Happy (post-) Purim. I should have written this post last week but, frankly, I forgot all about Purim this year. I'm not good with dates. And I'm not a Jew, though I have been told many times by Jewish friends that I am, in fact, Jew-ish.

And that makes me exceptionally happy.

Now, I bet you are wondering, "Why the photo of the lady with the enormous décolletage and the even more enormous hat? What on earth does it have to do with Purim or those delicious, Purim-related delicacies, Hamantaschen?"

Please let me explain...

Nine years ago this month, I had never even heard of Purim until I received a phone call from my friend Tricia.

"Are you free tonight?" she asked. "Want to go to a Purim party?"

I said yes, of course. And then I asked, "What the hell is a Purim party?"

She admitted that she really had no idea. As a Mexican-Scottish agnostic, she wasn't exactly up on Jewish religious tradition. Her fiancé was, however, in his second year of Rabbinical school and she was boning up on her holidays. She told me that, unlike Yom Kippur, this was one of the fun holidays, where people dressed up, ate, drank, and made a lot of noise. Being rather good at all of the above, I became rather excited about it-- especially when she told me we needed to go in costume.

I had approximately six hours to come up with costumes for the two of us to attend a party at a temple in which I'd never been, celebrating a holiday I never knew existed. I did a little research, called her back and said, "Just show up here at six in a black turtleneck."

For those of you who still don't know what Purim is about, let me explain as briefly as possible.

Purim, for Dummies

Purim is a rather joyous holiday-- one celebrating the Jews' deliverance from extermination by the King of Persia's evil advisor, Haman. Haman despised the Jews because of their otherness-- they refused to bow to him, the king, or anyone but their own God.

Fortunately, the king's favorite wife, Esther (who was the adopted daughter of Mordecai, a man who once saved the the king by revealing a plot against his life) was a Jew, though closeted at the request of her father. When Esther learned of Haman's plans to exterminate her people, she revealed herself as a Jew and argued that, should Haman have his way, both she (his favorite wife) and Mordecai (his savior) would be murdered as a result. Tables were turned, Haman was himself killed, and the Jews were allowed to exact reprisals upon Haman's people-- essentially freeing themselves from their famous Babylonian Captivity.

It's amazing how freeing coming out of the closet can be, whatever one's secret. In this case, quite literally.

Oh, It Needs a Hat

I was at a loss as to what to wear to the party. How many Esthers, Mordecais, and Hamans would show up? I imagined people with a poor grasp on historical costuming showing up in togas or basic burlap. Thanks to a little time and Googling, I came across several recipes for Purim cookies, or Hamantaschen, which are supposed to represent Haman's hat or, as some would argue, ears.

As a literal-minded man who loves to put things on his head, I found the notion of making a hat-inspired cookie into a cookie-inspired hat rather delicious. I spent the rest of the afternoon making giant Hamantaschen headwear.

Dressed as The Hamantaschen Twins, Tricia and I were a hit at Temple Sha'ar Zahav. After the noise-making and game show-themed events, the evening culminated in costume judging. We came in second place, much to our delight, beating out the less-inspiring costumes and, inexplicably, a woman wearing a giant vagina suit. I have since blotted from my memory the costume which stole our thunder.

We celebrated by strolling into the Castro wearing our hats. Most of the people on the street looked at us with utter confusion. A few people, however, smiled and gave us the thumbs up sign. "Jews," we thought, "They dig us."

We settled into a bar table at Harvey's, where I drank my first, second, third, fourth, and last ever Lemon Drop. Why? Because we were wearing big hats, that's why. We chatted up a table of gay softball players next to us. I was rather (unsuccessfully) fixated on one fellow there celebrating his birthday. Tricia was occupied by another, more interesting gentleman. When a drag queen handed us pencils and stapled sheets of copy paper, we realized it was trivia night, so we in our giant hats joined tables and forces with the jocks.

And, this time, there was no second place for us-- we won, even though none of us could name more than one porn star out of the many represented on our test papers. Fortunately, we were good at geography and disco hits of the 1970's.

I went home that evening rather high from all the contest-winning and Lemon Drops, but I came away with much more than that-- I met one of the best friends I've ever had that night chatting and playing trivia games, all the while savoring the time I was able to share with one of my oldest friends-- a girl who, at 13, I asked to go to Europe with me as gravely as any other shy boy might ask another girl to go to the prom.

And all thanks to our giant, conversation-starting Hamantaschen hats.

The hat was somewhat worse for wear by the time I gave it to my next door neighbor-- a Jew who loved playing dress up more than any straight man I've ever met. God only knows whatever became of it. Or him. Fortunately, the friendships are still around, however tattered and frayed by life and stress and distance they may have become at times. They are sometimes shelved, but they are always there. A little more glue or glitter or TLC, and they are as good as new-- more durable than any styrofoam, brown paper, and satin that a hot glue gun could ever put together. I'd be a fool to give those two away like I did that damned hat. I don't care how many cookies you offered me.

Hamantaschen

In German, the word tasche means "pocket", which is essentially what these cookies are all about-- there is a pocket made for jams or other pastes like those made of poppy seeds or prunes (lekvar). How they are meant to represent a hat worn by Haman, I have no idea. Three cornered hats were favored by European gentlemen of the 18th Century C.E., not Central Asian ones in the 6th Century B.C.E.. The European Jews of the 18th Century may not have had much of a knack for historically-appropriate head gear, but they did come up with a rather delicious cookie.

While trawling for recipes, I landed on the one that sounded the most delicious (to me)-- that of a very popular food blogger who shall not be cited here. There was something about her non-traditional use of both butter and (especially) cream cheese in the dough that told me these were the ones to bake.

