It's colder than a witch's tit up here. Brass monkeys, as they say in England. (As in, you could freeze the balls off a...) The car thermometer read minus-one when I was heading to yoga this morning. My husband stayed home from the office so he could toast himself in front of the fire. Thoughts immediately turned to hot toddies. Traditionally, these warming drinks were downed before exposure to severe weather—or after, to recuperate from it—and they were also believed to have a curative effect on flu and colds. A simple combination of spirits, hot liquid, a sweetener, some citrus and a bit of judicious spicing, they even seem to put a dent in the winter blues. Consider bundling up and going for a brisk walk on the icy tundra just so you can fix yourself one. Or stand outside the front door for five minutes to work up a chill. Either way, it will go down like a charm.
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Sour cherries were a blip on the radar this year. Cold nights and then an unseasonal blast of crippling heat made for a small, early yield. And yet I scrounged up enough to make 6 precious jars of preserves and a batch of popsicles. In case you thought to buy up extras and throw them in your freezer, this is a great simple recipe for showcasing their unique tart flavor. It also works with regular cherries—just reduce the amount of honey—or any fruit really. Try it with chopped apricots or plums, with blackberries or raspberries, even with figs. It's hard to go wrong when you're mixing together fruit, honey and yogurt into a frozen confection. Put it on a stick and the child-like delight is instant.
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We went to the 16th annual tractor parade in Callicoon yesterday (yes, exactly what is sounds like) and came across a stand selling raw local honey at the nearby farmers market. I love honey so much—its amber hues, its range of floral and earthy flavors, its dense sweetness—and, now that I've learned a bit more about it, I try to buy the least processed honey I can find. The next step, of course, is to start raising our own bees, and I think that's not too far off. We may try to do it on our roof so that we can avoid the whole electric fence/bear situation. These lovely people from Walton, NY, had brought a wealth of choices to the market: clover, buckwheat, basswood, wildflower, apple, goldenrod and raspberry honeys. Honey is the concentrated nectar of flowers, and its subtly detectable flavors reflect whatever blossoms are most pervasive at the moment it's made. Talk about terroir! The buckwheat is always a much darker color and has a pronounced muskiness that can sometimes be quite bold.
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Life is so short. And every year it seems to slip by more quickly, doesn't it? So I try to focus mostly on doing what I want, being with those I love and feeling as good as possible. This doesn't mean I don't have the occasional hissy-fit or melt-down, but I've worked hard to create a life that keeps those to a minimum. Recently, I read an article that ran in New York magazine about the popularity of Xanax and how anti-anxiety drugs are so commonplace and essential in these fraught, post-911 times. We're all deeply aware that the economy has collapsed, the environment is not far behind and terrorists could strike any time, any place. As the article, written by Lisa Miller, says, "The crises people face in these early months of 2012 are individual and circumstantial, yes, but they’re global and abstract as well, stemming largely from the haunting awareness (it’s certainly haunting me) that the fates of everyone in the world are intertwined and the job of protecting civilization from assorted inevitable disasters seems to have fallen to no one." But I'm wondering: is the world really any scarier than when we were afraid of "The Bomb," or of AIDS, or of polio, for that matter? How did people get through the Great Depression without Ativan? And why is everyone now so sure that relief lies in taking a pill?
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The Rickey, a mixed drink featuring lime and not much sugar, was originally created in the 1880s with bourbon by Washington, D.C. bartender George A. Williamson, purportedly in collaboration with Democratic lobbyist Colonel Joe Rickey. Thus the name. Years later, mixed with gin, it became something of a worldwide sensation. Change that to rum, add a little mint and it’s basically a mojito. I first came to know it in the delis and little corner “spas” that dotted the East Village in the 1980s. (Remember those days? I was making $250 cash a week and living in a 3-bedroom-2-bath apartment on Avenue A that cost $1,550 a month. Total. And I had really big hair.) There, it was a huge glass stuffed with halved, squeezed-out limes, plenty of sugar and lots of ice, then topped off with seltzer. Not necessarily the soul of sophistication, but damned refreshing on a sweltering New York City afternoon. I've brought it to a slightly different place with the addition of a ginger-infused honey syrup (you can sub simple syrup, or even superfine sugar) and a splash of bitters, but it remains a thirst-quencher of the first order. Spike it with gin, and it's the perfect summer cocktail.
