Pop-up breakfast, march 1.

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Hellooo Seattle people!
You’re invited to a pop-up breakfast.

Saturday, March 1

8:00am – 12:00pm

8103 8th ave s, Seattle, Washington 98108

Come be the first to try Mae James Coffee and my (Jessie’s!) pop-up breakfast magic. Mae James carefully roasts their single-origin beans in small batches; you’ll taste the love in every cup. Sweet raised waffles done-up southern style are on the menu, and smiles are complimentary. Hope to see you there!

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Soba valentine.

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Winter is drinking out of mugs and eating from bowls. Winter is Valentine’s Day- we say we don’t like it but love it anyways. Winter is the scarf you knit in eighth grade and still wear; it’s remembering and nesting. And, as it happens, winter is finding the last delicata squash, sweet and tender and golden, in a picked-over bin at the market. Which is what happened this past week and is what leads me to soba.

This recipe employs a lean winter larder- seaweed, soba, kale, squash- and a bit of memory. When I was in high school, I spent some time as a foreign exchange student in Japan. My first bite on the mainland was that of soba. It was summer, and the soba was hot, and I was jetlagged in an Ambien-induced haze. Needless to say, soba was not particularly impressive to my sixteen year-old self; it would take a nudge from Yotam Ottolenghi’s Plenty, seaweed, and a little pantry desperation to make me reconsider the earthy, buckwheat soba noodle.

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Living near the ocean in Seattle makes me want to try new things. Maybe that’s why unbelievably ridiculous shows like Jersey Shore and The Real World happen on the beach. The expanse of unknown water, the strange little creatures that make their way onto the shore, the barnacles and salt; I’d like to think that, though oceanic nudging, I’ve become a new-found devotee of many new things, including soba. (Other subjects- thigh tattoos, double IPAs, purposeful hipster mullets- are still under debate.)

In recent times, soba has gone mainstream and you’ll find it in the ethnic aisle of most grocery stores. Watch it when you’re boiling the noodles; cooked too long soba will be as bland and mushy as boiled cardboard noodles. Cooked al dente and seasoned while still warm and soba takes on a new identity: buttery, complex, and beautifully supple.

So, soba, tonight for Valentine’s Day dinner when you ask me to remember you and to cook and to love you, I will check “yes.” You taste exotic and yet comforting, humble and rich. You absorb flavors like no other noodle and you soften tough vegetables like kale and seaweed. It’s nice to dine with you again. Happy Valentine’s Day, friends! ❤

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Soba with Seaweed and Delicata Squash

Inspired by Yotam Ottolenghi’s “Soba Noodles with Aubergine and Mango” from Plenty.

Serves four.

  • 2 medium delicata squash, cored and sliced in 1/4-inch thick rounds
  • 2 tablespoons high-heat cooking oil (such as canola oil)
  • 1/2 large red onion, very thinly sliced
  • small bunch of lacinato kale, roughly chopped
  • 12 ounces / 3 bunches dried soba noodles
  • 1/2 cup brown sugar, divided
  • 3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
  • 1 inch fresh ginger, peeled and finely minced
  • grated zest and juice of one large lemon
  • 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
  • 1/2 cup rice vinegar
  • 3/4 teaspoon table salt
  • 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
  • 4 sheets dried seaweed laver, cut in strips
  • handful of fresh cilantro and/or parsley, chopped
  • handful black sesame seeds and/or peanuts, chopped

Preheat oven to 400 degrees and line a baking sheet with foil.

In a large bowl, toss delicata squash rounds with  1/4 cup brown sugar, canola oil, and a hefty pinch of salt. Pour out onto baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally , until squash is crisp and caramelized.

In the meantime, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Make the dressing by combining vinegar, remaining 1/4 cup brown sugar, salt, garlic, red pepper flakes, ginger , sesame oil, and lemon zest and juice in a jar. Shake jar until sugar dissolves and liquids emulsify.

Cook the soba noodles in large pot of boiling salted water, per package instructions, or until just tender. Drain and rinse under cold running water. Shake off as much of the excess water as possible, then leave to dry in the colander or on a tea towel. While the noodles are still warm, place in a large bowl and toss with dressing, cooked squash, onions, kale, some of the seaweed, and most of the herbs. Garnish with remaining seaweed, remaining herbs, and peanuts and serve warm.

