This is not your min-mart jerky.
Thank goodness.
When Wichita Falls, TX-based Jerky.com sent me a sample of its new “Pineapple Jerky,” I had horrifying visions of sinewy, jaw-breaking dried meat sheets doused in pineapple juice arriving on my doorstep.
What came in the mail was something all together different: Thin, dried rounds of actual pineapple. No meat was involved; only honey. And this “jerky” was actually pretty, almost resembling a dried flower.
I know a woman who turns up her nose at vegetables in baked goods. Sweet potato pie and pumpkin cheesecake would never touch her lips.
No doubt, she’d push her plate away at fruit tucked into savory dishes, too.
If only she knew what she was missing.
Apples with Cornish game hens. Pears with pork. Duck with cherries.
And of course, apricots with chicken.
There’s just something magical about the slightly sweet, softly rounded flavors of fruit in a main dish.
“Sara’s Persian Chicken” perfumes chicken thighs with cardamom, cumin, cinnamon, ginger, saffron, and dried apricots. It’s akin to a classic chicken tagine, but this recipe from “Braises and Stews” (Chronicle Books) by Tori Ritchie takes a little less effort and time.
I love to serve it with couscous. Just follow the directions on the box of your favorite brand of quick-cooking couscous. I like to cook it with chicken broth instead of water. Sometimes I’ll throw in a pinch of saffron, or not. After it’s cooked, and has steamed to a fluffy texture, I’ll add half of a chopped preserved lemon, some minced chives, and a handful of toasted pine nuts. For a more substantial side dish, stir in some canned, rinsed and drained chickpeas, too, if you like.
Whenever I bite down on a baked good bursting with orange flecks of sweet-tart, chewy dried apricots, I can’t help but think of family road trips.
It makes me think of a time, ensconced in the back seat of my parents’ car, when I’d get all giddy as we pulled into the parking lot of the original Nut Tree in Vacaville. It was the perfect spot to take a break on trips to Sacramento to visit family friends or to Lake Tahoe, where my family used to rent a cabin in the summer. You could fill up on lunch, beverages, or even take a mini train ride. What it meant most to me, though, was getting my hands on a loaf of apricot nut bread.
You’d find the tea cake loaves stacked on a counter, wrapped in paper and plastic, and tied with a fuzzy string of orange yarn the same color as the apricots. There was a date nut bread, and a blueberry one, too. But my family’s favorite was always the apricot.
We’d buy a loaf — or two — and carry it home, where we’d enjoy a slice for breakfast, dessert, or an anytime snack. It was tender, moist, crunchy with nuts, and bursting with tanginess here and there from the pieces of stone fruit. It’s remains my first — and fondest — memory of dried apricots.
Back then, a car trip was something special, as plane tickets for a working-class family of five were a stretch. I guess that’s why dried apricots inexplicably make me think not only of family, but of adventures and travel, sort of like my own edible Eurail pass.
The Nut Tree closed long ago. Although there’s now a Nut Tree Theme Park, I’ve never stopped at it. And I doubt the nut bread is still part of the repertoire.
You could say that “Apricot Flaky Scones” from Flo Braker’s “Baking for All Occasions” (Chronicle Books) cookbook are not at all like a Nut Tree nut bread. They aren’t, except for the fact that they do have jewels of dried apricot pieces throughout a crispy exterior and a fluffy, buttery interior. They also have nuts — in this case, pistachios. Like my nut bread of yore, the scones also are not overly sweet, making them a nice way to start the day without an over-bearing load of sugar.
Braker gives precise directions for folding the dough into thirds like a business letter, so that the scones end up slightly puffed and layered inside. And they do. She says to cut them into thin, small wedges to create 14 scones. I like my scones a little wider, so I cut the dough into a dozen instead.
 
There are dainty cookies. There are itty-bitty cookies. And there are delicate cookies you nibble while holding your pinkie finger in the air.
These Orange Butter Cookies are none of those things.
Indeed, if this cookie were on a playground, it would be the big, hulking bruiser you’d have to make way for fast.
As my husband’s co-worker Kathryn likens, “It’s a monster cookie.”
These cookies measure about 3 1/2 inches in diameter when baked. And I actually made them smaller than the recipe called for. Really!
