Visions of Sugar Plums: Christmas Baking

It’s that time of year, my friends, the time when I start thinking about Christmas cookies. When I was little, there were certain cookies we only had at the holidays. We had pizzelles, cooked over the gas stove with the pizzelle iron that my great-grandfather had made for my great-grandmother. We had biscotti, the real biscotti, that is, flavored with anisette. We had bowties, the thinly rolled, deep-fried dough that was dusted with confectioner’s sugar. My mother added buttery spritz, my father’s favorite, and Polish nut rolls, both bite sized and logs. There were plenty of cookies to eat and to share.

When I got married, I started to expand my repertoire of cookies for Christmas. Every year, I would scan recipe books and magazines for new ideas so that my cookie trays would wow the crowd. Soon Christmas baking became an obsession.

For the past five years, however, I have sworn to myself, to my husband, to my children, to the powers that be that this year I will not go crazy. I will not try to top my personal best (200 dozen cookies, yes, 2400 individually-made treats). I will limit myself to baking the number of cookies that my immediate family, friends, and neighbors can consume. I will only bake the favorite of favorites. I will limit myself to one weekend, one weekend only, of baking cookies.

Then something happens. There is the casual comment, “What are you baking this year?” or an invitation to a party, or a glance at last year’s Christmas list, and I break into a cooking frenzy.

There is no other time of year that justifies this level of decadence. And decadence it is. I don’t just buy butter; I invest in Plugra and Kerrygold. I'm not satisfied with Nestlés chocolate chips; it has to be Merkens or Guittard or Callebaut. Don’t get me started on vanilla. If it isn't Penzey’s double vanilla, it doesn’t make the grade. I will place an emergency order by phone (my voice conveys the urgency that the internet lacks) to get it delivered on time. This year, I’ve ordered farm eggs from a couple I know through my son. He chicken sits for them, and he knows their chickens by name. Those eggs have to be better than the ones I can buy at Giant, right? The chickens will have to go into hyper drive because I typically use at least ten dozen eggs. Pizzelles alone require two dozen.

This year, though, I swear I am only going to bake enough cookies to fill a few cookie trays. I am only going to bake the necessities, the pizzelles, the biscotti (two, no three kinds), the meringues, the chocolate chips, a few gingerbread men. And oh, a macaroon or two. Oops, I almost forgot the chocolate-covered peanut butter Rice Krispy treats. And there are the absolutely adorable decorated sugar cookies on the Real Simple website. And the spritz. I can't leave out the spritz because I bought special decorations for the wreaths. And there are the to-die-for caramels. And the caramel popcorn doesn’t count because it isn't cookies. 

Yes, the insanity is only beginning. Check back for pictures. In the meantime, here is the recipe for Cherry Almond Biscotti, in case you aren't around when I'm putting together cookie trays.

Cherry Almond Biscotti

2 cups flour

1 cup sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

¼ cup butter (one half stick), cut into small pieces

1 cup whole almonds, lightly toasted and coarsely chopped

1 cup whole candied cherries

2 extra-large eggs (or two large eggs plus one egg yolk), slightly beaten

½ teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350º. Grease large baking sheet or line with parchment paper.

Combine flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in large bowl and cut in butter with pastry blender until coarse crumbs form. (Alternately, chop almonds in bowl of food processor. Transfer almonds to large bowl. Add flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt to food processor. Add butter and pulse until crumbs form. Transfer to the large bowl with the chopped almonds.)

Add cherries (and almonds, if you did not use a food processor), eggs, and vanilla and stir until everything holds together in a slightly sticky dough. You will have to use your hands, so I recommend taking off your rings before starting this recipe.

Divide dough in half. On lightly floured surface, shape each half into a 10-inch log. Transfer to prepared baking sheet. Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until log feels firm to the touch.

Let log cool on the sheet for 20-30 minutes. Move to a large cutting board (large enough to hold the entire log so it doesn’t break). With a serrated knife, cut each log diagonally into slices about ¾ inch thick. Return slices to baking sheet, cut side down. They will not spread, so you can crowd them rather than dirty a second baking sheet.

Bake for 10 minutes and remove from oven and turn over. Return to oven for another 5 minutes or until the cookies are crisp and firm to the touch.

Option: Melt ½ cup white chocolate chips according to package directions. Spoon into a re-sealable plastic bag or a decorating bag. Clip a tiny corner of the bag, and drizzle the white chocolate decoratively over cooled cookies. Let chocolate set completely before storing. It will take about an hour, depending on how warm you keep your house. Cookies keep for at least two weeks at room temperature—if you can hold onto them that long.

Serve with coffee. Relax and enjoy!

