Nothing says Fall like the bright orange and reds that surround the season.
The glow of flickering candles set in hollowed-out pumpkins. Crimson leaves swept aside by an errant football. Classroom displays of construction-paper cornucopias and scissor-cut turkey feathers. A scarecrow, straw tumbling from his furrowed brow, as he patrols a lonely field. Thoughts of the harvest and a Thanksgiving meal.
What evokes Fall for you?…
This weekend, Caitlin and I went apple picking in nearby Belleville, Illinois. Armed with our plastic bags, we each set off to collect the perfect apples. Careful not to overload on the apples, we each filled our respective bag to the half-way point. Yet, when we made it to the scale, we had collectively picked over sixteen pounds of Red and Golden Deliciousness.
Faced with the prospect of an overflowing fruit drawer, …
As with any recipe by Ina Garten, the question is not whether the dish will be great: it will be. Rather, the question usually is: “How much butter can I leave out, and still have a great dish?”
In this case, Ina called for twelve tablespoons of butter, which struck me as a bit much. I consulted my Cooking Light Dessert book, and found a nearly identical recipe, calling for six tablespoons. Being my judicious self, I simply…
Jewish holidays are nothing if not symbolic. And part of the symbolism naturally encompasses the food. On Purim, it’s hamantashen, triangular confections meant to evoke the villain of the day. On Passover, it’s matzah, unleavened bread meant to evoke the speed with which the ancient Jews fled Pharaoh’s Egypt. On Hanukkah, it’s latkes, fried potato pancakes meant to evoke the miracle of the burning oil.
Rosh Hashanah, which begins this Friday at sunset, is no different. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, and to ensure that the new year is a sweet and good one, it’s customary to eat apples and honey. But unfortunately, where there’s honey, there’s honey cakes – too often a dry, and …
Sweet potatoes are probably the first thing I ever put in the oven.
I can’t quite remember how old I was, but I can remember the early fascination with the magic of baking. I tore off a sheet of foil, set the oven to 420 degrees, and placed a hard, unattractive object into the oven. There was no cutting, no slicing, no mixing, no peeling. There was no other ingredient, and no other steps. And yet, after ninety minutes, a sweet smell enveloped the kitchen and much of the house, beckoning me downstairs. I grabbed the pot-holders, cut a tablespoon of butter, and sat down to dig into the soft, sweet flesh of a baked sweet potato.
I couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen, …