"I'm going to make chocolate banana bread when we get back," I announced at 10:15 p.m. That's right: P to the Mizzo, as in right after we got back from our dog walk.
The reason for all the late nightery was that (a) I read a recipe several days ago for double chocolate banana bread. I confess to you that regular old banana bread moves me not in the least. For one thing, it tastes like overripe bananas, which is the state you generally want your bananas in for banana breadery. So no: I will never look at old bananas and think: why don't I make you into banana bread? I will straight up throw those bananas out, true story. Not that I'm proud of it or anything. But chocolate banana bread? That had some possibilities.
Also, (b), I happened to have some bananas. Which had been (c) sitting around all weekend, looking like potential chocolate banana bread material. Did I want them to get brown and bespeckled? No I did not. But they were fully yellow, which by 10:15 p.m. last night seemed ripe enough for the baking.
We got back from the dog walk (beautiful sky full of brilliant stars) and I threw off my jacket and got out the bowl. The double of the double chocolate was first, cocoa powder and second, chocolate chunks. I happened to have a sad, past-its-expiration-date bar of semisweet baking chocolate in my refrigerator that was just the ticket for the chunks--I bashed it up with my chef knife until the pieces broke, then stirred them into the batter. The bananas tasted fresh and not gushy, so: perfect.
While it was in the oven, we did this and that. I graded a discussion and read some more material about last night's epic episode of The Good Wife (spoiler alert: I'm not going to say one damn thing about it). The house filled with the most divine smell ever, dark and cacao-saturated and fresh fresh fresh bananas. Beautiful.
I went to check it at the appointed hour. Found my toothpicks for checking doneness. Done.
I grabbed the hot pad that was directly at hand. Stiff, this hot pad was. Stiff, not to say unyielding. Okay, to say: unyielding.
The people, that pan fell straight out of my useless hot-padded hand and onto the floor.
Did I utter an oath? Of course I did. And then fetched a spatula and scooped it, as if it were pancakes on a griddle, back into the pan. And ate a little bit of the hot ruin whilst doing so. OMG.
It is the best banana bread I have ever baked. I cooled it on a baking sheet and put it in a Tupperware, and right now I am eating a bowl of it, broken into pieces and topped with vanilla ice cream.
Showing posts with label late night baking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label late night baking. Show all posts
Monday, March 24, 2014
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The curd: an inquiry into its nature and uses.
What is lemon curd? It seems like an almost existential question. I have made it several times, given it away here and there, and yet I am not quite sure I know what it's for, even though it is delicious.
I made some lovely Meyer lemon curd and gave a bottle to a friend for a New Year present. She told me the other evening that she had just finished it, and in the ensuing discussion, she said that you could put it on chicken. What? This use had never even occurred to me--although I almost never eat chicken, so there's that. I think I'm less a sweet/sour person, unless it's in the context of a dessert.
This leaves me with my questions about the curd, and my one-two-three uses.
One: put it on a muffin, or a scone, or a crumpet, or an English muffin. This means to spread it on a toasted baked good. This makes sense to me. It puts curd in the category of jam or honey. This also makes sense to me, since I generally decant it after cooking into a half-pint jar, just like jam and just like honey (except for the kind that comes in a plastic bear, but that is another category altogether). I know it's probably not good logic, to generalize contents from containers, especially when I was the one who put the thing in the container in the first place. Regardless: use one, on baked goods.
Two: make it into lemon squares. I did this tonight. Yes, I arose from my bed of affliction a couple of times, when I wasn't feeling as crappy, i.e., at the apex of the Day-Quil effectiveness parabola. First, to make the curd (see below), and second, to make the squares. Although technically, since among my zillions of baking pans I happen not to have a square one, neither of metal nor of glass, I baked my squares in a round pan, so really they're lemon wedges. And actually, they're lime wedges, since I happened to have a bounty of key limes, so my curd was lime. Use two.
Here's how I made my wedges: I took 1 stick of unsalted butter, cut into little pieces; 1/4 cup granulated sugar; 1 c. flour (I used King Arthur's White Wheat flour); and a pinch of sea salt. These are Ina Garten's proportions, but not her directions. I put all that in a glass bowl and microwaved it for about a minute, until the butter was softened; then I used my fingers to rub the butter into the flour and sugar, and when that seemed to be "happening," I collected the crumbs into a dough, and patted it into the round cake pan, a 9-incher.
