Ding Dong the Dough is Dead

As a wee one (and into my awkward middling stages), I played with sculpey clay.  For hours.  In the basement.  Even on bright summer days when I should have been frolicking in the sun.  I’d sit in my lair, molding bizarre little people with spaghetti looking legs, unidentifiable creatures or the deep, and even took on the project of sculpting every character from L. Frank Balm’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (This endeavor not only included known and normal characters like Dorothy and Toto, but decidedly weird and unknown characters such as “Princess Ozma,” “The Gump,” and “Woggle-Bug.”  If you feel so inclined, you should do a bit of research on these character and become increasingly terrified, by not only the true oddity of the now accepted Wizard of Oz story, but also by my childhood amusements and pastimes.) 

Anyway, I sculpted lots of little things.  In fact, some avid collectors of my art (most my Nana and my good friend Theresa) still display these timeless pieces upon dressers and bookshelves. 

Although these hobbies carried the potentially high risk of defining me as middle school social outcast, it is strange how some childhood fascinations and hobbies become unexpectedly useful down the line.   This past week at work, Chef asked me to assist her on creating a showpiece for the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities.   It was to be a bread display, made of “dead dough” and sculpted to look like a floral, tree-like centerpiece. 

First, I made all the dead dough, which is close relative to the much beloved play-doh.  This recipe contains no yeast, but only rye flour and a thick, sugar syrup, creating a malleable and solid medium for sculpting.   Using all natural ingredients to create color, powdered beets turned dough rich purple, dried spinach was used for green, turmeric for yellow, chili powder for red, and cocoa powder for dark brown.  During the mixing process, co-workers passed my workbench with plugged noses and “what the heck are you making back here?” faces.  Beets and spinach do not mingle well with people of the baker variety, who generally prefer the sweet aromas of baked cake and cinnamon.  Despite the unwelcomed smells, the natural seasonings produced vibrant colors fit for a radiant display. 

 

Next, we sculpted individual components of the showpiece.   This meant making lots of roses, big flowers and twisting vines. (This is also where my Oz-obsessed clay days came in handy).  I found the process of forming the petals soothing and the familiarity of shaping them with the tips of my fingers made the work come naturally.  While I molded roses, Chef also made some acorns and ears of corn to incorporate some elements of a November theme.  It was a Thanksgiving showpiece after all. 

 
After the assembly, the result was extremely satisfying.  Tropical flowers and leaves, attached to elegant roses and giant-sized acorns.  Although at a second glance, the theme of the display may seem disjointed, it carries a whimsical, magical feel.  Like something out of Oz.  

The Cupcake Coup

Cupcakes, cupcakes and more cupcakes.  To the terror of everyone involved, the launch of a new cupcake shop looms in the future of Corporate the Giant.  This means that each day, we conjure up bucket loads and bucket loads of cupcakes. In fact, mini-muffin cups and icing ooze from our pores as we sweat. 

Last week, I accompanied the Pastry Chef to an off-site catering event, where we exuded copious amount cupcakes in promotion of the new shop.   For days before, we baked tray after tray, while the seemingly innocent cupcakes accumulated in cooler.  Multiplying day-by-day in the dark of the cooler, some believe they were raising an army for a cupcake coup.  First, they took over the rack where we store the cookie dough.  Who could tell where they might strike next?  Like rabbits, it seemed they would copulate, and, perhaps less like rabbits, appropriate (Unless, of course they were particularly aggressive rabbits). 

I was at the helm of the cupcake genesis.   In fact, if it was indeed an army, I was the main recruiter…the Chef being, of course, General.  Each day, I baked and eventually frosted.  With a shortage of cupcake pans, we developed an almost scientific system of rotation and consolidation.   It was the process of frosting that took the most time, and despite their deceptively small size, used gobs of icing.  Naturally, the frosting also increased the height of each cake baby, making it progressively more difficult to find storage space.    

Eventually, we me our cupcake number goals for the promotional event.   There, we acted as a cupcake dispenser and in a few short weeks, the shop will open and we will have a permanent outlet to unleash cupcake armies upon the world. 

Until then, I will be hidden in the bowels of Corporate the Giant, plotting, baking, and icing away…

 

Candy Soup

I’ve been making soup.  It was trend first inspired by the stunning variety of colorful squash this time of year, which quickly transformed into a sort of self-imposed, internally competitive, frugal, spending game.  They are gargantuan, army-feeding pots of soup, on which I exist throughout the entire week.  There has been butternut squash soup, parsnip soup, carrot soup, and basically anything else I can puree with my nifty, new emersion blender.  Basically, give me a root or squash and I will emersion blend the bejesus out of it.  

