CreativeSpace

Pão de Queijo - that's cheese bread for the regular folk

 

Does your recipe box have a "Will Make Some Day Because Just Reading This Recipe Makes Me Salivate" section? I have a fat recipe section dedicated solely to culinary dreaming. In fact, it was so huge that I had to viciously cull the file down to something manageable that would fit in a cardboard box. That didn't require four strapping dudes with dollies to maneuver in and out of the moving truck. Despite my best intentions, the file was growing again.

I really shouldn't blame anyone. (Ben W.) I gather recipes from all corners of the interwebs. It's so easy to print them out, like recipe crack! I'm even more obnoxious in person when I taste something fantastically wonderful and then demand that the cook present me with the recipe. I do say please and thank you. Mama didn't raise an ignoramus. However, there are influences in the world (Ben W.) that encourage my foodie fantasies. Encourage them with links and pictures to make all my food endeavors come true. So when I move again, I know who to blame for back strain due to recipe hefting. *cough* Ben W. *cough*

My friend, Mady, gave me a recipe for Easy Brazilian Cheese Bread that was so simple, I should have made it on the spot. But I didn't. No, I moved it south and stared at it every time I opened the recipe file. It sat there day after day until I finally asked Ben W., my only Brazilian-born friend. (Suddenly that strikes me as a sad thing. Why don't I have more Brazilian friends? Hm...I have to remedy that.) His response was immediate and filled with exclamation marks. Turns out, pão de queijo is filho da puta. Which I'm not going to translate precisely because it contains swear words. Just trust me that it's amazing.

The best parts of making the bread were using tapioca flour, something I had never baked with before, and queso fresco. You can find the white cheese in most grocery stores. They make a magical combination similar to mini popovers but with added cheesy goodness. I ate half of them for lunch in one sitting. I couldn't resist. They called to me from the kitchen. I was powerless against them! You will be too.

Heed my warning! (don't really)

 

Pão de Queijo

1 egg
1/3 C olive oil
2/3 C milk
1 ½ C tapioca flour
½ C packed, grated cheese (I used Mexican farmer’s cheese, queso fresco)
½ tsp salt

Preheat oven to 400°. Grease a mini-muffin tin. Place all ingredients in a blender and pulse until smooth. Using a spatula, scrape down the sides so that everything is blended well. (You can store batter up to a week.)

Fill muffin cups 2/3 full. Bake in oven 15-20 minutes, until puffy and just lightly browned. Remove from oven and cool on a rack for a few minutes.

Eat while warm. And at room temperature. And then re-heat them the day after.

 

chicken poop sandwich: a morality tale

My mother called the other day irritated and snarly about a persistent someone who was stealing her detergent. She had medical students for neighbors, and although they were very quiet because they were almost never home, they made an appearance to do laundry. The coin operated washer and dryer lived in the basement, and because there were only four units in the building, my mother kept her liquid detergent there as well.

It quickly became obvious that someone was using her laundry supplies, so she left a note taped to the lid politely requesting that they buy their own. When that failed to deter the thief, she moved the detergent and hid it amongst her flower pots and potting soil. The stinker had the audacity to paw through her stuff and used it again. Then failed to cover up the crime by returning it to its hiding space.

To add insult to injury, there was another jug of detergent setting out for anyone to steal. It was a cheap brand, though, and not that great at cleaning.

So what's a mother to do? My mother claimed that she was going to add blue dye to her liquid detergent. When the thief pulled out their wet clothes, navy blue dye would be streaked throughout the load. I was a little shocked at my mother's plan of revenge, and I suggested that maybe she take the detergent upstairs with her instead of leaving it in the basement. That didn't go over well. It was the principle of the thing, you see. Then she told me the story of the chicken poop sandwich.

Her friend Ginny, who was a Quaker, had her sandwich routinely stolen in high school. This happened day after day until her mother decided to make a chicken poop sandwich. She dressed it up with tomato and lettuce so that it looked like the usual sandwich. It was the last lunch ever stolen from Ginny. The moral of the story? Don't screw with pacifists.

So my mother took a page from Ginny's mom's book of revenge. If you're a stealer, don't be surprised if you end up with a mouthful of chicken poop. And a load of streaky dyed laundry.

 

About the photograph: This is my bunny friend, Meadow, and when she first appeared in our yard three weeks ago, I was ecstatic. Having lived half my life in the city, this was the first time I had ever had a bunny in my yard. (It probably helps to actually have a yard. And no fence.) She emerged from the tree line every afternoon to slowly hop through the yard, nibbling at clover and generally looking voluptuous and serene. Everything was beautiful and peaceful, and I spent a lot of time at the kitchen watching my new furry friend. And then Scrapper made an entrance.