You’re supposed to form them into balls, using a scant 1/2 cup measure. Me? I used a scant 1/4 cup measure instead, and still they came out pretty ginormous compared to most cookies I bake.
But the flavor is nothing to be afraid of. Buttery, and citrusy, these cookies are crispy on the edges and tender, cakey within. They have this old-fashioned quality about them, reminding me of cookies I ate as a kid that were so big and soft they made for the perfect after-school snack. Of course, the fact that you use your fingers to flatten the dough balls, leaving an impression of your digits after they bake, just adds to the kid-like charm.
The recipe is from “The Sweeter Side of Amy’s Bread” (Wiley). The book is by Amy Scherber, who launched Amy’s Bread bakery in New York City in 1992, and her Executive Pastry Chef Toy Kim Dupree.
When I tried this recipe, I took the opportunity to try three new products I had on hand. Instead of freshly grated orange zest in the dough (I lacked a fresh orange in the house, if you can believe that), I used orange peel granules from the Spice Hound, which sells at my local farmers’ markets and online. Even though the recipe didn’t call for it, I added 1 1/2 teaspoons of King Arthur’s Orange Emulsion, a concentrated orange flavoring stronger than regular extract. And instead of sprinkling the cookies with regular granulated sugar, I used Nielsen-Massey’s Madagascar Bourbon Pure Vanilla Sugar. The results were fabulous.
You don’t have to doctor the recipe with those extras like I did in order to have a soul-satisfying sweet. Indeed, in the recipe below, the only changes I made were to the size of the cookies and the baking time because I made them smaller. The original recipe makes 12 cookies; I made 15.
Some say, “Patience is a virtue.”
I say, “Patience is bread.”
After all, you cannot hurry bread-making. It forces you to slow down, to take your time, to wait until it is good and ready, and not a moment sooner.
In this hustle-bustle world, where we can’t sit still to sip a cup of coffee, where people talk on phones and text-message when they should be simply driving, and where we constantly complain that time is passing us by, making bread from scratch should be a requisite for all of us at least once a month.
It would make us take a breather. And that’s always a good thing.
Take a deserved time out by making “Raisin, Rosemary, and Cinnamon Focaccia” from the new “The Art & Soul of Baking” (Andrews McMeel) by Sur La Table, and pastry chef and baking teacher, Cindy Mushet.
Mushet, who used to live in the Bay Area, but now makes her home in the Pasadena area, was a fellow judge with me in December for the Gene Burns Holiday Cookie Exchange contest. With a fun sense of humor that puts you at ease immediately and a discerning eye for detail, Mushet’s personality is much like this divine focaccia. It’s a mix of strong characteristics that come together seamlessly.
This ever so slightly sweet focaccia is perfect for breakfast, smeared with a little mascarpone, fromage blanc, or jam. Think raisin bread, but not so sugary tasting and squishy soft. Instead, this is a more rustic, chewy version turned grown-up with the addition of heady rosemary.
A couple of my husband’s male colleagues found the 1/3 cup of fresh rosemary too strong for their tastes. But if you like rosemary, it’s not overwhelming. Indeed, both my hubster’s female co-worker and I both thought the pine-y flavor a nice counterpart to the sweetness of both the raisins and turbinado sugar sprinkled on top.
I even used the new Chinese cassia cinnamon I had just bought at Penzeys in Menlo Park in the dough. When I opened the jar, I could really smell the strong spicy, earthy fragrance — a real contrast to the wimpy aroma of most supermarket jars that have been sitting on the shelf for who knows how long.
The dough came together easily in the mixer. Then, I let it rise for 90 minutes. After patting it into the sheet pan and brushing it with a slick of good olive oil, I had to wait for it to rise yet again for almost another two hours. See what I mean about patience when it comes to bread-making?
After 30 minutes, the focaccia came out of the oven a deep golden brown. I had to allow it to cool for a mere 10 minutes before digging in.
I ate one piece. Then, another. I had to be restrained before I reached for a third.
Patience does indeed come to those who wait. And with it, some mighty fine focaccia, too.
Raisin, Rosemary, and Cinnamon Focaccia