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Citrus salad with black pepper and tarragon.

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Helloo-oh, it’s winter. And Seattle has had some dark, short days. When I moved here this past summer, I selectively forgot about latitude, sun patterns, and the winter solstice. Why would a southern girl ever need to remember things like that? Evidently, it’s important in the Pacific Northwest. Evidently, it’s why the vampires from the Twilight series live in a town near me.

But (non-vampire) people have survived this far north for decades, centuries; I must be able to adopt the evolutionary adaptations that Seattlites use to cope with pasty skin and seven months of darkness, right? From my initial observations I’ve found that some days you have ginger cookies and milk for lunch. Some days (ahem, all days) you take hour-long baths. Some days you kayak and/or hike in the snow and/or rain. Every day you eat well.

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Never before have I been in a place that loves its seasonal food as much as the Pacific Northwest does. Winter is no excuse for bland colors. Instead, the markets burst with sunny persimmons, dark green lacinato kale and seaweed, silver-gilded oyster mushrooms, temptingly red endives, and citrus, their oranges, reds, and yellows like sweet, fragrant winter suns.

When our winter began in November, I made this citrus salad with grapefruit, tangerines, and pomegranate seeds. It was simple  and bright, a challenge to the months of gray to come. As winter has progressed, I’ve added a splash of sultry blood oranges, bit of freshly ground black pepper, handful of allspice. I need this salad like I need Vitamin D; in all its peppery, herbaceous lightness, it’s edible sun.

Postscript: As I write to you the sun is out in Seattle. In fact, the past week has been wonderfully, surprisingly sunny (three days of [foggy] sun! Sun, people!) Coincidence? I think not. Thank you, citrus salad.

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Citrus Salad with Black Pepper and Tarragon

Feel free to make this salad your own with different fresh herbs, spices, and types of citrus. For balanced flavor and pleasing visual appearance, pick types of seedless citrus with different levels of bitterness and varied interior colors.

Serves four, with leftovers for breakfast.

  • 1/8 cup granulated sugar
  • 1/4 cup fresh tarragon leaves, split in two bowls
  • 2 blood oranges
  • 2 mandarin oranges, navel oranges, or tangerines
  • 1 pomelo or oroblanco
  • 1 grapefruit (ruby red looks particularly lovely)
  • Freshly ground black pepper (pink pepper would work wonderfully as well; it’s just a bit harder to find.)

Add sugar, 1/8 cup tarragon, and 1/8 cup water in a jar and shake until the sugar dissolves and tarragon bruises. Strain syrup through a fine-mesh sieve and reserve for salad. Tarragon syrup will keep for a week in the fridge and can be used as a cocktail mixer, pancake topper, etc… the sweet possibilities are endless!

Cut off the base and stem end of each citrus and peel citrus with cut side flat on the cutting board. Make sure to peel off any bits of bitter white pith. Slice citrus crosswise into 1/4-inch thick rounds.

Arrange citrus on a platter. Grind a bit of fresh black pepper over top, drizzle with tarragon syrup, and finish with remaining tarragon.

Y’all, buttermilk biscuits!

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While home in Georgia for the holidays, I took Harvard University’s dialect test online.

Well, y’all, turns out I’m a southerner.

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When I was growing up in Atlanta, I wasn’t very fond of the south.

Actually, I did everything I could to prove I was not southern. When asked where I was from, I said Australia. During the “Freedom Fries” mania, I ordered French Frites. Okra made me gag. My parents were the only liberals within a forty-mile radius who dared put “vote democrat” signs in their yard, and I was proud of it. In high school, I skipped as many football games as was humanly possible without committing social suicide. And I insisted on leaving the south before I turned fifteen, escaping to the farthest parts of the world I could think of: Japan, India, Guatemala, Nepal.

Yet no matter how hard I tried, I still say y’all. I would trade my future child for a Price’s Chicken Coop fried chicken dinner; I know the words to every Garth Brooks and Dolly Parton song. And yes, oh yes, I love down-home, sweet and flaky, buttermilk biscuits.