 

Last week, as I entered the automatic grocery store doors, with my environmentally friendly shopping bag slung from the nook of arm, and the wheels of my soup possessed brain turning, I saw the massive pile of yams being highlighted under glistening sale sign.  Clearly, the grocery store gods were helping me on my mission.  Without another thought I put five kitten-sized yams in my sack and headed for check-out.  Thus far, I’d been doing so well with my spending challenge and making-due with minimal ingredient buying, that I decided I needn’t buy anything else on that trip, but would simply make due with whatever my cupboard contained.    

 

I opened the cupboard.  Scanning its contents, I could see oatmeal, onions, garlic, red pepper, cooking sherry, vinegar, dried figs, cinnamon, three tootsie rolls, and six maple candies. 

 

I took out my soup pot and began sautéing the onions and garlic, chewing on a tootsie roll while determining what to do next.  I opened the wrapper of a maple candy and was about to pop that in my mouth as well, when impulse seized me and I threw it into my pan.  Chink.  The hard sugar hit the pot and slowly melted while its aroma enhanced the sweetness of the onion.  Naturally, I unwrapped and threw in the remaining candies.  “Heck,” I thought, “While I’m cleaning the pantry, I’ll add some red pepper and cinnamon too.”  

 

Once the yams, liquids and such had been added to the mix, I waited for them to become tender and pulverizable.  Yes, pulverizable.  I then emersion blended to my heart’s content and finished the soup off with a garnish of dried figs. 

 

Somehow (magically), it’s the best soup I’ve made so far.  It was balanced with sweetness and spice, had depth and a pleasant silky texture.  I believe there are important lessons to be learned from this experience.   First, good things happen when you don’t take yourself too seriously in the kitchen, and play instead.  Second (and most importantly) candy is always, always a positive addition to any well-rounded meal.  
                  

“If I wanted to ride a horse, I would move to Wyoming and find a cowboy” or “But, I will have some cake.”

 

So. This thought is a month and several days delayed…Weddings and Wedding Cake.  

 

I love weddings when they’re about marriage.  I love love, man.  My brother and my sister-in-law got married in September and it was beautiful.  It was about love.  Everything about it.  The couple was beautiful.  The families and guests were beautiful.  The cake was beautiful.  Everything about the day showcased heartfelt and simple love…thus making it beautiful.

 

Being a twenty-something, many of my female friends have Weddingmania… Weddingmania = less about love.  Hands itching for diamonds and conversations in form of looping hypothetical situations infiltrate daily conversations …if you were to wear a strapless dress for your wedding… if you were to get married in the Fall … if you had 15 bridesmaids… if you wanted to enter the church on horseback…

 

If people aren’t busy making their own preemptive weddings plans, they dissect the wedding that they last attended…which was probably last weekend.   After the topic of wedding dress has been covered, the conversation often turns to The Cake. 

 

While I get discouraged when marriage becomes more about weddings than…well, than about marriage, The Cake is something I can get behind.  Although, sometimes, it seems The Cake runs into the same danger as the wedding itself.  Too many cakes with beautifully fondant-covered exteriors enrobe insipid, uninspiring interiors. Beyond, beautiful decoration and design (or the gowns and dance-floors), a proper cake (or wedding) should embody something flavorful and delicious. 

 

The cakes (wedding +rehearsal dinner) at my brother’s wedding, much like the wedding itself, were lovely, but also full of delectable substance.  My friend Snarly Karly and the Wildflourettes (I think that has band-name potential) made the rehearsal dinner cake.  It matched the wedding invitation perfectly and looked like this….

 

Oh Henry…Exclamation!

 

Quick! What’s in an Oh Henry! Bar?!

 

It’s okay if you don’t know!  No one really does! Exclamation!

 

My noggin has been lingering over the Oh Henry! Bar, ever since I found it in a variety pack of classic miniatures, alongside Goobers, 100 Grand, and Raisinettes, for the upcoming Halloween festivities (I also know I probably shouldn’t let my noggin linger on things like an Oh Henry! because there are probably better things it could be doing, but ANYWAY…Exclamation!)  With Halloween quickly approaching, the aisles of grocery stores have transformed into a dazzling display of chocolate bars and confections on parade (much like they will do again and again, for Christmas, Valentine’s Day and Easter…same thing, different colors).  Our candy favorites make their debut in pumpkin and bat-molded Halloween form and magically revitalize their desirability…because nothing says Festival of the Dead like themed candy!

