In Flux {san diego}

san diego, ca

This summer I've been in a constant state of flux.  First, I left one dream job {as recipe developer at the Food Network} for another {writing my first cookbook}, and now I'm about to learn what it means to be called Mamma, as we await the arrival of our first little babe.

These sort of transitions leave little time for sitting and reflecting, savoring a cup of hibiscus tea or a perfectly crafted chocolate croissant, which is why it seemed so monumentally important to do so with my sis Jenny on our latest visit.

She lives in San Diego, where the pace is perfect for people watching and soaking in life at her favorite cafe, Influx. There, the croissants are all flakey goodness, and as photogenic as the patient pups who wait outside, poised for their next treat.

{influx cafe ~ 1948 Broadway ~ San Diego, CA 92101} 

Liège Waffles {a love offering}

Today when I was reading through the Saveur 100 {February + March issue} I got stuck on no. 92, submitted by Isabelle Zgonc of Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania. Her ode to the Chicken Paprikash her mother used to make began like this...

"In the minds of some of their Eastern European immigrant neighbors, my parents, Lester and Olga Kolozy, had a mixed marriage: he was Hungarian and she was Slovenian. It didn't get in the way too much, though; they were married for 60 years. They fell in love after my father spotted my mother at a Valentine's Day dance in Cleveland, Ohio; her parents told her not to marry a Hungarian, because all they think about is their next meal." 

I was not given such similar warnings before marrying András, who is also Hungarian, but if I had, like Olga, I doubt I would have listened. I read on to learn that Olga became an accomplished Hungarian cook and made her husband's mouth water for the flavors of home. Like Olga, I learned quickly that sometimes the best way to show a Hungarian man, or any man for that matter that you love him is with a plate full of his favorite food. This is true on any day, but especially on Valentine's Day.

Though András loves the food of his homeland and seems to feel extra loved when I sprinkle paprika on anything from fried eggs to fish, his favorite food as of late hails from Belgium —Gaufres de Liège, or Liège style waffles.

Gaufres de Liege are the crisp, sweet, dense and chewy waffles you find in the street stands in Brussels, Brugge or the city of Liège. There they are served simply with a dusting of powdered sugar,  a far different thing than the oversized, airy waffles we see on breakfast menus here at home.  According to legend, Liege waffles were brought to New York via The Waffle Guy, by appointment of the Belgian Ministry of Culinary Affairs. András fell in love with "the chewy ones" as he calls them, at the hands of the Wafels and Dinges truck who serve them at his cycling races, and has been asking me to make them ever since. 

We make standard Belgian waffles regularly, but the two of the three ingredients that give Liège waffles their distinctive texture—bread flour, large amounts of butter kneaded into a yeasted dough {like brioche} and pearl sugar that caramelizes on the hot iron—aren't things I always have on hand. But thanks to the internet and a little advance planning, I was in the running for wife if the year. 

After the dough was made, butter and pearl sugar kneaded in, and iron pre-heated, I set a simple table with the tulips he'd brought me and useless forks, and cooked up batch after batch of hot "chewy ones." {recipe here} We ate them by hand, one after another, first with sugar then Nutella, as I pulled them hot from the iron. András lapped me several times, rubbed his belly, kissed my hand and retired to the couch where he seemed contended for about a half hour before he asked, 

"Are there any more?" 

In a world of glass slippers and glittering castles, a question like that might make a girl feel forlorn. In the world of Lesters and Olgas, the world to which I belong, that's a question that sounds a lot like love.

Sweet Nothings {chocolate}

"Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination."
~Voltaire

It seems that chocolate for Valentine's day never goes out of style.  A well-dressed bar from Mast Brother's Chocolate, the Brooklyn chocolatiers whose chocolates come hand-wrapped in vintage paper, would certainly make a suitable offering for your beloved. But why should they have all the fun? Hand-wrap your own, as I have, in one of the pretty papers you saved from your last paper spree {my favorites come from here}. A handmade sweet nothing that speaks volumes in love.