For years, I have searched for the best biscuits. I’ve tried many in restaurants– Skillet Diner in Seattle and Swallow at the Hollow in Atlanta make my favorites. But I needed to eat biscuits that I had made in my own kitchen. I needed to cut butter and lard into flour, to feel silken buttermilk as I worked dough together with my hands. It would prove to myself who I was: a southerner.

It seems fitting that, just as I have begun to accept the south, I would find my homemade biscuits. It happened on New Year’s Day. My mom fried quail and boiled collards and beets; I made biscuits, trying out a new but sworn-by recipe. Sitting down to the table, we were a picture of the post-church Sunday Dinner Southern Gothic.

The biscuits tasted as they should: light yet sour, flaky yet rich. To me, they tasted like the south: tender and sweet.

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Ma Mae’s Buttermilk Biscuits

Recipe adapted from fellow Georgian and foodist brother, Alton Brown, who, for years, has sought to recreate his Ma Mae’s* biscuits. I suggest you serve these biscuits with butter and sorghum or molasses, as pictured above. It’s the southern way.

*Ma Mae: n. southern for grandmother (synonyms: mammy, grandmammy, granny, me-ma, etc…)

Makes a dozen.

  • 2 cups flour
  • 4 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
  • 3/4 teaspoon table salt
  • 2 1/2 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces, cold
  • 2 tablespoons shortening, cut into small pieces, cold
  • 1 cup buttermilk, cold

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Grease a rimmed baking sheet or pie pan. Prepare a clean surface with flour.

In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. As quickly as possible, rub cold butter and shortening into dry ingredients with your fingertips until mixture looks like small peas; don’t let the fats melt. Make a well in the center and pour in the cold buttermilk. Stir just until the dough comes together; it will be very sticky.

Turn dough onto floured surface, dust top with flour and gently fold dough over on itself 5 or 6 times. Press into a 1-inch thick round. Cut out biscuits with a 2-inch cutter, being sure to push straight down through the dough. Place biscuits on rimmed pan so that they just touch. Reform scrap dough, working it as little as possible, and continue cutting.

Bake until biscuits are tall and golden brown on top, 12 to 18 minutes.

Christmas dinner.

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It’s a magical time we’re in now, isn’t it?

Magical except for the constant traffic, frightening encounters with last-minute shoppers, and annual family conflict reenactments. It’s a bummer that life gets stressful during the times we hope to savor; but, hey, this is why we have sugar cookie highs and mulled wine! To keep Christmas sane and the candy canes and silver lanes aglow, my family’s planning a simple Christmas dinner.

We’ll have smoked ham glazed with Byrd & Duncan beer syrup, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, my grandmother’s famous cream of chicken soup dressing, deliciously southern sorghum green beans, and a couple homemade pies. There will be plenty of wine and a cocktail or two. There will be the conversation about civil war ethics, how much we love/hate Charles Dickens, and, of course, a ridiculous amount of laughter, even more than the amount of wine we will drink.

Happy Christmas! Here’s to peace, good food, and your crazy-wonderful family.

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Green Beans with Sorghum and Sesame

Makes enough for 8 as a side. Adapted from Bon Appétit.

  • 2 pounds green beans, trimmed
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • Freshly ground black pepper & kosher salt
  • 2 tablespoons reduced-sodium soy sauce
  • 2 tablespoons sorghum syrup or 1 tablespoon honey
  • 2 teaspoons sesame seeds
  • ¼ teaspoon ground cumin
  1. Preheat oven to 450°. Cook beans in a large pot of boiling salted water until crisp-tender, about 2 minutes. Drain, transfer to a bowl of ice water, and let cool. Drain and pat dry.
  2. Toss beans and oil on a rimmed baking sheet; season with salt and pepper. Roast, tossing occasionally, until tender and lightly charred in spots, 10 to 15 minutes.
  3. Meanwhile, whisk soy sauce, sorghum, sesame seeds, and cumin in a large bowl; season with salt and pepper. Add warm beans and toss to coat.

The peppermint patty.

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Looking for a beautiful, handmade gift idea for Christmas?

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Homemade peppermint patties!

