Cupcakery

I never got the whole cupcake craze.
Until now.
I have on my desk a chocolatey-chocolate treat that surpasses any of the mega-muffin, overblown, looks-good-tastes-okay cupcakes I’ve sampled before, from all over the food map: kiosks and food trucks, restaurants, bakeries and coffee shops. Hoping each time for a luscious combination of flavor and texture, each time has been a distinct disappointment. Where do I finally find satisfaction? At the office potluck.

I always want a cupcake to deliver not only the amusement of having a miniature cake to eat, sometimes decorated with clever or beautiful or just plain delicious frosting, but also to live up to the idea of cupcake, which conjures up childhood birthday parties full of glitter and balloons. This cupcake, in addition to satisfying the adult in me, even hits that childhood note. And, it allows me to, once again, laud the homemade over the store-bought.

Today’s cupcake was baked by my friend, Barbara, who, I am learning, is a cake queen (she made a Thomas the Tank Engine cake for her preschooler that looked as though it would come alive and say something perky to Mr. Conductor). Her cupcake features the sort of chocolate flavor that satisfies the deepest craving; the cake is soft and yielding and full of flavor, moist but not gloppy, light but not lightweight. To pump it up even more, she’s covered it in dark ganache so rich I can’t wait to try making these myself, just so I can lick the bowl.

On top of all this is the cupcake’s sweetest twist, which adds not just whimsy, but texture and crunch to go perfectly with the smooth, rich cupcake itself: crunchy sugar sprinkles in silver, gold and white, carefully shaped into stars. Barbara tells me she got the decorations from the legendary cake decorating shop, Little Bitts, in Wheaton – a must-stop for any serious home cake makers.

Barbara’s other secret: her masterpiece is crafted from the Georgetown Cupcakes recipe, snipped from a Washington Post comparison of local cupcakeries printed a couple of years ago. Maybe Barbara has a three-ring binder like mine, bursting with these sorts of clippings. All I really need to know now, though, is that the recipe is available, and I can try it myself. (Also that you can use Ghiardelli if you can’t splurge on (or find) Valrhona or Callebaut). Fun.

Degrees of cold

I am a Florida girl. But after nearly 30 years in the Washington area, and four in the mountains of North Carolina before that, I may finally understand how to survive winter.
1) Embrace the cold.
2) Have really good gear.
3) Remember: being cold is not fatal.
One winter I learned to snowboard. Full assault on cold, snow, ice, everything, complete with red-tipped ears, chapped lips and numb fingers and toes. This was the most effective way of shoehorning myself out of the winter cocoon of blankets and coziness indoors, out into cheek-slapping cold that invigorated me. I even sweated, getting up and down off the snow as I learned. Big fun.

This week, I biked to metro despite the 17-degree temperatures, the coldest we’ve had this year. I felt charged up by the time I’d locked up my bike and walked toward the train. Fun might be a stretch. But it did feel good.

It helped that I had good gear. Thanks to my big sister for this lesson: she learned to live in upstate New York and Montana. LL Bean and REI have become my best friends. Silk long underwear is the bomb. Heavy socks are an essential. Good, comfy gloves. Layers of sweaters I can peel off as I warm up. And a hat – how do all those guys riding metro, with their close-cropped heads, go without? I don’t get it.

Most important epiphany: I will not die of cold. I might be uncomfortable. But I don’t have to spend the entire time I am cold thinking about what to do –fast—to be un-cold. I can just be cold. This is easier if I remind myself that I will be warm again soon.

In fact, this week I was warm so soon—with temperatures swinging back up around 50— I had to peel off extra sweaters to stay comfortable. I almost missed the cold. And for a Florida girl, that’s saying a lot.

Anticipating the new year

The usual platitudes about the new year are familiar to us all: exercise more, eat less. We tailor them to our own lives: Choose the bicycle over the car, get up before the dog. Empty the compost before it overflows into a second and third bowl. Do more yoga, meditate, plant a bigger garden. Write letters.

I don’t make promises. But I love a new beginning and the hope it implies. Like the smell of new pencils at the start of a school year, the raw weather of January inspires me to look at where I have been, and begin to shape where I am going in a more deliberate and intentional way.

At our house, when we celebrate the New Year, along with good friends and celebratory toasts, we take time for reflection. What difficulties do we want to let go from last year? What hopes do we hold out for the year to come? We write these challenges and dreams on small slips of paper and burn them, releasing them to the heavens the way we blow on fuzzy dandelion seeds in spring, making wishes.