They didn't turn out so well.

While they were as delicious and tender as I suspected they would be, I followed the recipe too blindly as I am wont to do whenever I bake anything new. I should have read all the comments attatched to the post before my baking venture to get a little more insight. For example, the dough should have been rolled more thinly, too much jam (even for this jam lover) in the center, the oven temperature was not high enough, and the baking time, which was suggested at 20 minutes, was more like 30. Oh, lots of problems, but that is another blog topic altogether. Sadly, the walls of these little Jerichos came tumbling down with the weight of all that bubbling confiture. Some of them looked remarkably like gaping wounds. But, like I said, they tasted rather good.

Of course, it could have been my own, simple lameness. But I very much doubt it.

I should have stayed with Mark Bittman.

Turnovers are often forgotten in the dessert world. Tarts and pies steal the show when it comes to articles, cookbook recipes, and blogs, but turnovers are just as sweet and delicious, and portable to boot. Like their bigger and more prevalent cousins, turnovers are simply cooked fruit encased in buttery pastry dough. Yet unlike the tart and pie, you don’t need to slice them, set them on a plate, or make a presentation out of serving them. Sure you could plop some ice cream or whipped cream next to one and set a mint leaf on it, but you could just as easily wrap it in a napkin and stick it in your pocket for later. This is why turnovers (both the savory and sweet variety) are also referred to as pocket pies.

Portability makes turnovers the perfect dessert for a variety of occasions. They're a great choice for parties where people will be milling about instead of sitting down. They're also ideal for putting in kids' lunches, packing for picnics, or taking on car or airline trips. But you don't need an occasion to make turnovers; they're great any time.

Turnovers are incomparably delicious when made with homemade puff pastry, but very few of us have the time or inclination to make puff pastry from scratch. Although you can create a nice turnover with homemade pie crust, I prefer puff pastry's flaky texture for the finished product and so I opt for frozen store-bought sheets. If you have time to make your own puff pastry or know of a shop where you can buy it, you'll be in for an extravagant indulgence when you bite into your luscious turnover. But if you're like me and usually have only the frozen stuff available, you will still reap the rewards of a buttery and fruity treat.

To make fruit turnovers, simply create a bowlful of whatever pie filling you like most. I am partial to apple and cherry turnovers, but blueberries, pecans, and pureed pumpkin are also great fillings. Anything you would stick into a baked pie or tart will work. You then scoop the filling into cut pieces of puff pastry, seal and bake. That's it.

There's no reason dessert has to be a plated affair. So the next time you're taking a road trip, want to put something extra special in your child's lunch, or you're simply in the mood for a sweet pocket pie, make some very easy and delicious turnovers.

A few tips to making turnovers:
1. You can cut your dough into circles or squares to make either half moon or triangle turnovers.
2. Overstuffing the dough will make the turnovers pop open and the juices will all ooze out, so be careful to leave room for crimping the edges of the dough.
3. If your dough is dry, you may want to seal the edges with an egg wash.
4. If you want your turnovers to be glossy, brush with an egg wash before baking.
5. Sprinkling sugar on the outside gives the turnovers a sweet crispness.
6. To perk up cold turnovers, simply warm them in a heated oven for about five minutes. This will recrisp the outside and warm the fruit filling.

Apple Turnovers

Makes: 9 turnovers

Turnover Ingredients:
1 sheet frozen puff pastry
2 cups diced apples cut into 1/4-inch squares (you can use Granny Smith, Fuji, Golden Delicious or any other firm apple)
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 Tbsp flour
1 tsp lemon juice
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Topping Ingredients:
1 egg scrambled
2 Tbsp white sugar

Preparation:
1. Bring puff pastry to room temperature.
2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
3. Cut up apples and place in a bowl with the lemon juice so they don't become brown.
4. Combine apples with sugar, flour and cinnamon.
5. Roll out pastry dough on a lightly floured surface into a 12- by 12-inch square and then cut it into 9 equal pieces.
6. Scoop apple mixture onto the lower half of each square, being sure not to overfill.
7. Turn the upper half of the dough over the apple mixture and pinch the ends. If the dough doesn't seal, you can lightly coat the edges with an egg wash and then press them down.
8. Lay the filled dough onto a baking sheet and coat each turnover with an egg wash and sprinkle with sugar.
9. Place the baking sheet in the oven for 12 - 18 minutes, or until golden brown.
10. Serve immediately or store for later use.

I have always been mildly troubled by cupcakes. I understand their immediate attraction-- they're cute, individual packages of utensil-free eating. It's cake on-the-go for busy people who like such things. I had once thought they were adorable for (small) children's parties, but I am no longer convinced.

I just don't care much for them. Not that they aren't occasionally delicious. I just don't like what they stand for.

The Origin, in Brief

The name "cupcake" is derived from its method of measurement, though it is also argued that these treats were often baked in cups or smaller baking tins in the 19th Century, when oven-baking was done with wood fires, thus making the production of larger, more substantial cakes subject to uneven cooking and burning.

Rather than weighing ingredients, the cupcake was borne of measuring by volume and a need for easy counting, thanks to non-universal literacy rates:

1 cup butter, 2 cups sugar, 3 cups flours, 4 eggs.

Essentially, the cupcake was created as a helpful recipe for the illiterate, the bad bakers of the world, or both.