You haven’t had a peppermint patty until you have one that’s made by hand. These peppermint bites are relatively easy to make and very pretty, perfect for holiday gifting. Plus they actually taste like peppermint, a far cry from synthetic, aluminum-flavored York peppermint patties. This recipe comes from a pastry chef who once ran her own chocolate making business, teaches classes on handmade candy, and with whom I just finished editing a cookbook; the lady knows her patty.

And, side note: I’ve started writing a food column for Misadventures, the ridiculously awesome magazine for adventurous women; you can find a funny story behind peppermint patties here!

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Handmade Peppermint Patties

Makes 24 patties. Recipe adapted from Ash­ley Rodriguez.

  •   2 cups confectioner’s sugar
  •   1 1/2 table­spoons unsalted but­ter, softened
  •   1/2 tea­spoon kosher salt
  •   1 1/2 tea­spoons pep­per­mint extract
  •   1/2 vanilla bean, seeds only (optional, but so good)
  •   2 table­spoons heavy cream
  •   12 ounces good qual­ity dark chocolate
  1. In the bowl of a stand mixer, combine confectioner’s sugar, butter, salt, peppermint extract, vanilla, and cream. Beat with a paddle attachment until mixture comes together. Turn mixer on high and beat until candy comes together and is light and creamy. When you touch it, it should be soft but not at all sticky; if it seems sticky, add a little more powdered sugar, a few tablespoons at a time, until dough is no longer sticky.
  2. Scrape candy paste out onto a long piece of cling wrap and form into a thin tube about 1 1/2-inch in diameter. Wrap well in cling wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. Once candy is firm, use a large sharp knife to slice off rounds about 1/4-inch thick. Return to refrigerator.
  3. Melt chocolate in the microwave, stirring in 30-second increments to prevent overheating.
  4. Remove candy discs from refrigerator and dip into melted chocolate. With a fork, let excess chocolate drip back into the bowl and set dipped peppermint patty onto a piece of parchment or waxed paper. If patties get too soft to dip, chill briefly in the refrigerator until they’re firm again.
  5. Let patties set at room temperature, about 30 minutes. Store in an airtight container at room temperature or in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.

A savory pumpkin pie.

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Can you believe it? Thanksgiving is almost here!

I was impressed at how quickly holiday spirit happened this year. Only one day after Halloween, radio stations started to play Christmas music, candy canes showed up at the grocery store, and my email inbox bulged with the blogosphere’s proliferation of Thanksgiving recipes; I blame/thank all the people strung out on pumpkin spice lattes. The holidays are a happy time (come on, who doesn’t like an excuse to overindulge or to get presents) and, even after too many glasses of eggnog, I always wish they would stay around longer.

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Because the pumpkin spice latte craze and winter celebrations are here to stay, I’ve been experimenting with creative takes on traditional holiday fare to keep November interesting.

Consider the pumpkin pie. Creamy, cinnamon and nutmeg spiced, the pumpkin pie’s a Thanksgiving staple I want to like. But I can’t get over its often overly sweet filling or soggy, bland under-baked crust; most pumpkin pies are too disappointing to even call pies. So when I found a recipe for savory pumpkin pie from Nigel Slater, a Brit who most likely does not celebrate Thanksgiving and (thankfully) is not familiar with disgraceful American pumpkin pies, I got excited.

Nigel calls for puff pastry in place of pie dough, a choice that yields perfectly crisp, golden, anti-soggy crust, and I love how just a pinch of cinnamon and salt brings out pumpkin’s natural sweetness. In short, savory pumpkin pie actually tastes like pumpkin. (Yes!)  I’m thankful this pie will earn a annual spot on my Thanksgiving table.

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Savory Pumpkin Pie

From Notes from the Larder: A Kitchen Diary with Recipes by Nigel Slater.

Serves six as a side.

