Jack Sprat

We both grew up with the nursery rhyme, "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. And so between the two of them, they licked the platter clean." In our early days as a couple it became clear that Darling Husband and I were like Jack and his dear spouse, but it was the salty/sweet divide. He adored sweets; I craved salty. He bought milk chocolate; I bought dark. He would snack on candies; I would munch on cheezy crackers. It has been a good match.

Over time, I have come to appreciate the sweet, and he the salty. Salted caramels covered in dark chocolate, cardamom saffron cake, and chicken mole satisfied us both. It has been a long journey, but there are now days when I will slip raisins in my purse, and he will opt for almonds.

But one food we have always agreed on is cheese: he might levitate toward a sweet fresh rambol with dessert wine, and I will aim for the stinky chèvre with a flinty sauvignon blanc, but we both spread it on baguettes and sip from each others' glasses.

With dairy off the menu for so many years, and resolve to not buy supermarket junk pumped full of chemicals in boxes, it has been difficult to satisfy my cravings. It has been a long time coming, but I have finally broken the snack barrier, concocting a recipe that satisfies my salty-cheesy cravings without compromising diet or boundaries. Even my sweet-toothed spouse agrees.

Cheezy crackers

• 8 oz Daiya cheese substitute (extra-sharp cheddar cheese works too, if you eat dairy), shredded
• ½ stick unsalted margarine or butter, at room temperature
• 1 c GF flour (I use a mix of brown rice flour and tapioca starch; wheat flour works too)
• 2 T ice water
• 1 t kosher salt

In a food processor, pulse the cheese, butter until soft and combined. Add the flour and mix on low speed (the dough will be dry and pebbly). Slowly add the water and continue to mix as the dough forms a ball.

Pat the dough into a disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375˚F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking sheets.

Divide the dough into two pieces and roll each into a very thin (1/8 inch or less) 10 x 12-inch rectangle. Sprinkle with salt. Using a fluted pastry cutter, cut the rectangles into 1-inch squares, then transfer to the baking sheets. Use the tip of a chopstick to punch a hole into the center of each square.

Bake for 15-17 minutes or until puffed and browning at the edges. Watch carefully, as the high fat content of the crackers makes it a fine line between deliciously crispy and burnt. Immediately move the crackers to racks to cool.

Delicious with cold hard cider and a good book on a warm afternoon.

Perfect Pete

I met Pete today. Pete, who was shivering because he hadn’t bundled up enough against the chill this cloudy Seattle morning, makes Pete’s Perfect Butter Toffee. After careful analysis, I can attest that his toffee is indeed buttery and about as close to perfect as any toffee I’ve ever had.

I met Pete at the University District Farmer’s Market, one of three year-round open-air markets in the Seattle area. Since the cello run already takes me over the bridge, I’m only a few minutes away from this little slice of local heaven. More than a few hardy souls joined me this morning.

I went with every intention of coming away with armloads of healthy produce, really I did. In the end, the bag did contain some very lovely lumpy potatoes (blue and red, since I couldn’t decide), curly-edged kale, apples, and still-muddy scallions, but it also had things like fresh goat cheese and fromage blanc, a dense honey whole-wheat loaf and a bottle of hard cider, and even some chicken and duck eggs. Oh, and the toffee.

The other thing I took away from the market, which cost me nothing, was inspiration. Now, I fully expect to have to restrain myself at the market in September, when truckloads of fruits and vegetables scream, “Take me home!” “No, take me!” as I stroll through. On those occasions, I need helpers to carry the bounty, and then help me process it into jams and such for the winter. I tend to come home with enough to make eight meals for the week, and even growing boys can only eat so much. But this is barely March, and though the buds are plump on the fruit trees, they are not yet blossoms, let alone ripe fruit. I expected to find turnips and kale and not much more. The foods of winter were there in abundance, offering warmth to the chill: cheeses (aged and fresh, goat and cow), meat (beef, goat and oysters), bread, eggs, preserves, along with the buds of the season to come: little baby carrots (finger-sized because they grew that way, not because they’d been lathed down to that dimension), nearly translucent in the weak sunshine, and pencil-thin scallions, fragrant bundles with long root beards and mud still attached. My head races with the possibilities: steam and mash the red-skinned potatoes with heavy cream and some scallions; pan sear the kale with some carrots and orange juice; or maybe roast it with the blue potatoes and chicken. An omelette of duck eggs and fresh goat cheese and more of those scallions, or maybe quiche, with some smoky bacon. Wash it down with the cider, or use the golden liquid to deglaze some pork chops and apple slices sautéed in butter. For dessert, maybe mix fromage blanc with some apricot preserves; or use those fresh egg whites to make a light genoise and use up the last two Meyer lemons in the bowl.