Cute in a Cup

For me, cute is only attractive if there is some element of menace behind it, much like sweetness needs a pinch of salt to prevent it from becoming cloying, insipid. Puppies, which are smaller versions of solid, dependable dogs are cute, but they are unpredictable, sad-eyed creatures capable of terrible destruction at any given moment. The child star Shirley Temple was a cute, smaller version of the more serious Ambassador to Ghana-and-Czechoslovakia Shirley Temple Black, but she has earned her place in my heart through playing edgier parts before hitting the big time: knife-wielding tots, honky-tonk singers, and highly-paid temptresses bent on destroying the integrity of politicians new to Washington. Cupcakes are merely irritatingly cute, diminutive versions of a proper cake. Of course, given their newly-found, inherent dangers, I think they just might qualify, but it doesn't make me like them more.

Sharing is Caring

I've been thinking about the cupcake ever since a newlywed couple hosted their nuptial dinner at my restaurant. The bride was a depressing control-freak who didn't for one moment seem to be enjoying herself at her own wedding. The new husband was obliging and obedient.

The wedding "cake" was comprised of three tiers of cupcakes monogrammed with the bride's and groom's' initials. One bloated, over-sized cupcake sat on top. I stared at the cakes for a moment, feeling mildly disgusted and uneasy about the couple's future.

And then one of my managers hit on what was bothering me when he stated that this couple just didn't get it, that cupcakes are individual items, unsharable; that dividing up a true cake would have symbolized the couple's desire to share their happiness with their guests. I went back to look at the bride and groom. They sat alone, facing each other at a tiny square table, while guests and family sat apart from them at larger, round ones. I felt a little depressed.

Cupcakes are, by nature, considered separate but equal confections. There is no question, as in the sub-division of a large cake, as to who receives a frosting rose, who gets a corner piece, who gets a bigger or smaller slice. They are all, more or less, similar to one another. They are dismally egalitarian.

Each bite of a cupcake is designed to be similar to the next. With a slice of layer cake, for example, there is no inner negotiation, which is part of the joy of eating one. Does one eat the frosted outer edge first, or save it for last, or does one move back and forth between them?

This is, perhaps, why I no longer think they're such a good idea for children's parties. While the allure of their convenience might be attractive to harried parents (and what parent in their right mind doesn't look for a shortcut here and there?), cupcakes teach children nothing about how life really works: negotiation (I'll trade you my frosting rose for your corner piece), disappointment (why did I get such a small piece?), hierarchy (Why did she get a better piece? Is it because her daddy is my daddy's boss?), or, most importantly, sharing (You want some more frosting? Here, have some of mine.). They are, sadly, one of the many indications of the modern parent's tendency towards protecting children from anything "unpleasant."

Speaking of Unpleasant...

Perhaps my first experience with birthday cupcakes left a bad taste in my mouth. A girl, who I shall call "Karen" (because that is her real name), was given a special 6th birthday party in our kindergarten class. Her mother was our ever-present teacher's aide. For the special event, Karen's mother had baked cupcakes into Scoopy's ice cream cones, which would, I suppose, make them cone cakes. Karen's was, unsurprisingly, more elaborate than the other cupcakes. Her name was even embossed on the cone. The rest of us got random names, none of which matched.

It is more than likely possible that I was jealous of the fact that, since Karen's birthday fell within the school year and had a mother in a position of influence among the kindergarten-teaching set, she could be singled out for specialness, just as she was often awarded the title of "Wake-up Fairy", which was bestowed upon the best napper in class on any given day. Snigger all you like, but I was a lousy napper and therefore, never allowed to play that particular rôle.

So it was with the most satisfying schadenfreude, that I witnessed the birthday girl bite off the tip of her tongue as she tucked into her special cupcake. The rest of us were shocked into silence when she screamed, the blood pooling over the frosting of her dessert as she opened her mouth to cry and dripping down the white apron-front of her party dress.

By high school, Karen was running around with the Heavy Metal crowd and, I believe, referring to herself as a "headbanger." I've often wondered if that first taste of blood-tinged frosting influenced her future tastes. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

I Knew You Were Coming

A birthday is a very special event, as is a wedding, or a much-anticipated visit from a loved one. To bake a cake in honor of someone is to tell them you esteem them sufficiently to make a gift of your time. Had Eileen Barton, for example, sung "If I Knew You Were Comin', I'd've Baked a Cupcake," the meaning would have been lessened to almost pointlessness-- a sort of, "oh, hey. Welcome. Just put your stuff over there and we'll unfold the couch when I'm off the phone." Cupcakes are simply too quotidian to illicit as much good will as a full cake, no matter what their biggest fans might tell you.

One Cupcake, Indivisible

Yesterday, I came across this rather provocative quote:

"America is an enormous cupcake in the middle of millions of starving people."
-- Gloria Steinem

I'm sure anyone could have a field day with this statement. "One cupcake, indivisible," was my first thought. Cupcakes are a symbol of, if not independence, then individuality. America is seen as a place where freedom of expression is encouraged. The cupcake is not self-sufficient, it takes several ingredients and the efforts of a baker, for example, to create it. It is, however, self-contained-- it stands alone, apart, and, in its paper wrapper, symbolizes our modern obsession with hygiene. A perfect, if heavy-handed, metaphor for a nation that has historically preferred isolation and individual freedoms to full engagement and, say, universal health care.

Is it any big surprise that the popularity of the cupcake wildly increased during Bush's years in the White House? Interesting.

I won't even get into what those millions of starving people of the world might think of us. Some of it's good, some of it's rather unpleasant. I do not, however, wish for them to think of us as an unengaging, selfish little cupcake. If our history teaches us anything, it's that we are quick learners. We can't go it alone. We need to share with our friends and bribe new allies. Perhaps if we kick this annoying little cupcake habit and turn, instead to sharing larger baked goods that are, by nature and necessity, broader in their world view, we all might just get along.