 

There are very few candies that have not costumed-up for the festivities.  Only those too neglected to get a spotlight, remain untouched by October’s theme.  The Oh Henry! Bar is a prime example.  Although, I would never want to see it lose dignity by having to wear a witch hat or changing its colors to neon green and orange, I do believe it is one of the most neglected and underrated candy bars on the market.  In fact, the variety pack I found resembles a sort of Island of Misfit Toys of the Candy World.   They’re all wonderful.  Just misunderstood. 

 

So, what’s in the Oh Henry! bar that’s been lingering on my mind?

 

Well, there is no nougat.  Although, its inside could be easily confused for nougat because it’s got that chewy density, but it’s actually filled with fudge, peanuts and caramel, all fused together into masticatable delight and covered with chocolate.  As opposed to a Snicker’s Bar, the peanuts of an Oh Henry! are finer chopped, giving it a smoother consistency, yet maintaining the appeal of textural variety.  Overall, an overlooked, but top-notch candy bar. 

 

That’s what’s in an Oh Henry…

 

Exclamation!

“I Didn’t Do It” or “The Mystery of the Exploding Oven”

Minding my own business, I removed my lovely chocolate cheesecakes from the 2^nd deck of the lovely oven (Let me repeat. It was the 2^nd deck.)  I loaded them onto the lovely baker’s rack and began rolling them into the lovely walk-in cooler.

 

With my back turned to the oven, a burst, or a sudden release of air pressure, or maybe more like the sound of a distant explosion (Although I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever experienced the sound of a distant explosion first-hand. So, it was more like my imaginary interpretation of a distant explosion…) came from behind me.  Whatever it was, I ducked, froze in my stooped position and gradually pivoted toward to source of the noise.

 

With expectations of wreckage, carnage and chaos, at first glace, all seemed to be disappointingly in order.   But upon a second look, I saw it.  There it was.  The panel of glass on the third deck oven had acquired translucent haze, different from the rest.   Tip-toeing nearer, I could see the mosaic of glass.  The once solid pane had reassembled itself into thousands of precariously little pieces, which seemed waiting to crash with an eerie calm.  Like the turn of a child’s kaleidoscope, the effect was hypnotizing. 

 

Eventually, I yanked myself away to go tell someone.  The first person was my co-worker, who looked at me, ran to the oven, ran back over to me, looking equally as fascinated and terrified and I was.  Together, we went to find our boss. 

 

Although, his initial reaction was, “What did you do, Extern?” people elicit a wicked glee from destruction and my boss was not immune.  In fact, his hubris granted him the audacity to tap on the glass and subsequently giggle like a schoolgirl.   My co-worker and I, convinced the entire deck oven would explode and send shards of glass torpedoing through the bakeshop, stood far out of range.  (In the movie version of this scene in my head, the oven DOES explode and my boss ends up like Wayne Knight in Jurassic Park…minus of course the spitting dinosaur (Dilophosaurus, to be exact)…but a similar effect. Not that I don’t like my boss. For the record, he’s great. He even brought fried food to share from the kitchen one time.  His demise is simply an artistic choice. Of course.)  

 

In real life, like I said, the oven did not explode.  Eventually several shards of glass did fall, probably making another upsetting sound, although I was not there.  I imagine this sound to be something like a “whoosh.” 

 

A week has passed since the incident and our latest pastime in the bakeshop has become theorizing what exactly happened.  My favorite speculation is that I got too close to the oven, made it overly excited and too hot, and as a result caused it to shatter.  I, being the only primary witness to the event, have remained the prime suspect.  

 

So, that is the story of the self-destructive oven.  Its mystery remains unsolved and I am proud to have become apart of bakeshop lore here at Corporate the Giant.  

 

Confessions of a Chocoholic

I have vague memories of eating Hershey’s Kisses under the dining room table.  I recall the pile of wrappers accumulating around me, and watching peoples’ legs as they unknowingly passed me by.  Little did they know, they were walking past a crime scene. 

 

To this day, during the holiday season, Hershey’s Kisses sit nested on the kitchen countertop in a Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer-shaped box, circa 1980.  I’d abducted Rudolph for my own private tasting and finished its entire contents below adult radar. 

 

Even then, I knew I had possible dependency problem on chocolate.  And, although nothing can compare to a fine piece of well-made chocolate, Hershey still holds a fond place in my heart.