Wintry Mix

If you live in southeastern Pennsylvania, you might have heard the forecasters hype a snowstorm for today. I was a little disappointed to wake to rain, but it brought the chilly dampness that harkens winter, the kind of day when mothers think soup. I'm not talking about a can of tomato or an envelope of chicken noodle. No, a day like today calls for soup simmering on the back of the stove for hours, a rich stock, a tender stew, a bean pot. 

I can remember my grandmother making stock on a day like today. With a minimum investment of time and ingredients, she would transform a leftover carcass and a few aromatics into golden broth. The gently simmering liquid added much needed humidity to a winter house. The steam misted the windows, creating a warm cocoon. The homey aroma promised a hearty, healthy dinner. 

It’s easy to keep soup ingredients on hand. Onions, carrots, garlic, and celery are staples in most kitchens. Bay leaves are another staple that you can use in tomato soups and many other recipes. I keep a zip lock bag in the freezer with the bits of chicken most people discard (bones with a bit of meat on them, wing ends, the tendons that I cut away from breasts, necks from a whole chicken). I also freeze the carcass of chicken or turkey rather than toss it in the trash. When we have ham, I always buy it with the bone. It’s cheaper, and I have the start for split pea soup or pasta fagiole. Soup is an economical way to feed a family.

Some people believe that soup making is a kind of alchemy, beyond the reach of the average cook. I suspect that these people never witnessed a soup maker at work. Work is probably too strong a word for soup making, however. The only heavy lifting involved is moving the filled pot to and from the stove. While it does take time to make soup, the time is largely unattended. In fact, the best part of making soup is that it gives me an excuse to stay indoors on a nasty day. If I’m asked to run an errand, I can simply say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m making soup.” A fellow soup maker understands. The uninitiated are awed. And I’m left to tend my soup, usually sitting in my recliner with a book in my hands.

So today, I found a bag of beans I bought at the Grower’s Market, and tonight we’ll have pasta fagiole, a perfect meal for a perfectly nasty day.

Pasta Fagiole

1 pound small white beans*, rinsed and picked over to remove any dirt or stones

1 bay leaf

1 meaty ham bone

1 onion, chopped

2 carrots, thinly sliced

2 stalks of celery, thinly sliced

2 cloves of garlic, minced

1 small can diced tomatoes

1 cup uncooked ditalini (or any small pasta)

Cover beans with water in a large, heavy pot with lid and bring to a boil. Remove from heat, cover pot, and let sit for one hour.

After the beans have softened, drain, and return to the same pot. Add bay leaf and ham bone. Cover all with water by at least 1 inch. Bring to a boil, then lower heat to a simmer, cover pot, and cook until beans are tender, between 2 and 3 hours. (Don’t be tempted to cook beans at a high temperature. The beans will break apart, leaving you with a pot of mush.) Add hot water as needed to keep everything covered.

When beans are tender, remove ham bone and add onion, carrots, celery, garlic, and tomatoes. Continue to cook for another hour, until the vegetables are tender. If necessary, add more hot water to bring to a soup-like consistency. When the ham is cool enough to handle, remove any meat from the bone, chop, and return it to the soup pot.

About 30 minutes before serving, bring pot of salted water to a boil and cook the ditalini until al dente. Drain and add to the soup pot. Allow everything to simmer for about five minutes, then turn off the heat and let sit for another five minutes while you gather the family together, slice a loaf of crusty bread, and pour the wine. Remove bay leaf. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve with a drizzle of full-flavored extra-virgin olive oil.

Mangia!

Vegetarian option: eliminate ham and add extra garlic and onions. Sauté the vegetables in olive oil over low heat until caramelized to add a depth of flavor before returning the beans to the pot and covering with water. Add a generous teaspoon of salt when cooking the beans and the vegetables because otherwise the beans will be bland.

Other options: if you don’t have a ham bone, you can substitute bacon or pancetta. Put the bacon or pancetta in the empty pot while you are draining the beans. Cook until the bacon or pancetta releases its fat and becomes crisp. Continue the recipe as written.

*Fresher beans will cook more quickly than older beans, but there is little difference in flavor.

Dinner in Munich

After a whirlwind visit in Italy with Mylène and Ryan, Gary and I drove to Malapensa Airport outside Milan, dropped off the rental car, hustled to the terminal with baggage akimbo, and flew to Munich. From the airport, we hopped the train into the city after getting directions from a helpful and knowledgeable representative at the ticket desk. The trip into the city, plus a full 24-hours of any other public transit we might use, came to a mere 11 euros total for both of us.

Gummi Bears on my pillow!