Oh, who am I kidding? But it would be a nice start.

A Final Treat

Back to Shirley Temple. As the black lingerie-clad temptress-for-hire Polly Tix, she slinks and vamps her way into the new-in-town senator's heart. How does she entice him into selling his soul?

An enormous cake, that's how.

Eduardo Morrell

It's muddy, it's rainy, it's cold...so what better way to come together on a wet winter weekend than in celebration of a big wood-burning oven? The Headlands Center for the Arts is hosting Brick Oven Lovin' Again, a night of dinner and music on Saturday, February 21st, at 6pm. All donations go towards recouping the costs of renovating the center's massive wood-burning brick oven.

The benefit is the brainchild of Eduardo Morrell of Morrell Breads, who bakes all his naturally leavened hearth breads in the center's oven. For the last 8 years, Morrell has been baking breads for both the center and the Berkeley Farmers' Market, using the oven created by master oven-builder Alan Scott. While a separate memorial is planned for March, the benefit will also honor the life's work of Scott, who passed away in his native Australia on Jan. 26, 2009, at the age of 72. It will be a locavore's delight, with a focus on the produce & meats donated by Morrell’s fellow Berkeley market vendors, including Happy Boy Farms, Pomo Tierra Orchards, Happy Girl, Highland Hills Meats, Full Belly Farm, Riverdog Farm, and more.

Photo by Christina Z. Libertini

Served family-style in the arts center's dining room will be caramelized-onion and margherita pizzas, grass-fed beef stew, wheat-berry pilaf (made from Full Belly wheat), squash and citrus salad, sauteed kale and miso, green salad with goat cheese and apples, breads, pickles, spreads, and more, followed by apple crisp and chocolate ganache tart. In the kitchen will be alums from both Millennium Restaurant and the Headlands kitchen, including Morrell, Vince Peterson, Stephanie Hibbert and Ari Derfel. Playing jazz after dinner will be John Ingle (sax), Lisa Mezzacappa (bass), and Kjell Nordeson (drums).

Photo by Christina Z. Libertini

But what's so special about this oven? Built 17 years ago, the oven was part of Scott's first generation of quality ovens. It worked, but it wasn't perfect, something Scott freely admitted as he became the Bay Area's foremost authority on hand-built, wood-burning brick ovens. So, last year, under Morrell's supervision, the oven got a full revamp, preserving the decorative elements created by Scott along with the concrete foundation but installing all new insulation and firebrick. Scott's own apprentice, Quill Chase did the work. Now, says Morrell, it's much more efficient, using less wood, heating evenly, and holding temperature throughout hours of baking. It's an oven that honors Scott's work as it continues to feed another generation of artists and Bay Area bread lovers.

Headlands Center for the Arts, 944 Fort Barry, Sausalito, CA 94965. Saturday, February 21st. Dinner at 6:30pm, music at 8:30pm. A donation of $50/per person is requested for dinner and concert (children 7-13 $10 each; under 7 free); $15 donation for concert only. [ Map ]

Attendees are asked to RSVP online for the dinner. For directions and additional information, go to Headlands Center for the Arts.

Peanut butter is the ultimate kid food. From sandwiches made with little jammy hands to apple slices dipped into a creamy mess, peanut butter makes up its own kid food group. Unfortunately, right now we are in the midst of a major peanut butter recall. It's on the news all the time and grocery store shelves have gaping holes where peanut butter items once sat. Even dog treats are being recalled.

But families should take heart. Except for a few brands of peanut butter I have never heard of (such as King Nut and Parnell’s Pride), the recall is mainly for processed foods made with a mass-produced peanut butter paste. According to the FDA's web site, "Major national brands of jarred peanut butter found in grocery stores are not affected by the PCA recall." This is why jars of peanut butter still sit ready for purchase at your local store. From Jif and Peter Pan to organic creamy and crunchy, those jars are still available and deemed safe by the FDA for consumption. If you don't believe me, listen to Dr. Stephen Sundlof of the FDA.

But what do you do if your kids love peanut butter granola bars -- which are definitely on the recall list --like mine do? Each week I break my no-trash lunch rule and buy individually wrapped Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Chewy Coated & Drizzled Granola Bars because my kids just can't get enough of them. They are the preferred treat for snack time after recess, and I like that they give my daughters both protein and carbs, which in turn gives them the energy to continue sitting and learning until lunch arrives. Yes, I hate the wrappers, but what's one little wrapper (each), I ask myself?

Well, those granola bars disappeared from our pantry and my daughters lunches after the recall was announced. I tried to substitute their favorite treat with everything from yogurt and granola, to blueberry breakfast bars (more wrappers!) and extra fruit. After a couple of weeks of having my kids doggedly ask each morning if they could have their favorite peanut butter granola bar -- "Is the recall over Mommy?" -- I gave up and decided to make them myself. I had a large jar of organic peanut butter sitting in my refrigerator. We'd made our way through about a 1/3 of it by the time the recall was announced, so I knew it was safe as we'd all been eating it and no one had gotten sick. Plus it wasn't on the recall list.

As I no longer had a box of the beloved Trader Joe's bars, I had no idea what they contained, so struck out on my own. I opted for using granola -- you can purchase some or make your own -- to get a nice crunch and added an equal amount of puffed rice for added crunch and also a little chewiness. I really wanted a nice nutty flavor, so recommend crunch peanut butter if you have it. And, because I needed the whole thing to stick together, I threw in a healthy dollop of gooey honey. Finally I added some chocolate chips, because who doesn't love chocolate with peanut butter?