 

I know it may not be vogue and I know that it’s a waxy, watered down, illegitimate child of the chocolate world.  But, its formula contains memories and childhood and comfort.  I like Hershey’s.  That’s my first Culinary Confession. 

 

Since culinary school and joining a community of real “foodies,” I feel the need to get these things off my chest.  While I’m purging, here are some others…

 

-       I don’t like sushi. (I KNOW! I’m a terrible person because haven’t even tried many varieties and the first place I tried it was at a baseball stadium.  I even lived in an apartment adjoining to an acclaimed sushi restaurant.  I could be swayed. Please, someone sway me so I don’t have this weighing on my foodie conscience!) 

-       I once fed a former boyfriend raw chicken and wouldn’t admit that it wasn’t cooked.  (At this point in my culinary endeavors I couldn’t tell if it was done unless I sliced through the breast and it was already looking like a cadaver.  Clearly, there was simply a naturally pink hue to that particular chicken!)  

-       Paula Deen has the best bread pudding recipe in the industry.  No joke.

-       I love Martha Stewart.  She emulates perfection (minus, of course, the jail time).   In her high school yearbook, by her name and picture, it read, “I do what I please. I do it with ease.”  How can you not have some respect for that combination of competency and confidence?

-       I once tried to eyeball ounces of chocolate when making hot cocoa and ended up making chocolate, booze-infused sludge.  Clearly, there IS such a thing as too much chocolate. Lesson learned.

-       Sometimes, I am scared of “culinary toys,” as opposed to “baking toys.”  Ovens are my friends…Deep Fryers…not as much.  (Although, the other day at work The Fryer and I said, “hello,” over doughnuts AND The Steamer and I introduced ourselves).   I’m working on being open to more diverse relationships. 

-       I believe that (in moderation!) hydrogenated oils can be our allies.   Nothing can make a pie dough flakier than a dollop of shortening.

-       I grew up eating chocolate chip cookies made with margarine, rather than butter. Consequently, when being completely un-objective, I think they taste better. 

 

 

WHEW! I feel good, if not a bit vulnerable.  I you now consider me to be unrefined, unsophisticated or savage in someway…good riddance.   I will eat my Hershey Bar proudly…and under the table.

Food for Thought.

Yesterday, the front page of The New York Times announced the end of an era.  As a society, we’ve cast our consumerist vote against “lavish,” food, as the Times termed it.  In doing so, we’ve silenced an outlet for artful writing, thoughtful cooking and a publication, which demanded its readers to genuinely think and become conscious and curious culinarians, replacing it with 30-minute meals, convenience and celebrity infatuation.  As a result, Gourmet Magazine will be ceasing publication after its final November issue due of dwindling readership and the loss of key advertisers.

 

There is no doubt that someone like Rachel Ray is more accessible to most readers.  Gourmet, even the name, suggests an elitist, unattainable quality.  There is nothing inherently “wrong” or “bad” about a 30-minute meal, or the Food Network.  I expect that their popularity has encouraged thousands of Americans to light up their stoves, rather than their microwaves, and move beyond meals of Hamburger Helper or Easy Mac.   

 

The problem exists when Every Day with Rachel Ray becomes a cultural replacement for Gourmet.   Gourmet strived to offer more than just a recipe.  With careful deliberation, its editorials examined human experiences, politics, worldly travel, and our individual relationships with food.  In losing Gourmet, we have lost a major alternative to hastily putting together a plate for dinner and collectively lowered our standards of intelligence.  The articles were lengthy, the words were too big, the recipes too challenging, and the content too heady.  This was its crime. 

 

The decline and fall of Gourmet testifies to the national epidemic of complacency.  The implications suggest that our vote will always fall in favor of convenience and simplicity, but as we begin to loose our alternatives to the 30-minute meal, we allow convenience to become idleness and translate simplicity into illiteracy.  As we do so, we weaken ourselves and limit our perspective.

 

If elitism entails lengthy, but evoking, discussions, exposure to interesting ideas, foods and places, and the advocacy of thought, I’d rather be an elitist.  Although yesterday a major loss occurred, it is important to remember that it is still up to us what we consume, not only as food, but as food for thought.

Cornflake.

Granola sounds friendly, doesn’t it?  “Granola.”  See?  Friendly.  Words of association include….crunchy, oats, hearty, sweet, natural…yogurt…acidophilus… probiotic health…..Perhaps I should stop with the word associations, but the list goes on.  Overall, I think, “Yum! Granola!  Good for my heart, good for my soul.”  I mean, people that love the earth and hug trees have been nicknamed “Granolas,” have they not? 