By the time I got back to the car, my canvas bag was overflowing with ideas. I couldn’t wait until I’d bitten into the quintessential Washington fruit before I called Darling Husband to pull some steak out of the freezer to thaw. Jazzed, inspired, invigorated—and I hadn’t even had a chance to dig into the bag yet.

On the way back from the market to pick up Number One from rehearsal, I noted wryly that the parking lot in front of Northgate Mall was absolutely packed with cars, shoppers no doubt in search of the perfect fashion accessory. Me, I’ll stick with my old jeans (there’s a smudge where I wiped some mud from the scallions off my hands) and take perfect toffee.

Après Silvestre

After the cheese fondue—nearly three pounds of cheese melted and scooped up with chunks of chewy ciabatta loaf and rinsed down with a lovely German Gewürztraminer (Bloom)—and the company of good friends; after the decadent princess torte from Hoffman’s, with its layers of delicate sponge cake, cream, and marzipan; after the bottle of bubbly from Château Ste. Michelle and the fireworks, the kisses and hugs; and after the late night punctuated by wandering children, cats and neighbor’s fireworks, you would think that we were done with revelry.

But no, we woke to greet 2008 late and lazy, and after a leisurely photo shoot of matching Hanna PJs and cute family toes, we headed to the kitchen at an awkward hour: far too late for breakfast, way too early for lunch. Luckily, New Year’s day and the leftovers in our fridge work well enough together. We pulled out the cut loaf from last night and melted the last bit of cheese, then uncorked the leftover champagne and had ourselves a brunch fondue.

Stymied by the leftover cake—cheesecake, angel food and princess—we invited one more friend over in the afternoon to help take care of it. We melted some chocolate in the fondue pot (easy, since it was already out). And thoroughly decadent.

We slide into our “normal” routines tomorrow, the boys to work and school, myself to the pile that has accumulated on my desk over the past two weeks. That means a healthy supper and early bedtime, for we must rise before the sun tomorrow. Needless to say, no one was particularly hungry after the melted debauchery, but a quick toss of broccoli and carrots in some garlic and oil over some leftover brown rice went over well, and should get us back on track for living not only well but right.

Visions of cheese

I dreamt of cheese last night. I’m not sure why, but there you have it: slabs of cheddar in toasted cheese sandwiches. It comes at a good time: The tree is finally up, and there are even some presents under it, along with the cat, who thinks it a splendid place to sleep. Gramma arrived yesterday, and the boys are thrilled. Their uncle, my brother, arrives today, since he needed to do his shopping yesterday. That means X-Day is even closer.

With a solid English tradition behind us, there is a large roast beast (from Oregon Country Beef) waiting for the oven tomorrow. We’ll fill out with red potatoes chiogga beets, a Yorky pud, and some green beans. Our soggy autumn means some of the produce has come from farther south than I care to admit, but local pears will top a warm frangipane tart (we’ll melt some ice cream on top). But what about the Christmas Eve? If we were good Catholics (we’re not, but I promised the bishop I wouldn’t stand in my husband’s way when raising our children as such), we would fast until after evening mass. That’s already a lost ideal, since Gramma joined the boys in a bowl of manly oatmeal for breakfast.

So what to make? As if he can read my dreams of cheese like an open book, Darling Husband looks at me and says, “let’s make Käsespätzle!” It’s a meal the whole family makes together: Beat together 500 grams of flour and 6 eggs until bubbles form. Sounds easy enough, but we have to take turns beating the thick mixture, since our arms tire. Then one person takes up a position at the pot of boiling water and spoons the bubbly dough into the Spätzle press. Another gets the job of lifting the cooked noodles out of the pot with the strainer spoon when they rise to the surface, and layering them with grated Gruyère in a big warm bowl. Whoever isn’t cooking is setting the table and helping make salad. When the whole thing is done, a generous handful of crunchy onions goes on top and we all dig in.

We’ll fête the evening with eggnog and oodles of homemade cookies and a reading of The Night Before Christmas, and take a plate to the neighbors. The boys will artfully arrange a selection for the old guy in the red suit, along with the finest local carrots for the reindeer, of course (We figure the cat will be really surprised by his appearance in the fireplace). The Spätzle will warm our bellies and stick to our ribs, and the cookies will fill the corners, insuring that when we settle down for our long winter’s nap, we’ll be surrounded by visions of sugarplums—or Brie, as the case may be.