The resulting bar was, according to my husband, hands-down better than the store-bought variety. My daughters, on the other hand, thought it tasted almost as good. The proof, however, was in the fact that they each devoured their bar and then asked for more. If you are avoiding peanut products all together, you can still enjoy this recipe with cashew or almond butter.

I then began to wonder how difficult it would be to make baked granola bars. I loosely based my first batch on my Nut and Fruit Oatcakes recipe, but without the leftover steel-cut oats, it was a bit dry. After adding some corn syrup and also honey, the recipe turned out moist with a nice texture. Unlike the first recipe, I think this one tastes better with almond butter, so you don't even need to worry about the peanut butter recall. If you prefer peanut butter, however, that would also work just as well.

No-Bake Peanut, Cashew, or Almond Butter Granola Bars

Makes: 12 Bars

Ingredients:
1 cup granola
1 cup dried puffed rice (such as Rice Krispies)
1/2 cup chunky peanut, cashew, or almond butter
1/3 cup honey
1/2 cup chopped slightly salted peanuts, cashews, or almonds
1/2 cup chocolate chips
Oil spray

Preparation:
1. Mix granola, puffed rice, nuts and chocolate chips in a large mixing bowl.
2. In a separate, microwave-safe bowl, combine the peanut or almond butter and honey and then microwave for 30 seconds. If you don't want to use a microwave, you can heat these in a pot on the stove on low.
3. Thoroughly mix the peanut butter and honey after it is warmed and add to the granola mixture.
4. Stir until all the granola and puffed rice is evenly coated with the peanut butter and honey.
5. Spray a 9 x 9 square pan with oil.
6. Press the granola/peanut butter mixture into the pan, making sure it is even on all sides.
7. Refrigerate for at least an hour, but preferably longer, so the bars set.
8. Cut the bars into four rows and then make one horizontal cut down the middle so you end up with 12 bars.
9. Keep bars refrigerated until ready to eat.

Note: Some whole peanuts are on the recall list, so be sure the ones you purchase are safe to eat.

Dried Fruit and Nut Granola Bars

Makes: 18 - 24 bars

Ingredients:
2 cups oats
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/2 cup almond butter
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 cup walnuts, almonds or cashews
1/2 cup dried cranberries or raisins
1/2 cup dried apricots or peaches
1/4 cup sunflower seeds

Preparation:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees
2. Mix oats, wheat flour, baking powder, nuts and dried fruit in a large mixing bowl.
3. Mix the eggs, peanut butter, brown sugar, honey and oil using the paddle whip in an electric mixer.
4. Mix in the dried ingredients.
5. Line a 13 x 9 inch pan with parchment paper sprayed with oil or just spray with oil.
6. Press the oat mixture into the pan, making sure it’s even on all sides.
7. Bake for 15 - 20 minutes, or until the top is golden brown.
8. Cool and then cut into bars to serve.

As a Californian trapped indoors by East Coast snow, I was running out of things to eat. It was way too cold to leave the house. A whole day stretched ahead, wide and open. If you have a TV, then you're set. If you don't…well, thank goodness for friends who happen to have a big dining room table, a pile of apples in the corner and enough curiosity to humor a restless house guest.

Because, to pass the time, I suggested a lesson on stretching strudel. My host, who once watched his grandfather from the Old World make the famously flaky pastry, had never tried it. We set about updating his memories to include an actual recipe. One day soon, he'll be able to pass along the tradition to his own little daughter when she's ready to tie on an apron.

Austrian apfelstrudel is one of those desserts that require patience and practice more than rare ingredients or exacting recipes. It's a most astonishing experience to watch, let alone feel, the dough transform from a little round ball to a wide, silken sheet. For jaded cooks, it's a reminder of the simple magic of ingredients and the ingenuity of our ancestors.

Sweeten the filling to your own palate. Grate on some lemon zest if you want. Include rum-soaked raisins, orange juice-soaked raisins, or no raisins at all. Don't forget crumbs from leftover bread, crackers or cake -- they will absorb juices to keep the pastry's rolled layers light and crisp.

Whatever the flavors, be sure to give the dough plenty of time to rest. For a relaxed dough that will stretch very thin, knead well to develop the glutens enough to create an active network of reinforcing proteins, but afterward, let the dough rest several hours at room temperature or overnight in the fridge. Wrap well to prevent any drying on the dough's surface.

Some strudel recipes call for an egg in the dough; some don't. If this is your first time making strudel, include the egg to give your dough some softness and flexibility. Once you've mastered stretching the egg-based dough, you can then try your hand at an eggless version. It will be more difficult to stretch, but the end result will be noticeably flakier and lighter in a side-by-side comparison. Most folks won't notice, though.

Both versions are delicious. And both versions are equally fun and impressive to make with friends and family.

Apple Strudel

With just one afternoon of practice, you'll be able to stretch this recipe's dough to a large round that's supple enough to drape a four-foot table and thin enough to reveal the day's news.

Makes 12 servings

Ingredients:

Dough:
1 large egg
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or melted butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cups all purpose flour

Filling:
4 to 5 tart apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped
1/4 cup raisins
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 cup fresh cake or bread crumbs
1/2 cup butter, melted

Preparation:

To prepare the dough: Whisk the egg, oil or butter, and salt with about 3/4 cup cold water. Combine just enough of the liquid with the flour to make a soft dough. The dough should feel resilient but remain very slightly sticky. Drizzle in a tablespoon or more water if the dough is too ragged, or sprinkle in a small amount of flour if it is too moist and mushy. Knead for ten minutes until smooth, soft and warm. Form it into a smooth ball, wrap in plastic film, and let rest for at least 1 hour, preferably 4 hours.

