, Grapefruit Simple Syrup, and Fruited Sugar. Freeze the peel on a cookie sheet or plate, then scoop it into a Ziploc bag to store in the freezer. Put the fruited sugar in a jar with a tight lid and keep it near your tea, or in humid weather, store in the refrigerator. Might you like a hint of citrus when you sweeten strawberries? Or atop muffins? Maybe a sprinkle with cinnamon, on toast— anyplace you’d use sugar, anyway. If you haven’t included all the simple syrup in your sorbet, refrigerate it in a jar with a tight lid—add it to iced tea, or make another batch of sorbet, later!
If you are not serving the Sorbet immediately, you will need to thaw it twenty minutes or so before attempting to scoop, as it will get very hard. Even if it’s a lot of work to scoop it, you will not be sorry for the effort. It’s a pretty dessert in glass bowls. Enjoy!
Elizabeth had some good laughs with my adoring children-- it's great to see someone else boss them around playfully for awhile (cooking at a stove requires a little bossing, just for safety.) She loves me for more than my blender, certainly, but if it's a blender that brings her to my house on a hot summer afternoon, then maybe it really is The Ultimate Object in the World, especially when filled with a light, refreshing dessert I will serve after my dinner, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)