Postcards from El Morro

mexico city, mexico

I can’t quite recall exactly how András and I chose Mexico City as the starting point for our honeymoon, but I can recall the thing that made it hard to leave— hot chocolate and churros from Churreria El Morro. It could be argued by locals that these are actually the second best churros in Mexico City, but nothing could match the atmosphere in this 1930’s institution. There we could sit for hours, waiting for our churros and hot chocolate {Spanish, French, or Mexican style}, watching waitresses come and go in pink pinafores and pearly white loafers as gentleman snapped sections from ring upon ring of freshly fried churros.  Soaked in cinnamon sugar, each stack lasted only half as long as we hoped and seconds were a sure thing.

We’ve have been talking about those churros so much lately that one day recently when we were pedaling back from Brooklyn on a too-cold day, András pulled into the parking lot of Costo to share a dirty little secret with me—$1 a bag churros in the Costco cafeteria.

I’d like you tell you that I slapped his wrist and steered him in a different direction, and that absolutely everything we eat is always and forever more hand made by me. That’s only about 85 % true. The truth is, my lame attempts at a protest weren’t successful. I was too frozen stiff to argue, and besides, have you ever tried to take a toy from a toddler?

Costco’s churros have nothing on the crispy columns with melting interiors we experienced in Mexico. Not even $1 worth. So tonight, while the rest of the world was immersed in the superbowl, I set out to do some quality rewiring on András taste buds with a fresh batch of my own.  

{click recipe to enlarge}

A Truly Happy New Year

new york, new york

Since before I can remember, I wanted to be a doctor, just like my Dad. It turns out I just wanted to be like my Dad, whose manner, and therefore his profession, from my standpoint, was synonymous with delivering joy and good news, news like, “It’s a big, fat, bouncing baby boy!” to new parents.

In the years before I discovered that there was occasionally bad news involved with being a doctor {tumors, warts in unseemly places}, I spent Sundays at his side on his hospital rounds, shadowed him at the office and begged him to be bedside when he delivered babies, which I thought was the most exciting thing imaginable {and still do, if not for the fear that it could one day happen to me}. Once or twice he let me join him in the delivery room, and I twice got a look at one of these big fat bouncing baby boys myself. To my untrained eye these babies, who weighed in around 7 pounds, looked like the teeny-tiniest little things I’d ever seen, except for grandma’s newborn kittens. But he assured me that the babies were robust and healthy and would fatten up as soon as they got on mother’s milk.

On the eve of a New Year, I can think of no greater news than that of a birth of a baby that fit’s Dad’s description to a tea. Big boy William Spencer Motland hit the scene this morning at 9 pounds, 3 ounces. András and I are big fans of his Mamma, Nikki, who taught me how good Fluff and peanut butter is spread between two Famous Wafers in our earliest days together in the Food Network Kitchens. {Today, she’s the gal behind all of the gorgeous food you see on the Martha Stewart Show}. This is a photo from the meal we shared the day we met Will’s Papa, Kent, who we happen to be rather fond of too. The meal was brunch at Landmarc, which I highly recommend, and I think the consumption of sugary stuff {note the cotton candy}, bodes well for a sweet life for one baby boy, and a big, fat, bouncing New Year for the rest of us!

Happy New Year!

Tinsel Town

{Handmade Christmas, part vii}

Ready for S'more? How about a tin of sweet s'more fixins?

Tuck your new favorite gingerbread, baked in stars, into tins with your favorite chocolate and homemade marshmallows {I like smitten kitchen's version}. Tie with baker's twine and slip in a little silver sprig of spruce. Oh, I made my label with paper from Lee's Art Shop, and a paper hole punch.

I hope you're lucky enough to be there when your giftee opens his gift and roasts the marshmallows over the live fire, but if you're not, set aside a set for yourself. After you taste the gingerbread version of this favored treat, you'll never go back to grahams.

P.S. Don't tell, but I got this tin at the dollar store!