To prepare the filling: Toss together the apple slices and lemon juice. Add the walnuts, raisins, sugar, and cinnamon and toss until evenly coated.

To assemble: Spread a table with a clean cloth and sprinkle evenly with flour. Place the dough in the center of the table, flatten with your palms into a 1-inch thick round, and then begin stretching the dough from the center to the edge. Use a combination of the sides of your hands and the tops of your knuckles to work the dough gently and evenly. Continue stretching the dough until you can see light through it. If there are occasional holes at the center, just pinch together to seal. Don't worry about holes or tears near the edge of the dough.

Brush the entire strudel dough evenly with butter. Sprinkle half the crumbs on one half of the dough, and on the same side arrange the apple filling in a long row close to the edge of the dough. Sprinkle with the remaining crumbs. Fold over the edge and roll the strudel into a log shape, using the cloth to help support and roll the pastry. Tuck in the sides and roll up completely, arranging the strudel seam side down.

Transfer carefully to a buttered or parchment-lined baking sheet, curve the log into a crescent shape, if needed, to fit the roll onto the pan. Brush with butter and chill for at least 30 minutes (or overnight).

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Bake the strudel until golden brown, 30 to 40 minutes. Let cool slightly before cutting and serving.

Gung Hay Fat Choy, everyone.

Sort of.

Roughly translated from Chinese, Gung Hay Fat Choy means "best wishes and congratulations." In other words, Happy Chinese New Year.

But that seems just a little too chipper for my tastes.

Sure, we've got Hope's Cheerleader in the White House, which may be an excellent start, and we have finally left the dismal Year of the Rat behind us, but what is it that we really have to look forward to?

Well, besides a bleak, blank uncertainty, we're heading into the Year of the Ox.

At first glance, this certainly seems promising enough. Oxen are strong, hard working animals. According to Chinese astrology, the Ox is also patient and tenacious. It can be counted on to get whatever job it has been set to done. It is even suggested that those born under the sign of the Ox share these qualities and would make excellent tennis pros, surgeons, and hair stylists. Walt Disney and George Clooney were born under the sign. But, then again, so were Adolf Hitler, Saddam Hussein, and Tori Spelling.

The Ox is not considered an especially intelligent animal (See: Tori Spelling). Perhaps this lack of smarts is what led him to his fated, castrated state in the first place. With its lack of virility, of full potency, will this Ox plow its way to better times for us? Let's hope so. I'm sure the market watchers were hoping for something a little different. Like a bull.

Things are rough, no question about that. People are losing their jobs, and those who still have them are tightening their belts. That is, if that haven't already sold them on Ebay. A general sense of malaise is beginning to infect the mindsets of even the cheeriest Pollyannas.

And it's irritating me. So I've decided to channel that irritation into baking something. Like fortune cookies. Or, more correctly, misfortune cookies. Though I came up with the idea independently, the thought is not an original one-- they've been done before with varying degrees of success. I have chosen not to examine the others for fear of plagiarizing any dooming, damning fortunes, but I am cheered to know that there are others out there of like mind.

I have always found the idea of the fortune cookie mildly off-putting, since I've never bought into the notion that a baked lump of flour and sugar was somehow empowered with the ability to decide my future, though I admit I have always welcomed them at the end of a big, Chinese (American) meal because, well, it's about all the dessert one is ever going to get at a Chinese restaurant. Dessert must seem like an odd waste of time to a culture whose cuisine strives for balance. Sweetness can be found co-habitating with Mr. Salt, Miss Sour, and Sr. Bitter in a number of dishes.

The misfortune cookie, I think, strikes this balance much more accurately than the ordinary fortune cookie, with its vague, sometimes chirpy prognostications and lucky numbers. Sure, the sugar and salt in the recipe are the same, but a refreshingly sour note of bitterness found tucked inside bring the cookie's yin some much-needed yang.

Serve them to unsuspecting friends and family members and watch their faces as they learn that they are destined to someday chew off their own foot or will eventually be exposed and humiliated for past wrong-doing. Go ahead, it's fun.

If the recipients of misfortune begin to turn against you, you might want to laugh and pretend you made the cookies to provide a valuable moral lesson. You could say that these cookies merely illustrate the fact that it is impossible to divine the future, so what's the point, really? That things aren't nearly so bad as what's written inside those cookies. Things could be much, much worse.

And then you might want to suggest a good pedicurist, just in case.

Misfortune Cookies

Makes about 12 deeply distressing cookies.

The batter for these cookies is remarkably easy to make. The baking and shaping of them is another story. So much for the theory that Chinese food is 90% prep and 10% cooking. Of course, the Fortune Cookie is a Californian invention, so you can blame us, if you like.

The making of them is somewhat labor-intensive on the back end. Purchasing them is certainly easier, but then you would be surrendering the chance to play God by deciding the fates and fortunes of your hungry friends and family. More free time or unmitigated power? It's a toss up.

For those of you not entirely mean-spirited, you may wish to include one Pandora-like message of hope, but that would be mixing mythologies. Fate is in your hands.

Ingredients:

1 egg white

1/8 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/8 teaspoon almond extract

a pinch of salt

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup white sugar

Preparation:

1. Compose as many hideous fortunes as you deem necessary on strips of paper about 4 inches long and 1/2 inch wide.

2. Preheat oven to 400F. Grease two cookie sheets with butter or, if you have a silpat or other such baking pad, use it instead. Cutting a round stencil three inches in diameter from a plastic lid is most helpful in shaping these cookies. I suggest you follow this advice.

