Category Archives: Fruit

Orange You Glad To Discover This Cookie?

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 A glass of OJ paired with Orange Butter Cookies.

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.

Extras I added, but you don't necessarily have to.

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.

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Fancy Focaccia

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Chewy, tender, sweet, and fragrant focaccia for breakfast.

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

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Meyer Lemons — The Salty

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The beginnings of preserved lemons.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Moroccan cooking expert Kitty Morse.

After all, she’s the one who taught me just how easy it is to make my own preserved lemons.

How easy?

So easy that you don’t even need a real recipe for it.

I took a cooking class at Draeger’s years ago that Morse taught. It was there that she turned me on to the endless wonders of preserved lemons.

They cost a tidy sum if you buy them already made in jars in fancy gourmet stores. They cost mere pennies if you make them yourself, especially if you have your own lemon tree.

I always use Meyer lemons just because I love the floral, complex, and less puckery taste that they have. But I also know that Mourad Lahlou, the Marrakech-born chef-owner of Aziza in San Francisco, likes both Meyers and Eurekas, but for different uses. At a cooking demonstration late last year at the Culinary Institute of America’s Greystone Campus in St. Helena, Lahlou said he favors the more delicate preserved Meyer lemons in salads, but preserved Eurekas in long-cooked stews because the rind is thicker and doesn’t break down so much.

Day One: Packing the lemons into the jar.

Whatever lemon variety you choose, I guarantee you will have a fascinating time making preserved lemons. If you have kids, they’ll have fun watching the lemons do their thing, too. Think of it as your own little science experiment.

Week 2: The lemons are softening, and exuding their juice.

Indeed, the first time I wrote about making preserved lemons years ago in the San Jose Mercury News, I admitted I couldn’t stop looking at my lemons as they transformed themselves. I wasn’t the only one. Many readers wrote back after making their own batch, confessing that if they woke up in the middle of the night, they’d sneak a peek at their lemons. Morse even laughed that my lemons had become my pets.

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Meyer Lemons — The Sweet

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My first jam.

I have a confession to make: I had a serious case of the jam jitters.

Don’t get me wrong. I love jam. In fact, I enjoy it almost every morning, spread thickly on sourdough toast or an English muffin.

But I had never made jam.

Until now.

You see, I was a can-o-phobe. There are some notable culinary life passages we all face: Cooking that first Thanksgiving turkey. Baking something with yeast for the first time. Shucking that first oyster. Add to that list, jam-making for me. I’d conquered those other rites long ago. It was high time to tackle this one, too.

When I won a load of homegrown Meyer lemons from 5 Second Rule’s recent raffle, I wanted to put them to good use. So, Meyer Lemon Marmalade with Vanilla Bean seemed like a most fitting tribute.

A load of lemons.

Jam-making veterans had told me how easy it was to do. They took such pleasure in doing something so old-fashioned and nurturing, and not to mention cost-effective in this horrific economy.

For years, I had put off trying my hand at jam. Well, I’d have to buy a water bath canner, for one thing. I’d heard horror stories of jams that didn’t gel. And I worried I’d end up poisoning friends and family members alike if I screwed it up.

Can-o-phobia, I tell ya.

So, this recipe was perfect for a neophyte like me. It required no water bath canner or any pectin. It consisted of only lemons, sugar, salt, water, and a vanilla bean. I could store the jam in jars in the refrigerator after I’d sterilized them in the dishwasher. It was as easy as can be.

I used a mandolin to slice the Meyers thinly, and then removed all the seeds. As the lemons simmered in a big pot on the stove with the other ingredients, the house smelled incredible. Meyer Lemon #5, anyone? The natural, fresh, floral, citrusy fragrance was as intoxicating as any expensive perfume.

My only hitch was that I couldn’t get the boiling mixture up to 230 degrees. I came up 10 degrees short, no matter how long I simmered it or at how high of a heat. No matter, the jam set up perfectly once it was refrigerated for a few hours.

As I stared at my jars, looking for all the world like they were imbued with pure sunshine, I admit that I felt proud. And when I spread my marmalade on toast each morning, I smile at its sweet-tart taste, and its thick, rind-laden, pulpy texture.

Jam jitters?

Forget about it.

Meyer Lemon and Vanilla Bean Marmalade

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Like Mother, Like Daughter

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Fuyus and fresh ginger make magic together.

Sort of. Kind of.

When it comes to persimmons anyways.

You see, I was never a persimmon fan until I reached adulthood. As a child, though, I remember my late-Mom having baskets of persimmons all over the kitchen and dining room at this time of year. They were the acorn-shaped Hachiya variety, the ones that are bitter and nasty astringent if eaten unripe. You had to wait patiently, to be rewarded when they turned soft and sweet like summer apricots. And my Mom was nothing if not patient.

I, on the other hand, admit to enjoying more instant gratification at times. Plus, as a kid, there was something so horror flick-like about watching fruit get more and more gushy before you ate it out of hand, the sticky flesh smeared all over your fingers. “Attack of the Strange Orange Fruit,” anyone? It was enough to give you the heebie-jeebies.

Now that I can appreciate persimmons, though, I prefer the squatty Fuyu. After all, with this type, there’s no waiting. You eat it when it’s still firm and crisp. My kind of persimmon.

I love it in salads. The orange color lends a jewel-like contrast to leaves of bitter greens tossed with toasted walnuts. Or enjoy them with the heat of ginger in this salad from “The Breakaway Cook” (William Morrow)  by San Franciscan Eric Gower, who lived in Japan for 15 years.

Known fact: I love ginger.

A heap of minced fresh ginger (1/4 cup!!) is softened in a little butter, maple syrup and champagne vinegar, then poured over Fuyu slices. It’s as simple as that. The sweet burn of fresh ginger pairs harmoniously with the sweetness of the Fuyus. If you dress the persimmons earlier in the day, then refrigerate them until serving later that night, the fruit will soften a bit, for those who like their Fuyus a little less crisp.

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