Waffles, Dinges & Dirt Bikes {pedaling, part iv}

Cyclocross is not a sport for the faint of heart. Akin to road racing, but on courses made up of mud, grass, sand, hills and obstacles so steep cylists must occasionally dismount and take to foot, Cyclo-cross requires serious training, blood, sweat and plenty of sweet Belgian waffles.

I’d like to say that is was for the love of my husband that I went all the way to Princeton, New Jersey at 5 AM one muddy Sunday in late November to watch him race, but in fact it was in large part for the love of waffles that I know anything about cyclocross at all.

Let me explain. Like traditional road racing {think Tour d’France}, cyclocross’ origins are European. Legend has it that in the early 1900s, European cyclists would race each other from one town to the next cutting through the farms and fields, over fences and a myriad of obstacles to find the fastest route. But that’s not important. What is important is that the sport stuck as a way to keep cyclists fit in the off season, and has made itself cozy in Belgium, home of the best waffles and beers and the planets most flawless frites.

Though not all the details translate precisely, cyclo-cross in these parts has become synonymous with Wafels and Dinges, aka, The Waffle Truck {motto: Good Things Belgian}, who send a batch of their Leìge style Belgian best over to every race. And that’s where I come in. Having just embarked on a mammoth waffle project in the Test Kitchen at the Food Network, I felt it was my duty to do some investigate reporting on the difference between a traditional Belgian waffle {crisp and airy, made from a yeast-leavened batter} and a Leìge waffle{a rich, dense brioche-inspired waffle}.

As it turns out, the waffles, though delicious, weren’t my biggest reward for journalistic integrity. Far more fulfilling was the site of grown men {and women too}, including András and his teammates, having this much muddy fun.

By the way, according to the Waffle Truck, dinges are merely little thingies, like toppings. My favorite dinges are strawberries and whipped cream. And, in the name of journalist integrity, the "dirt bikes" I'm referring to are actually high performance cross bikes, that just happened to be covered in dirt.

Honorarium

miller farm, maryland

P.S. Often when you do good, there are rewards, like the freshly made donuts at the Miller Farm stand, where we gathered among Marylanders in their Sunday best after we finished in the fields. If you find yourself on a gleaning expedition, consider these an edible endowment for your good will.

Homesick Cider Donuts

chelsea, ny

There are two things in life that can assuredly make me homesick— trick-or-treaters and cider donuts. Both remind me of cozy fall days at home, where Halloween was the scariest thing I could imagine and the only tough decision was whether to have one donut or two, hot from the press on an afternoon visit to Edwards Apple Orchard. Edwards is a special place, run by folks that have become family friends, who load up families on their wagons and ride them into their orchard year after year to pick barrels of Macintosh, golden delicious and jonagolds, an apple that’s hard to find out East. It is there that I said one of my first sentences {“look daddy, I found one!” of an apple plucked from a ground littered with them}, there that Dad taught my three siblings and me to jump off the wagon when no one was watching and how to discreetly climb back on before we got caught. It’s there that we learned the smash-the-apple-core-under-the-wagon-wheel trick, how to navigate hay barrels and that a thick slice of sharp Wisconsin cheddar melted on the crust of a home-made apple pie makes it even more irresistible {try my recipe inspired by theirs, here}.

As a girl, I dreamed of my wedding in between the sturdy rows of apple trees far out in Edwards' fields, and when a tornado struck the year András proposed, I cried. But trees were replanted and barns rebuilt and those donuts are still made hot and fresh all day long. They remain one of the things in life that is always as good as I remember.

Right now, there are dozens of darling trick-or-treating tots in the Chelsea Market below the kitchen at work dressed as everything from Frida Kahlo {complete with unibrow} to Frankenstein. They make me miss home, and the little darlings in my own life, Indian Princes Kate, aka Sacagawea, Sir Benjamin Goddard, my knight in a shining costume and Baby Gracie, with her footed PJ’s and freckles painted on with eyeliner and love . The only thing I could think of to ease my suffering just a little was a stack of cider donuts from the Migliorelli Farm stand at the Union Square Farmer’s Market. They were delicious, but not quite the same as a donut straight from hot oil, a donut so fresh it perfumes the air with the scent of cider and melts into the memories of a family day at the orchard.