You bake this crust for 15 minutes in a preheated 350 degree oven.
But before any of that, you make lemon (or in this case lime) curd. I did this earlier in the afternoon. Here's what you do: whisk 3 large eggs, 3/4 c. sugar, and 1/3 cup lime (or lemon, depending on your citrus fancy) juice in a heavy saucepan. Whisk it good. Put this over medium heat. Now, when I made the Meyer lemon curd, I did as my recipe suggested and rigged up a double boiler. But this took for freaking ever, and I realized that, with as much attention as I was paying to that double boiler and the curd therein, I could simply pay an equivalent amount of attention to a pan directly on the heat, and probably do just fine, and I did. So whisky frequently, perhaps constantly, or almost. You're aiming for the eggs/sugar/juice mixture to thicken, like hollandaise sauce or sour cream.
When it thickens--and it will, and if you've been paying attention, it will have thickened without (a) burning or scorching on the bottom or (b) curdling (I know--ironic)--remove from the heat and add 4 T. butter, cut into small-ish pieces. Whisk that in as it melts. When that's done, add 1 T. zest to it all. Pour it into whatever container you're keeping it in. It will continue to thicken as it cools.
To make the lemon/lime squares, wedges: after the crust has baked for 15 minutes, take it out of the oven and pour your half-pint of curd over it. Spread it to the edges. It will not be thick, but it will be adequate. Put this back into the oven and bake for about another 10-12 minutes. Cool and then behold how dang good it is.
Back to the curd making: while you're pouring the curd into your chosen container, you'll find, I'm sure, that you have a pan to scrape out with a spatula and maybe a cooking spoon. You should by all means eat the scrapings/spoonings, because it would be a crime to leave any of the curd whatsoever. It is delicious. This leads me to my third and final use: eat it out of the jar with a spoon. You could probably put away an entire batch of curd in this fashion over the course of a week or two. Is it good for you? Of course it is. It's delicious and it's made of eggs (protein!) and citrus (wards off scurvy!).
I made some lovely Meyer lemon curd and gave a bottle to a friend for a New Year present. She told me the other evening that she had just finished it, and in the ensuing discussion, she said that you could put it on chicken. What? This use had never even occurred to me--although I almost never eat chicken, so there's that. I think I'm less a sweet/sour person, unless it's in the context of a dessert.
This leaves me with my questions about the curd, and my one-two-three uses.
One: put it on a muffin, or a scone, or a crumpet, or an English muffin. This means to spread it on a toasted baked good. This makes sense to me. It puts curd in the category of jam or honey. This also makes sense to me, since I generally decant it after cooking into a half-pint jar, just like jam and just like honey (except for the kind that comes in a plastic bear, but that is another category altogether). I know it's probably not good logic, to generalize contents from containers, especially when I was the one who put the thing in the container in the first place. Regardless: use one, on baked goods.
Two: make it into lemon squares. I did this tonight. Yes, I arose from my bed of affliction a couple of times, when I wasn't feeling as crappy, i.e., at the apex of the Day-Quil effectiveness parabola. First, to make the curd (see below), and second, to make the squares. Although technically, since among my zillions of baking pans I happen not to have a square one, neither of metal nor of glass, I baked my squares in a round pan, so really they're lemon wedges. And actually, they're lime wedges, since I happened to have a bounty of key limes, so my curd was lime. Use two.
Here's how I made my wedges: I took 1 stick of unsalted butter, cut into little pieces; 1/4 cup granulated sugar; 1 c. flour (I used King Arthur's White Wheat flour); and a pinch of sea salt. These are Ina Garten's proportions, but not her directions. I put all that in a glass bowl and microwaved it for about a minute, until the butter was softened; then I used my fingers to rub the butter into the flour and sugar, and when that seemed to be "happening," I collected the crumbs into a dough, and patted it into the round cake pan, a 9-incher.
You bake this crust for 15 minutes in a preheated 350 degree oven.