Trains into the city arrived at surprisingly frequent intervals, especially compared to the ones at Philadelphia International Airport, and in 41 minutes (yes, 41 exactly), we were in downtown Munich. Police officers helped us to figure out how to get to our hotel from the train station, although they seemed a tad incredulous that we wanted to make the 15-minute trek on foot. Was it because we are Americans? Was it because we are of a certain age? Was it because of the long, multi-use tunnel we had to pass through to get to our destination? Whatever the reason, we proudly trudged toward downtown Munich and checked into the TRYP hotel, which I would recommend. It is close to museums, churches, the famous town hall—plus they left mini packets of Gummi Bears on our pillows.

After driving the four hours from Pisa to Milan (that experience will be left untold, but let’s leave it at scary, especially after the GPS conked out because the cigarette-lighter-power things (yes, I know that is a highly technical term) were not working in our Ford rental), cooling our heels at the airport, and sitting cooped up in coach, we were both ready for a hike. We had walked 13 miles one day in Italy, and we needed to stay in practice. We figured we would have our choice of German restaurants along the way. We were wrong.

In Italy, you can’t take three steps without encountering a trattoria, a pizzaria, or some place that serves Italian food. Yes, we found restaurants in Munich, but they were Thai, Japanese, Italian, Indian, Mandarin. Where were the real German restaurants, with beer steins and schnitzel and men in lederhosen? The diversity says a lot for the cosmopolitan nature of Munich, but since we were only going to be in the city for 24 hours, I wanted real German food. I certainly didn’t want pizza.

With iPhone in hand and Yelp on my iPhone (yes, I finally splurged on an international data plan), we saw that the closest restaurant described as German was about 4 kilometers away, and we gamely headed in that direction, although we were fading fast. The most direct route took us through the aforementioned tunnel, a path I really, really, really did not want to take again, so we meandered.

The meandering led us into an area of Munich that looked much more promising, and when I saw a man in an apron leaning against the wall of a restaurant, I did what I do—I asked a question, “Do you serve authentic German food?”

He answered that he served German food, but we could also have Italian or... I stopped him before he could continue his list. “We just left Italy. We want real German food.”

He smiled and led us inside, where we found something between a sports bar and a trendy modern restaurant. Huge flat-screen TVs served up soccer over colorful banquettes. Our new friend seated us at a window table and disappeared. He returned with two foot-high glasses of “authentic German” beer (Reutberger Fass) to drink with our “authentic German” food. Our waiter explained what he was going to serve us: kraut, pork and kugel. The kraut was served as a cold salad, a blend of shredded cabbage, maybe onions, and red pepper in vinaigrette. We each received three thick slices of roasted pork with a crisp layer of fat and two kugel, each the size of a golf ball. When I asked how they were made, our waiter told me that they grated potatoes, added flour, egg, cheese, shaped them into balls, and boiled them. Hmm, they sound a lot like gnocchi, I thought, but in execution, they were very, very different. I don’t know that I can duplicate them based on his basic description, but they were wonderful.

We were stuffed, but our waiter was so happy that we Americans had done such a good job eating German food that he insisted we have dessert, an Austrian dish called Kaisershmarm. Fortunately, it took a while to prepare so when it appeared we were able to do it justice. The waiter told us it was “like a pancake,” so I imagined a clafouti, but instead it was a sweet batter cooked into a half-inch thick cake that was cut into bite-sized cubes, tossed with raisins and slivered almonds, and drizzled with warm chocolate. It was served with a side of tangy applesauce swirled with strawberry puree for dipping. It was a delicious balance of sweet and tart, soft and crunchy, warm and cool. After we had a chance to experience all these sensations, the chef came to our table to make sure we liked his specialty. We assured him it was perfect.

Mind you, we never saw a menu, so as we waited for the check, we speculated on just how much this authentic taste of Germany was going to set us back. We both agreed it would be a bargain at 60 euros (around $75). After all, we had three courses, beer, and coffee in a comfortable cosmopolitan setting. Given the economy, we were expecting German food to be expensive. When the waiter returned with the check, it was only 28 euros ($36). We were certain he had made a mistake, like leaving off the entrees, but a careful check of the bill showed us that we had stumbled into the best deal in town.

If you are ever looking for a restaurant in Munich with great food, superior service, and a friendly atmosphere, check out the City Lounge. We are certainly glad we did!

September Italian Wedding

Pieve di San Marco a Rigoli

When we were invited to my cousin Max’s wedding in Pisa, I was honored but at the same time certain that we would not be attending. How could a pair of teachers swing a trip to Italy for a September 15 wedding? But fate intervened in mysterious ways. Gary was already set to retire in June, and I quit teaching in January. That set the stage for our trip, and our opportunity to experience nuptials that were absolutely spectacular.

Both the church and the villa where the reception was held date from 500. That is not a typo. We are talking 1600 years old. The ceremony was held at the Pieve di San Marco a Rigoli, a church built on a basilican plan with three arches. It is not just old; it is also quite beautiful in an elegant, unadorned manner.