  • 2 and 3/4 lbs peeled and seeded pumpkin
  • 4 tbsp vegetable oil
  • Thick slice of butter
  • Generous pinch of cinnamon, salt, and pepper
  • 13 oz puff pastry
  • Egg, lightly beaten, for brushing
  1. Preheat oven to 400° F. Prepare two baking sheets, one with foil and the other with parchment.
  2. Cut pumpkin in to uniform, small cubes and steam for 15 to 20 minutes, or until flesh is tender.
  3. Remove from heat and transfer to foil-lined baking sheet. Toss with oil, butter, cinnamon, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Roast for 30 to forty minutes, until the pumpkin begins to lightly caramelize. Remove pumpkin from oven and mash with a fork. Maintain oven temperature.
  4. Lightly flour a cool surface, cut pastry in half, and roll out each piece to a 9 x 14 inch rectangle. Lay one rectangle on the parchment-lined baking sheet. Leaving a margin on the corners, pile pumpkin on the pastry. Brush pastry margins with egg. Lay second piece of pastry on top and press edges firmly to seal. To prevent splitting during cooking, make 3 slits on the top of the pastry. Brush pie with egg, then freeze for 20 minutes. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until crisp and golden. Let cool for 5 minutes and serve warm.

Pretzels, and getting out of them.

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What have I been up to exactly? Dear reader, the real question is where do I begin?

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In the past six months, I’ve been a part time hand model, food stylist, professional granola/ice cream maker, freelance beer-tender, recipe tester, and almost cheesemonger. I’ve drank too many cups of good coffee, accidentally worn my apron to the grocery store, and learned how to pronounce things like Fernet. The past months have made many recipes and stories; so stay tuned! Those stories are on their way.

When I first moved to Seattle, I started helping out at The Pantry, a well-loved and well-respected food craft cooking school. At The Pantry, I worked alongside a group of amazing women who made it their goal to introduce me to Seattle’s food scene. It was my first job in the food industry and most of the time I didn’t know what I was doing.

Despite my glass-breaking, pan-burning foibles, The Pantry ladies stuck with me and taught me their magic food ways. By the end of my summer stint at the school, I knew how to prepare the pies class’s pie dough like a pro and fix a broken aioli in record time. I met fascinating chefs, renowned food writers, and home cooks that have since given me more opportunities than I can count on my ten fingers. The Pantry made my coming out to foodie society sophisticated and proper, and it was wonderful.

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Well, it was wonderful ninety-nine percent of the time.

The first class I helped an instructor lead was called Pretzel Making at Home. It would have been the perfect class to start. We would only make two types of dough and a few simple dipping sauces, and I had power posed in front of the mirror before work; there would be no chance for stove-top blunders or knife skills gone wrong. But, only perfect situations become not perfect.

When I arrived at the kitchen to get things ready for class, I found large plastic bottles of lye waiting for me. Yes, the same chemical lye that Brad Pitt uses to burn Edward Norton’s hand in Fight Club. A pretzel evolves into a pretzel after it bathes in either a baking soda or lye solution;  I had thought we would use baking soda because, come on, no one wants to see that Fight Club scene, the “this a chemical burn” demonstration, in real life. But the instructor, a food anthropologist-chef who was about to publish a book on pretzels, insisted lye was best. So I listened, pushed the chemical burn scenarios from my mind, made sure everyone was double-gloved, and, by golly, sprayed those pretzels in lye.

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I have to admit; the lye was worth it. After a sprinkle of caraway, poppy, and sesame seeds, our pretzels tasted like edible pieces of Bavarian Germany. And they were beautiful too. Lye gave the pretzels a thick, deeply golden-black crust that safe baking soda could never give. Do not fear the pretzel and its lye ( Lie! Hah pun time! Okay, sorry, too much.) Instead, embrace this jumbled pretzel of a life, do something you’ve never done before, and taste its uncertainty, its imperfections. Who knows? Pretzels might just teach you a useful lesson or two.

Traditional German Soft Pretzels

By Andrea Slonecker, adapted from Pretzel Making at Home

Makes 8 pretzels

  • 2 1/4 tsp active dry yeast
  • 1/2 cup warm water (100 – 115 degrees)
  • 1 tbsp firmly packed dark brown sugar
  • 3 1/4 cups unbleached bread flour
  • 1/2 cup cold pilsner or lager-style beer
  • 2 tbsp unsalted butter, cubed and softened, plus more for greasing the bowl
  • 2 tsp fine sea salt
  • 2 tbsp food-grade lye or 1/4 cup baking soda
  • 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tbsp water

Follow this link to see how, step-by-step,  Andrea Slonecker and The Oregonian create the perfect pretzel (lye-sprayed, of course.)

Boozy baked apples, coming home.