 

Well, I am here to tell you that granola has a dark side.   Allow me to set the scene….

 

I flipped through the recipe book and scanned the ingredient list.  First of all, it was long and most of the ingredients were not kept on-hand in the bakeshop.  I’d have to take a trip to the storeroom (after, of course, I located the keys to the storeroom, which floated around the kitchen).    Secondly, I’d been told to double the recipe, so that meant 8 pounds of cornflakes.  When I first looked at the number, I thought I might have been mistaken, because the last time I checked, a cornflake weighs…like, nothing.  A second look confirmed that I hadn’t misread.  Eight pounds of cornflakes. This was going to require the 80 quart bowl. 

 

I hustled off to the storeroom (and dairy box –for dried fruits and nuts…yes, I know that those things aren’t dairy products, but that’s where they live.  Go with it.  I do.) in search of oats, apricots, honey, molasses, maple syrup, cranberries, cherries, pistachios, and of course, cornflakes.   

 

I piled my ingredients into a crate, except for the elusive cornflakes hidden somewhere amidst the jungle of supplies.  I consulted the storeroom manager, who can be best depicted as the Indiana Jones of Inventory.  Dodging tin cans and bounded over boxes, we landed directly in front of the cereal.  And there were the cornflakes…but, what was this?  The storeroom only ordered cornflakes in individually portioned boxes (the wee packages you find on complimentary brunch buffets next to the mini-bagels and that scarcely fill a breakfast bowl.)  Each miniature box weighted precisely .80 oz.   The path to my future was suddenly paved with rooster branded boxes. 

 

Quickly metamorphosing into a cereal box opening machine, my motions became automated, ripping open boxes, cutting the plastic pouches and dumping them into the bowl.  With Mission Cornflakes accomplished, I began transforming my workbench into a terrain of small mountains, including scenic Mount Sliced Apricot, Dried Cherry Peak, Toasted Coconut Ridge and Saint Pistachio’s Point (to name a few). 

 

I melted my sugar mixture and poured it over my ingredients, tossing them together in the giant bowl…although, “tossing,” is rather difficult when pounds and pounds of dried fruit and cornflakes are involved, and when the ingredients come up to your bicep.  Not to mention the additional resistance (in addition to pure bulk) caused by the sticky nature of both honey and molasses….it was more of a painful folding process.  By the end, my hand look like a cat had attached itself to me and clawed me to death.   The roughness of the cornflakes had scratched the entire back of my right hand. 

 

But there it was….Granola…beautiful, benevolent granola, starring up innocently at me from the 80 quart bowl… I tasted a cluster.  Goodness.  Pure Goodness.  Despite the toil, hundreds of cereal boxes overflowing the trashcan, and my raw knuckles, I’d made an astonishingly tasty snack.    As two-faced as Janus (or Cecelia…who from the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel, might not be completely on the level.), Granola has won me over again.

Jamaica Have a Bobsled Team

While smooshing cookies yesterday, (“Smooshing” is the technical term for lining scooped cookie dough up on sheet pans and flattening it with a slight pressure exerted from the arm through the palm.  Not to be confused with “Smooching,” which is a different procedure entirely) an image flashed in my head (Well, maybe less “flashed,” and more “popped”…because lightning flashes, or perhaps scarring memories…this wasn’t like that.  Think friendly bubble…Pop!)

 

You know when cats knead?  Maybe if you’re a person of the dog variety you’ve never witnessed this, but cat’s sometimes knead things, like blankets and pillows and perhaps the laps of their owners.  They get this glazed-over look and push back and forth with their front two paws and just knead and knead and knead and knead and knead and basically, look like they’ve reached Nirvana…it’s weird, but relatively amazing to watch.  

 

Well, there I was over the cookie dough, using both of my palms, looking sort of glazed over, pressing back and forth and back and forth…

 

… and I felt like a cat.  I kept this to myself.  

 

Later that evening, Darling D, whom I work with in the evenings, was helping me carry the 80-quart mixing bowl to the pot room.  Each of us grabbed a handle, lifted, and awkwardly moved forward.  

 

She asked, “Have you ever seen the movie Cool Runnings?” 

 

I had. 

 

She then paused and spoke.  “When I carry with this bowl, I always feel like I’m carrying a bobsled.” 

 

The next day we went to brunch.