And then we turn back to the everyday, having visited the possible.

Good news

This morning I read two good-news articles in the paper. In a row.

I consider that a banner day.

Maybe it had something to do with opening up the local Gazette, instead of the nationally-focused Washington Post.
It’s not that the Post is a bad paper. It’s just bad news. More than once, I’ve put my subscription on hold because I just couldn’t take the depressing headlines any more.

Yesterday was particularly upsetting: a photo of Afghanis mourning the people jumbled in piles at their feet, people killed and injured in the most recent violence there, their brightly-colored clothes mixed with blood in a vivid, confusing pastiche of loss. There was also a story about Prince George’s County Executive Jack Johnson’s prison sentence, handed down for fiction-worthy greed: he infamously advised his wife to flush a $100,000 check and hide another $79,000 in cash in her bra, to avoid being caught taking nearly $1 million in bribes. I guess that could be considered good news: he got his due. But the echo of sad behavior is inescapable.

Of course, I could dig and find better headlines: “Cookies,” for example, the annual holiday recipe with the oh-so-tempting photos on the cover of the Food section. And the previous day’s piece on Jane Goodall was inspiring: at age 77 she says, “There is so much I have to do!” Since I turn 50 this month, I find this particularly inspiring.

But today’s Gazette took the prize. “Happy to see Santa” headlines a photo of a beaming little girl in Santa’s embrace. “Curfew proposal ends up on the shelf,” describing the County Council’s decision to table a teen curfew that, I feel, was an overreaction to gang violence and a curb on personal freedom. Good decision! And my favorite: “Pay raises proposed for county teachers.” Finally, a bright spot in this dismal economy.

Am I wrong to ignore bad news? I rationalize that my worrying will hardly help fix the tragedies that occur half a world away; even my activism, if I choose to rise up and take action through advocacy for any of a million good causes, would barely make a dent. Some people are built for international action, for fighting the forces of evil; I applaud their efforts. As for me, I believe I’m more suited for tending the home fires, making my own life and the lives around me feel more secure and fulfilling. I’m better at highlighting the good, rather than condemning the bad. I hope that’s not a cop-out. But I know my limits.

Maybe I’ll become one of those quirky newspaper readers who wind up in literary fiction: people who read the New York Times with a red pen, to circle any errors they find, or people who compile scrapbooks of themed articles. I could cut out all the bad news from the newspapers and leave the Swiss cheese of good news lying about the house to lift our spirits.

In fact, we already do this: our “Image of the Week” is posted on the frig, a changing tableau of inspiration. This week, the comic strip character, “Lio,” is shown with her snowman built of autumn leaves, turning the impending dark season into light-hearted fun. That’s my kind of news.

Savoring the home kitchen, wherever you are

Sitting in a high-rise, 2:30 p.m., the usual afternoon office slump
Brightened considerably this day by the best snack:
Apple pie from home.
Crust by Tyler,
Filling by Clara.
And as I enjoy this treat, I remember Ty prefers to use butter instead of shortening (a more processed food, he likes to keep things simple); and I remember that he learned, as he made this crust, that it’s best not to handle the dough too much or it will get tough (unlike bread, whose mantra is the more handling/kneading the better). I remember wondering with Clara how long to cook the apples so they wouldn’t be too crunchy or too mushy, and whether the variety we used would give us the consistency we wanted.
All in all, this pie strikes a good balance.
Even better, it brings me back to my kitchen, and my kids, in the middle of the work day.

This particular pie was a holiday pie, baked for the post-Thanksgiving gathering of friends we hosted last Friday. We don’t need a holiday to enjoy cooking together, of course, but we do tend to gather in the kitchen this time of year. There, working together, food becomes not just something tasty, but something that binds us together.

This year, the Thanksgiving Day feast at the Grandad’s house included a trifecta of pies—Katherine’s apple tart (beautifully layered, sophisticated, refined and oh, so flavorful, just bursting with tart appleness); Doug’s pecan (a southern classic from a southern boy, all gooey corn syrup and nuts); and my pumpkin (the usual pumpkin-y sweetness, this time topped with perfectly browned , cinnamon-dusted maple leaf-shaped pie crust cookies). There was also a locally raised, free range turkey from Anne and Giles presented, perfectly cooked and perfectly carved, and especially appreciated among those of us who choose vegetarian fare or “righteous” meat, raised sustainably and humanely. Thanks for that.