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Friends, it has been waaay too long. Four months; four-ever. I wish I had a story-worthy excuse that sounds something like “so I was riding down this dark, coffee shop-lined alley on my fixie and these hipsters in jeggings and oversized knit hats kidnaped me” or “the ship I was working on as a fisherwoman didn’t have wifi.”

But, alas, I was not kidnapped by caffeine-hyped hipsters and I gave up my dreams of becoming a fisherwoman when I was thirteen and The Perfect Storm gave me reoccurring nightmares. Instead, my only excuse is that I have fallen helplessly and ridiculously in love with my new home.IMG_8356

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Seattle is beautiful. Most days are gray, but when afternoon sun nudges its way in to the street you can’t help but smile.  Ninety-two percent of the people I’ve met are introverts involved in either a start-up or a band, sometimes both, and who love their dogs, alcoholic drinks, REI membership status, bocce ball, composting, and good food. I live in an apartment above an espresso shop and incense emporium, and when my window is open I can hear the church down the street play hymns on the hour (and coincidentally the same church Macklemore features in “Same Love.”) At night, the air smells like salt and clouds.

Put Seattle on your bucket list; you will thank me forever, I promise. Where else can the sun make you automatically smile?

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The great state of Washington also happens to have incredibly wonderful apples. A couple weeks back, I went to a farm north of the city and picked 22 pounds of the sweet red things. Since then I’ve eaten one a day, and kept the doctor away, but I still feel a duty to my new homeplace to explore its apple horizons. So I pull out the old pyrex dishes and autumn spices, pour myself a cocktail, and get to work on these boozy baked apple babies. Oats and almonds give the apples a crisp, buttery core and amaretto reduces as the apples cook, absorbing their sweetness into a spicy, caramelized syrup that tastes like home. It’s a simple recipe that takes five to ten minutes to prep. Yet time in the oven highlights each apple’s creamy interior, its tart skin, its hint of harsh minerality and the soil where it once grew. I find there is no better way to honor Washington, to honor autumn, than by baking its apples.

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Baked Apples with Ginger and Amaretto

Serves three.

  • 3 medium, firm, flavorful apples, cored
  • 2 tbsp butter, chilled, cut into small cubes
  • 2 tbsp brown sugar
  • 2 tbsp flour
  • 3 tbsp quick oats
  • 1 tbsp sliced almonds
  • Pinches of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves
  • 1 tbsp crystalized ginger, minced
  • 1/4 cup amaretto
  • 1/2 cup apple cider

Preheat oven to 375º. Core apples with a small pairing knife or spoon.

In a small bowl combine butter, brown sugar, flour, oats, almonds, spices and ginger. Knead ingredients together with hands until combined. Spoon mixture into apples that you have nestles into in a small baking pan with sides. Pour amaretto and cider around apples and bake for 30 minutes. Serve warm with crème fraîche, whipped cream, or vanilla ice cream.

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Mandarin and cumin salad.

1-DSC_0109-001I moved!
Well… ahem, I speak too soon. Am moving; I’m still in transition, which is a nice way of saying that the apartment is filled wall to wall with suitcases, IKEA boxes, dirty clothes, and a collection of nude statues I forgot I had packed.

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Cosette, my new old blue typewriter. (Aie!)

Cosette, my new old blue typewriter (aie!), above. View from my garden rooftop, far above, and a sunset from Carkeek park, below.

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Needless to say I’m craving a little zen in the midst of my mess. These past days I haven’t had much time to cook and am opting for easy salads instead. One of my recent favorites is a simple early summer salad of crisp hearts of romaine, toasted almonds, and sour-sweet bits of orange sprinkled with poppy seeds. It pairs nicely with a refreshing honey and cumin vinaigrette I recreated from one I tried at Vinaigrette in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Yesterday I savored my mandarin and cumin salad with Pacific salmon caught that day, sunset over the city, and a glass of chilled white wine. Wine will help the boxes unpack themselves, won’t it?1-DSC_0103

Honey-Cumin Vinaigrette

1/2 cup olive oil or almond oil
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
Juice of 1 lime
1 Tablespoon honey
1 clove of garlic, finely grated
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
Pinch of salt

  1. Whisk ingredients together until emulsified and serve over salad of oranges, cucumbers, lettuce, and almonds.