The reception was an hour drive away, but still technically in Pisa. We would never have found the Villa Sonnino without following the caravan of cars from the church. Not only was it far (an Italian hour of driving seems much farther than in America, not only because we didn’t know exactly where we were going but also because Italians drive fast, even in a caravan), but the turn off led to a long, winding driveway to the parking area, and a good 5 minute walk from the parking lot to the actual villa. It was certainly not visible from the autostrada!

We were able to gain a measure of sustenance, though, in the parking lot. Right in front of our car was a hedge of fig trees full of ripe fruit. Now, if you are reading this post, you might have already seen my outpourings on figs, but Italian figs put my brown turkey figs to shame. These weren’t very large, but they were sweet as honey.

Did we need to worry about food? At any Italian gathering, food is central, but when it comes to a wedding, any stops that might have been employed were completely obliterated, and here we were at an Italian wedding in a villa with a history I could hardly fathom.

Upon our arrival, we were directed to a courtyard where white-gloved attendants were serving prosecco in crystal flutes. Soon an army of men and women in tailored white jackets began passing hors d’oeurves of every description. Fresh calamari salad on scallop shells, mini-bowls of pear soup, skewers with fried olives or arancini or sausages en croute, tray after tray bussed to each table with the servers gently encouraging us to “mangia, mangia.”

Once the bride and groom arrived, the tables under the white tents heaved under the weight of a buffet—a station where two chefs deep fried vegetables, fish, and, my personal favorite, balls of savory dough that were lighter than air; another table was filled with cheeses soft and hard, strong and mild, herbed and nutted; a third table held cured meats and savory pastries and bruschetti. The prosecco continued to flow.

Eleanora and Max

Max and Eleanora visited with us, thanking us for making the trip, and explaining that we should eat, eat, eat, because there were not too many courses. Courses? All the time we were accepting passed hors d’oeurves and piling our plates at the buffet, Ryan, Mylène’s fiancé, the least experienced among us about food served by Italians, kept warning us to pace ourselves, but we did not listen. Max said there would only be three courses. Hmmm. Gary and I realized we had made a huge tactical mistake.

Soon we were escorted into the main dining area, a long room with marble floors and a brick vaulted ceiling. The tables were set with white linens, chargers with the Sonnino coat of arms, crystal, silver flatware. In the center of the table were wines, white and red that seemed magical in that they were never empty—the servers were very adept at replacing bottles as we drained them! On cue, yet more servers marched from the kitchen with plates filled with piping-hot lobster risotto, and within a minute, every guest was served. Before we had done justice to the perfectly cooked rice, the waiters were back, offering us second helpings. This time, we were wiser. We knew there was more to come.

The next course was Max’s favorite, a chestnut pasta in a browned mushroom sauce, so rich and so delicious that it was both impossible to finish yet impossible not to take just one more bite. Again, the waiters offered platters of extra pasta, just in case we weren’t already too full to breath.

As day follows the night, so too came the main course—veal breast en croute served with roasted potatoes and a garden salad. I think the potatoes were roasted in duck fat, but regardless of how they were prepared, even humble potatoes transcended anything I have ever tasted. The tomatoes in the garden salad were the Platonic ideal of tomatoes, surpassing even the best fresh summer garden tomato. The only problem? I was so full I could barely swallow.

Once again, the timing was perfect. Instead of cutting the cake immediately, there was an intermission where the DJ played a video spoofing the courtship of Max and Eleanora. Then we were escorted to the lower courtyard to watch them cut the cake and feed each other a bite, graciously, mind you, no smearing of cake onto one another’s face. We toasted the happy couple with champagne then moved to perhaps the highlight of the meal, if it is at all possible to make that distinction.

Boxes of comfits

The final course was titled a “fantasy dessert buffet” and fantasy it was indeed. In addition to cake, espresso, aperitifs, prosecco and champagne in the main courtyard, there was a side courtyard with tables filled with exquisitely decorated boxes of comfits (no Italian wedding would be complete without those ubiquitous candied almonds), bowls with more comfits, trays of shot glasses filled with chocolate or vanilla mousse, topped with a rosette of freshly-whipped cream and currants or blueberries or raspberries or sliced strawberries. Another table displayed tiers of fruit, strawberries that actually tasted like strawberries, melon, pineapple, grapes, and a mélange of all of the above if one could not make a decision. Another table was filled with one-bite profiteroles, some filled with pastry crème, some with chocolate mousse, some with whipped cream. And the final table? It held an assortment of savory pastries, as Ryan said, to begin it all again.

Dessert fantasy

We ended the evening with a private tour of the villa before we headed back to our hotel to dream of the pleasures of Italy, the land of my family.

I am sorry that I did not return home with any recipes from the reception, but if you ever are invited to a wedding in Italy, by all means jump at the chance. You will have the experience of a lifetime.