The post-Thanksgiving feast was full of kids in town for the holiday, all coming and going with various leftovers and fresh-made contributions, plus another bird roasted especially for this occasion (“righteous,” again) and two pies from our oven—apple and pumpkin-chocolate. Clara and Tyler also made the gravy together, leaning over their father’s recipe, stirring and tasting until it was, well, perfect.

It all comes back to me as I savor the apple pie in the office.

Thanksgiving all over again.

Huckleberry pie

There really is such a thing as huckleberry pie. I’ve just made it.
I learned about huckleberries from the country woman at the Farmer’s Market. Among all the young and optimistic organic farmers there, who I imagine are idealistic and out to save the world with local agriculture, there are a few old school folks. This woman is one of them: someone whose family has probably been farming for generations not because they want to get back to the land, but because they were already there. She is a big woman with a face that’s spent years in the sun, maybe without sunscreen, and she seems as though she’d be more comfortable telling you how to fix the tractor than debating the merits of sustainable vs organic designations. She knows a lot of stuff.
Last year, she taught me about “peppercress,” which she pronounced “pepper grass.” Peppercress looks like a pesky weed you’d pull out of your garden (and maybe she did, then slapped a price on the plastic bag full of it) -- but it tastes like a delicately spiced mustard green.
This year, Farm Woman sold huckleberries. I didn’t know they existed, really, beyond the pages of Mark Twain’s books.
These perfectly round, dark, purply-black berries are bitter unless you cook them, Farm Woman told me. People think they taste like blueberries, she said. I bought a quart (exactly enough to make a pie) and took her recipe to go with it.
Add enough sugar and lemon to these and she’s right, huckleberries become something like a blueberry, without the tartness. Depending on your piecrust, they make a respectable pie. Delicious, even.
The magic of huckleberries is that you can make something edible out of an otherwise unappealing plant growing out in your yard, I imagine sort of like a briar patch. And there’s the undeniable kick of nostalgia for bringing an old-timey sounding food out of obscurity and onto my table.
What’s for dessert? Huckleberry Pie. Don’t you so want to say that?

Garden Huckleberry pie
Modified from Homestead Farm, Charles County recipe

4 cups huckleberries
1 ¼ cups unrefined cane sugar
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon butter
Juice of one lemon
2 tablespoons cornstarch
Pastry for 9-inch pie
Crumble topping (see below)
Stem, wash and drain berries. Place in a heavy pot, cover with cold water and bring to slow boil. Cook until soft – 5 or 10 minutes. Drain, and mash to break skins.
Add sugar, nutmeg, salt, butter, lemon juice and cornstarch. Cook about five minutes or until the mixture thickens.

Make crumble topping:
1 cup rolled oats
½ cup whole wheat flour
¼ to ½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cinnamon
4 tablespoons butter, cut up
Stir first four ingredients together. Add butter and mash it into the dry mixtures with your fingers until it’s spread pretty evenly throughout.

Assemble:
Place the filling into the pie crust; top with the crumble topping. Bake at 350 for about 40 minutes.

Late season market

Standing at the Takoma Park Farmer’s Market, lines of people teem by with their market bags and baskets overflowing with the fall harvest. Our market is the kind of place where you comment to the stranger who’s picking over the big, fat green beans across the table from you, and say that even though they’re big, they’re tender, here, try a bite. And then you wonder out loud whether you should break them up or cook them whole, and the woman, who is wearing the most extravagant Sunday hat, with feathers flying off of it at least a foot from her head, says, in a sympathetic tone, “Oh, honey, you snap ‘em.” As in, how could you not know this basic cooking rule?
And I thought snapping beans meant just snapping the ends off, when it really means snapping them into bite-size pieces.
And then you see another neighbor who you thought would be the kind of person who would eat her green beans still crispy, and she admits that she likes them cooked to death, with bacon. The old-fashioned way.
This is how I get inspired to cook.
One stall this week has fresh black beans, with instructions on how to cook them (20 minutes, boiling). Wow, we eat a lot of canned or dried black beans, that’s something I’d like to grow. There are turnips and collards and carrots, too, bok choy and kale and onions, potatoes, four kinds of squash, pears and apples.
This is how I get inspired to garden.