3. Beat together egg white and both extracts until quite foamy. Sift in flour, sugar, and salt; blend into egg white mixture.

4. Place stencil onto cookie sheet and add one teaspoon of batter in the center of it. Using and offset spatula, bring the batter around to the edges, making as smooth a shape as possible. Repeat, leaving at least 4 inches of space between cookies. I suggest you start off by baking two at a time to test your misfortune cookie-making skills.

5. Bake cookies for 5 minutes, or until they have turned a golden color around the edges. The center of the cookies should remain pale. You may prepare the second batch as the first are baking, if you like.

6. Remove cookies from oven and very, very quickly remove them from the baking sheet with a large, offset metal spatula. Turn them upside down onto a wooden cutting board. Place fortunes in the center of each, fold them in half so that the edges meet. Pull the pointed edged towards each other and let them cool. Of course, I have never been able to develop the speed necessary to accomplish this feat even with one cookie, let alone two. If you are as slow as I am in these matters, I would suggest the following:

When cookies are finished baking, pull them from the oven, pry them from their baking sheet as previously mentioned. Now turn them upside down on the same baking sheet and pop them back in the oven. Count to ten, open the oven door, and then proceed to shape the cookies while there are still inside the oven. Aside from the potential for burning one's hands, this is a most effective method.

Repeat until finished.

Serve fresh with a warm smile and a cold heart.

I'd never heard of Monkey Bread until a few weeks ago. The name immediately caught my attention. The image of monkeys picking at a loaf of bread as they would nits off each other's backs came to mind. Charming, I thought. I wanted to know more about it.

Not that there's much to know.

The etymology is vague. The term "Monkey Bread" has several possible origins: some people believe that the bread resembles the shape of a monkey puzzle tree, but I feel that these people are out of their heads, perhaps having fallen from the top of one the trees themselves. Other people believe that the name derives from the act of pulling the pastry apart with the fingers, much like monkeys might do, if they were presented with such a treat. I have ruled out the theory that this was a bread frequently baked and fan-mailed to the likes of Mickey Dolenz or Davy Jones by swooning teen-aged girls in the 1960's because the spelling is all wrong. The timing, however, is only a decade away from being correct.

Also known as Hungarian Coffee Cake, Bubble Loaf, and, my favorite, Pinch Me Cake, the term Monkey Bread didn't start popping up until the 1950's in various women's magazines. The dessert itself-- basic yeast rolls coated in cinnamon and buttery caramel-- is close kin to both the Sticky Buns of the Pennsylvania Dutch and the more savory Parker House Rolls of, oh, I don't know, Parker Posey.

Whatever the origin, it's a wonderful treat that lends itself to lazy weekend mornings. Pinch off a loaf for loved ones to wake up to. Or, if you have no loved ones, bake one for yourself and then neglect to shower, change clothes, or leave your house all day, revelling in your own, sweet, cinnamon smell.

It's a very easy treat to make. If you're paying attention, that is. I had gotten up early to make a simple yeast dough, because I prefer making my own dough to buying pre-packed goods, as most food snobs who rebel against their ready-made childhoods do. I flipped on the oven, set the timer, and then sat down at my computer and started over-sharing on my Facebook page. I knew something was wrong when I smelled something burning after only 18 minutes of baking time.

Readers: I would suggest not cranking your oven up to "Broil" if you want to have any sort of successful baking venture. Not for monkey bread, anyway.

A quick clean up and several salty phrases later, I decided that ready-made biscuits didn't seem like such a bad idea, after all. This is Pinch Me Loaf and I certainly was in a pinch. So I trundled off to the store and bought a couple of packages of Pillsbury Buttermilk Grands.

I am now grateful for my initial stupidity. It caused me to re-examine the dessert and the recipe. Rather than blindly follow a recipe-- cooking temperature not withstanding, I now thought to make the Monkey Bread differently. The way I wanted it to taste. Perhaps, I thought, to compensate for cheating with store-bought dough. I added a pinch of clove to the cinnamon sugar, some orange zest, and a fine sprinkling of Amaretto. It made me rather happy. I hope it does the same for you.

Monkey Bread verions 2.0

Home made yeast dough makes for a wonderful, from-scratch dessert but, since this is really a treat for lazy weekend mornings, I am going to place the emphasis on the word lazy and go for the store-bought variety. Scream and howl all you want, but this monkey hears no evil. Besides, slamming those biscuit packages on the side of your kitchen counter is oddly satisfying.

Serves 8 to 10 people, number of monkeys uncertain.

Ingredients:

2 cans of refrigerated biscuits, like Pillsbury Grands

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon ground clove

1/2 cup whole pecans

1 tablespoon of orange zest

1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

3/4 cup butter, melted

about 2 to 3 tablespoons Amaretto. I don't know, really, since I've never been good at measuring alcohol.

Preparation:

1. Heat oven to 350 F. Lightly grease a bundt pan or other sort of tube pan with butter.

2. Combine sugar, cinnamon, and clove in a bowl (or a big Ziploc baggie if you're feeling wasteful). Stir to combine.

3. Check oven temperature.

4. Cut the sixteen biscuits into quarters and roll them into 64 little balls. Count them, if you like. Roll balls in the cinnamon sugar. Arrange in pan, adding bits of pecan and orange zest as you layer.

5. Check oven temperature.

6. Combine brown sugar and melted butter. Pour over biscuits.

7. Bake for about 30-35 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from oven, letting the Monkey Bread rest in the pan for about 10 minutes to let the caramel cool a bit. Invert onto serving plate. Serve warm and do not cut. To serve, pull off bits and pieces comme des singes. Perhaps one might smear a bit onto whomever one is sharing it with for added effect.