It’s times like these that I’m grateful for good friends that fill my life with new memories, and for those who happen to be good at conjuring old ones, like my buddy Bob at Food Network, whose recipe for apple cider donuts hits dangerously close to home. For today, my only tough decision is one donut, or two.

Happy Halloween!

P.S. If you make Bob’s donuts, and I highly recommend that you do, be sure to chill the batter for at least 2 hours, or even better, overnight to make the batter easier to work with. Or transfer the batter to a piping bag fitted with a metal tip as I did, and pipe it carefully into rings on the surface of the hot oil.

Ferry Building Fantasia

san francisco, ca

I know, I promised you recipes. I promise, they’re coming. But András and I just returned from 72 delicious hours in Northern California in honor of our one-year anniversary, and I wouldn't dare keep such delicious discoveries from you.

A trip to see the California redwoods was a childhood dream for András, and since I’m happy to be included on the grown-up version of his dreams, we decided it was the perfect place to celebrate our first year as husband and wife. As we flew over Grand Canyon, playing footsie under our tray tables, András read about our national parks in National Geographic Adventure, and I flipped open the American Way. I tried to imagine us frolicking among the giant trees of Humbolt Park, when an advertisement of a young couple glistening beachside at a Sandals interrupted me.

Spend your first anniversary in luxury

I suddenly wondered if we shouldn't be heading to relax on a beach, get a massage, sleep in a big bed with fluffy duvets. I squeezed András hand.

He set down his magazine and kissed me. “We should make it a tradition to spend every anniversary at a National Park,” he said.

“Every anniversary?” I said. “I was just thinking maybe we should be going somewhere a little more, I don’t know, luxurious. Somewhere with feather duvets.”

“Luxury make people soft.” He said.

“I’m a girl, I like soft.” I said.

Being soft isn't such a bad thing, particularly because it also includes eating stinky cheeses and cupcakes, both of which can be found in abundance at the legendary Ferry Building and its epic farmer's market in San Francisco, our first stop when we landed. András found us a parking spot a few blocks away with a 1-hour limit, giving my enthusiastic appreciation for the culinary potpourri of the marketplace an unrealistic deadline. I tried to explain that this was like telling Carrie Bradshaw she has only 15 minutes at Manolo Blahnik. It didn’t register.

Undeterred, I clicked my heels on over to the market by which time we had 49 minutes, exactly enough time to discover homemade pop tarts with fruits grown on Frog Hollow Farm, chocolate persimmons, black mission figs, tasty, salted pig parts from Boccalone Artisan Meats, Vanilla Tomboy Cake from Miette Patisserie and Harvest Whoopee Pies from Recchiuti chocolates. The foods of the Ferry Building are poetic, charmingly arranged and packaged to perfection, rendering decision-making harder than the aged Mimolette at the Cowgirl Creamy stand. So we tasted and took photos, juggling between our cameras and wallets in rapid succession.

And then, like clock work, András signaled our time was up. He ran to get the car, while I snuck in a final stop at the stunning Boulette's Larder, a labyrinthine of delights where tiny fresh eggs and delicate pastries were displayed on pedestals like jewels. Every detail was so thoughtfully arranged, and each and every person standing in the eternal line was the picture of Northern Californian prosperity. I took my place behind the elegant mammas feeding their rosy wee ones concord grapes and fresh figs, and breathed in the bliss.

Just as I approached the front of the line and reached for one of the handsome pastries pictured here, my phone rang. András was waiting outside in the car and I had to come, immediately. I took their card, letterpress on recycled paper {naturally}, and plugged their details into my iphone as we whizzed north toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Online, I found out the namesake of their restaurant is their beloved Puli, or Hungarian Sheepdog, called Boulette {which in French, means little meatball}, making their stylish sensibilities all the more lovable. I met my first Puli on the night András proposed to me in Hungary, and it sat at our feet as I ate a plate of goose and saurkraut in a local Csarda {inn}. The pup, and Boulette's Larder, will forever hold a special place in my soft little heart.