Scrapper looks exactly like his name. He's scrawny, and thin and his fur is coming out in tufts. One afternoon as I watched Meadow begin her supper, Scrapper came racing out of the woods and promptly thumped her with his hind legs. Have you seen rabbits fight? There is nothing cute and snugly about it. They leap high in the air and propel their back feet at their opponents with powerful kicks. Poor Meadow was no match, and she retreated to the shelter of the holly bushes along our back porch. Scrapper knew he had her beat, so he waited for her. She couldn't stay under there forever. After watching him for a few moments, only one solution came to mind.

I let the dog outside.

the queen of hearts

The Queen of Hearts,                                                                     The King of Hearts
She made some tarts,                                                                     Called for the tarts
All on a summer’s day;                                                                    And beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts,                                                                      The Knave of Hearts
He stole the tarts                                                                            Brought back the tarts
And took them clean away.                                                               And vowed he’d steal no more.

 

Despite my peaceful tendencies, I have to admit that I'm with the King. If that Knave stole my tarts, I'd have to beat his butt too.

 

It's a well documented fact here on this blog that I am a hot mess whenever I tackle pie dough. My bestest friend, Bun, told me to try Fannie Farmer's pie crust, that it was a consistent performer for her. Of course I would take her advice. She's only won, like, a hundred apple pie contests. (baking, not eating.)

I made strawberry jam tarts, also from Fannie Farmer. They were amazing! Although the topping separated a little bit, I was extremely pleased with the pie dough. It was easy, and it turned out a beautiful, flaky crust. 

I'd be happy to post the recipes if you like. Just let me know in the comments.

 

strawberry and I hit a snag in our romance

Yes, I'm speaking to you, Strawberry. I've held an enduring and passionate love for you since I was little and the anticipation of spring and your arrival at the farmer's market was what got me through the cold, kale filled months of winter. But we need to talk about your recent bad behavior.

This isn't an "it's not you, it's me" break-up conversation. No, the blame rests entirely upon your petite leafy noggin. I slaved in a hot kitchen for hours (hours, do you hear me?!) crushing you into jam and boiling you with sugar into a delicious gooey mess only to have you insist on remaining runny. Well, I canned your unrepentant red ass anyway and a dozen jars of strawberry syrup now line my shelves. (which will taste divine poured over pancakes and ice cream--but that's not the point!)

But I didn't lose faith in our long-standing relationship. Oh no! I persevered and set aside only the ripest, most beautifully perfect of you for a whole-berry pie that I intended to serve our weekend guest with a scoop of voluptuous Grater's ice cream. Did you cooperate? Did you sit there properly, looking gorgeous and tasty and magnificent? You turned to mush, damn your seeds, and sulked in a puddle of glaze until The Husband acquiesced to my pleas and finished you off.

 

 

So I'm going to take a vacation from you, Strawberry dear. I'm going to ignore your calls and concentrate on some "me time." At least until Thursday and my weekly trip to the farmer's market. You have until then to get your act together.

 

an imperfect cake

It took me a long time to get this picture, mostly because I kept trying for a "perfect" shot. The truth was that this cake was imperfect all the way around from its uneven layers to the over-whipped whipped cream and sporadic jam smears. The point of my baking endeavor was to make something new and spectacular looking in honor of my mum's visit. Mission accomplished despite the fact that it lacked all of Martha's precision. Yes, this was a Martha Stewart recipe.

You can see the entire recipe in all its perfect glory here. It's also featured in the latest issue of Martha Living as part of their Once Upon a Baby Shower. 

The good news about the cake was that it tasted very, very good. The cake was spongy and absorbed the jam but not enough that it became soggy. The subtle spices of the cake were only enhanced by the tart-sweetness of the blackberry jam, and the marscarpone-whipped cream icing was a revelation. Who knew that marscarpone was excellent in icing? Anyone?

Of course, I learned several valuable cake lessons. Next time I will allow the marscarpone to warm slightly on the counter before trying to whip it into submission. I'll also pay closer attention to whipping the cream instead of trying to multi-task (uh, trying to keep Little Bear from sticking her entire hand into the jam jar) and allowing it to get halfway to being butter.

Nor will I question Martha's (or her minion's) measurement of jam. It looked excessive when spread on the cake layers, but the extra was absorbed and the deep purple gooeyness that dribbled down the sides was lovely to watch.

And lastly, I won't freeze the layers before cutting them in half. This was a huge DUH! on my part. Chilling the cake layers made icing a breeze, but I didn't consider having to cut them in that state. I actually wished for a chainsaw at the time, and as I rassled the layers I had bagel flashbacks. (A time when I sliced through my finger with the serrated knife.) Ok, I've actually had that bagel slicing problem several times, to the point where The Husband will only buy my bagels pre-sliced.

The best part of having cake was serving and eating it, of course. I sat the cake on the buffet during dinner, and the dog spent a long time gazing at it. Which I took to mean that it was a damn fine cake, flaws and all. Sorry, no scraps for you, dude.

 

I hope everyone had a lovely Mother's Day and is recovering nicely. I needed an entire day just to get over my mother leaving. (sob!)