But before any of that, you make lemon (or in this case lime) curd. I did this earlier in the afternoon. Here's what you do: whisk 3 large eggs, 3/4 c. sugar, and 1/3 cup lime (or lemon, depending on your citrus fancy) juice in a heavy saucepan. Whisk it good. Put this over medium heat. Now, when I made the Meyer lemon curd, I did as my recipe suggested and rigged up a double boiler. But this took for freaking ever, and I realized that, with as much attention as I was paying to that double boiler and the curd therein, I could simply pay an equivalent amount of attention to a pan directly on the heat, and probably do just fine, and I did. So whisky frequently, perhaps constantly, or almost. You're aiming for the eggs/sugar/juice mixture to thicken, like hollandaise sauce or sour cream.
When it thickens--and it will, and if you've been paying attention, it will have thickened without (a) burning or scorching on the bottom or (b) curdling (I know--ironic)--remove from the heat and add 4 T. butter, cut into small-ish pieces. Whisk that in as it melts. When that's done, add 1 T. zest to it all. Pour it into whatever container you're keeping it in. It will continue to thicken as it cools.
To make the lemon/lime squares, wedges: after the crust has baked for 15 minutes, take it out of the oven and pour your half-pint of curd over it. Spread it to the edges. It will not be thick, but it will be adequate. Put this back into the oven and bake for about another 10-12 minutes. Cool and then behold how dang good it is.
Back to the curd making: while you're pouring the curd into your chosen container, you'll find, I'm sure, that you have a pan to scrape out with a spatula and maybe a cooking spoon. You should by all means eat the scrapings/spoonings, because it would be a crime to leave any of the curd whatsoever. It is delicious. This leads me to my third and final use: eat it out of the jar with a spoon. You could probably put away an entire batch of curd in this fashion over the course of a week or two. Is it good for you? Of course it is. It's delicious and it's made of eggs (protein!) and citrus (wards off scurvy!).
Sunday, November 22, 2009
In medias babka.
Don't you find babka a wonderful word? Winsome. Adorable. And, paradoxically, Slavic, so perhaps a little brooding, melancholic, and dark?
Like many shiksas across America, I first heard of babka on Seinfeld. Recently the idea of babka bubbled up to my consciousness, who knows why? but upon said word surfacing into full cognitive view so that all I could think about was babka, I did what all enterprising cooks do: Googled it, and came up with this recipe. It has so much butter and chocolate in it, I had to buy the butter and chocolate in two shifts. Not that I couldn't have purchased it in one. I just couldn't admit to myself that I was going to bake something with that much butter and chocolate in it. I smuggled my intentions past myself. As it were.
Like many shiksas across America, I first heard of babka on Seinfeld. Recently the idea of babka bubbled up to my consciousness, who knows why? but upon said word surfacing into full cognitive view so that all I could think about was babka, I did what all enterprising cooks do: Googled it, and came up with this recipe. It has so much butter and chocolate in it, I had to buy the butter and chocolate in two shifts. Not that I couldn't have purchased it in one. I just couldn't admit to myself that I was going to bake something with that much butter and chocolate in it. I smuggled my intentions past myself. As it were.
At the moment, the silken, buttery, eggy dough is rising. The chocolate has been finely chopped, all two and half pounds of it, and mixed with the cinnamon and sugar and extra butter. I am optimistic.
Listen, if anyone wants a piece, you just let me know. This recipe makes a lot of babka.
Babka babka babka. Chocolate babka.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Possibly the laziest person alive?
The work just sits there and sits there and doesn't get smaller; yet somehow my reasons for not doing it alter slightly, flickeringly, chimerical, as the hours pass by and I drift from room to room.
Today, I have, however, read the entire paper, discussed its contents with the historian, gone with him and Bruiser to the dog park, uploaded a ton of photographs to flickr, played with my grandson a little, and pondered my lassitude. Pondered it, I say. Deeply. Penetratingly. As the hours pass by.
Today, I have, however, read the entire paper, discussed its contents with the historian, gone with him and Bruiser to the dog park, uploaded a ton of photographs to flickr, played with my grandson a little, and pondered my lassitude. Pondered it, I say. Deeply. Penetratingly. As the hours pass by.
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