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I'm not really sure what possessed me, but I decided to try to make a savory marshmallow for Easter. That's essentially an oxymoron and, as it turns out, sort of impossible, given that sugar—or in this case, honey—is such an integral part of the structure of this spongy treat. No amount of googling turned up anything helpful, so I winged it. The result was a strangely compelling alternative to the achingly sweet peeps on offer at this time of year. Made with roasted pureed carrots, the base was initially a gorgeous brilliant orange color which, upon mixing, turned into a very subtle tint. Infused with cumin and fennel, and sprinkled with chile salt, these marshmallows are a sweet, spicy, salty and sensuous mouthful.
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Certain foods just have a universal appeal. Consider the dumpling, for instance. It's found in so many cultures, this rose by any other name: knedlíky (Czech), kreplach (Jewish), pantrucas (Chile), manti (Armenia), ravioli (Italy), buuz (Mongolia), pangsit (Indonesia), dim sum (China), gyoza (Japan), mandu (Korea)...the list goes on and on. Yogurt—and soured milk of all kinds—may not be quite as common, especially given that many African and Asian countries don't do dairy, but among those that do it's a deeply-held tradition. From straight-up yogurt to crème fraîche to quark to ricotta to paneer to Mexico's indigenous Nahuatl jocoque árabe, people have long been introducing bacteria or acid to milk with delectable results. Greek yogurt has become hugely popular in this country over the last few years, thanks in no small part to the ubiquitous Fage (pronounced "fa-yeh") brand and now Chobani, too. It's simply yogurt which has been strained to remove the whey, giving it a much denser, creamier texture. Sometimes this style of yogurt is even enriched with extra butterfat or powdered milk.
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On a blustery day in the city, I used to love to pop into the tiny bakery at Balthazar where fresh breads and piles of scones and canelés fogged up the windows. Passing up all the baked goods, I would come out with my frozen hands wrapped around a steaming cup of their housemade ginger-citrus tea. Often, it would be so acidic that my teeth would squeak against each other, but I loved the way its spicy sweetness warmed my blood. Now that I don't live near Balthazar—or anything resembling a bakery, or even a café for that matter—I have devised my own recipe and, being rather better balanced, I actually prefer it. That said, I was able to procure Balthazar's recipe and so also offer that to you here. Frankly, I've never tasted either cinnamon or mint in their version, and so did not include that in mine. Suffice it to say, either way this delectable brew is sure to help you ward off a chill and possibly even the flu as we head into winter's cold embrace.
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A bowl of white peaches sat on the counter, their rosy, fuzzy curves as innocent and perfect as those of a child. Their sweet fragrance would waft towards me whenever I walked past and, after a few days, they hovered at that turning point of ripeness that demands attention. My freezer already held a bag of white peach purée, ready to recreate the bellini of my dreams, exemplified by that one on a freezing January day at the crowded, overheated bar at Harry's in Venice, surely among the most glamorous and decadent meals of my life. (When you go there, stick to bellinis and panini at the bar.) There were six peaches—too many to simply eat out of hand now that they were on the verge of going soft. How then to take advantage of these delicate creatures?
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Fresh off another stellar dinner at Momofuku Ssam (twice in one week!), I feel compelled to re-post the recipe for one of my favorite cocktails this year: the Penicillin. Originally created by Sam Ross at Milk & Honey in New York City, it is beautifully executed by the stellar barkeeps at David Chang's gastro-temple. Do try this at home. You'll feel so much better...PENICILLINby Sam Ross, as adapted for Momofuku Ssam, and translated by me2 ounces Asyla Scotch (a delicate and dry blended whiskey, with a smoky vanilla taste)¾ ounce fresh lemon juice¾ ounce ginger-honey syrup (recipe follows)Combine ingredients and shake with ice. Strain into a chilled rocks glass, over a few large cubes of ice or, as at Momofuku, one enormous hand-carved cube. Optional garnish with a piece of candied ginger.GINGER-HONEY SYRUPCombine ½ cup honey and ½ cup water in a small saucepan over medium heat and whisk until well combined. Add a 1-2” knob of peeled, sliced fresh ginger and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and gently simmer for 10 minutes. Cover and allow to cool completely, then strain. Keep refrigerated.
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