We've all heard horror stories about rock-hard fruitcakes. They're supposedly the favored gift to "re-gift," can last for years, and are hockey-puck textured. According to the late Johnny Carson, "The worst gift is a fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other."

I thought this all more legend than reality, however, as I had never actually tasted one in person until recently. This could be because I'm Italian and my people don't make traditional fruitcakes (we instead eat the divine panetone), or maybe people just don't give each other fruitcakes anymore. Whatever the case, I was out of the loop until I purchased one in Scotland a couple of months ago.

While visiting the gift shop at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh -- I spied some traditional British fruitcakes and thought it would be fun to bring one home to share with my mom over the holidays. When I asked the cashier if it would last until December, he laughed and said "Definitely." Thinking his droll response had more to do with the reputation fruitcake has than the actual merit of the one I sat on the counter, I spent 5 pounds on it (that's $10 US bucks) and packed it up in my suitcase. When we got home, I stuck it in the fridge, all bundled up in its shrink wrap niceties, until the holiday season arrived. Then, on Christmas Eve, my mom and I made a hot pot of tea while it stormed outside, and sat down to our plate of authentic English fruitcake.

After one bite, our eyes met as we mutually realized the obvious: if this fruitcake was an authentic representation, the stories weren't rumors. With a texture both brittle and brick-like, it was difficult to chew even the smallest bite without choking. I read the list of ingredients on the wrapper and realized that this sad example of a holiday cake didn't have any alcohol in it.

Fruitcakes are traditionally aged in a cloth wrapping of alcohol for at least five weeks. The alcohol preserves the cakes, fruits, and nuts within, and keeps everything moist. I wondered what the chefs at Holyrood Palace Gift Shop were thinking when they stuck this sad use of flour, fruit and nuts in cellophane without a little brandy. Maybe it was an attempt to get more people to purchase one, although I was reminded of the old adage that when you try to please everyone, you end up making absolutely nobody happy. I began to wonder how many of these confections were made -- and aged -- without alcohol or some type of moistening agent. It seemed that in an attempt to gain a wider audience through omitting the alcohol, cooks had turned what had once been a yearly treat into an inedible burden.

My mom and I love a culinary challenge, so we jumped into action. With just a little bit of work, and about a half cup of brandy, the fruitcake became more than edible. Yes, I am here to say that a hard-as-nails, dry-as-the-desert dessert can be revived in, amazingly, less than ten minutes. Not only revived, but made moist and delicious. After "fixing" the cake, mom and I enjoyed our nice hot cup of tea and gobbled up our treat quite happily.

So if you find yourself a recipient of a fruitcake this year, please know that your only recourse is not to pass it on to another unsuspecting dupe. In just a few short minutes you can bring new life to your confection, and spend an afternoon happily nibbling away with a hot cup of tea.

How to Revive a Fruitcake
1. Place a 1/2 cup of alcohol in a sauce pan along with the zest from an orange. I used brandy, but you could also use cognac, rum, Grand Marnier, or whatever else you like.
2. With a skewer, poke numerous holes into your cake, making sure the holes go all the way through.
3. Set your cake into the sauce pan and heat it until the alcohol starts to simmer.
4. Cover and steam for a few minutes and then start spooning the sauce over the cake so it runs through the many holes you created.
5. Cover the cake in the pan for another minute and then spoon the remaining alcohol over the cake. Continue this process until most of the alcohol is absorbed.
6. Turn off the heat, cover the cake and let it sit for another five minutes.
7. Set the cake on a plate to cool and then serve with your favorite pot of tea.

I've finally gone and done it. I killed my sourdough starter. It had a very well-meaning life, and when it was good, it was really superb (in my pizza dough). It was strong, at least in it’s youth. But the other morning, when I was clearing out the refrigerator in preparation for Christmas, I came across it, pushed into the back of the fridge, forlorn and forgotten. How could I?

Surprisingly, I managed to keep it going for nearly a year--my longest sourdough stint yet. It started life in Napa; we made it during a photo shoot for a cookbook I was editing, Williams-Sonoma Family Meals. We made a ton, and doled it out to the entire team, each Mason jar lovingly labeled with a hand-written tag courtesy of 9-year-old Ella. I think, with the exception of Maria the author, mine was probably the only one that survived.

But now it's gone. And since it is the time of year for new beginnings and new resolutions, and because I’m currently snowed in and housebound with my entire family for Christmas (in the arctic storm of the century in Portland Oregon) and looking for something to keep us busy so we don't kill each other, I’m going to make another batch. (If you find yourself in the same situation this holiday, I recommend something similar.) But this year I resolve to keep it alive. And to embark on many more culinary adventures in the year to come. Possibly involving my new starter. But this is only the beginning...

How To Make A Sourdough Starter
There are as many different ways to make starter as there are names for it (some of my favorite names include mother, chef, biga, and poolish). I’ve seen recipes using grapes, raisins, even rhubarb! Some use water, some use milk or yogurt, and some even use the water that you’ve boiled potatoes in. This one was inspired by Maria's and by one I made in culinary school way back when.

Ingredients
2 cups unbleached bread flour
2 cups smushed organic grapes
2 cups warm water

Procedure:

Day 1: Mix the flour, grapes, and water together in a glass or ceramic bowl. Put in a warm place to sit, at least overnight. I put it in my oven (with the oven off of course).

Day 2: Check the bowl the next day. You want to see bubbles on the surface, which is how you know it’s starting to ferment. It can take a while though (even up to 5 days or so), depending upon the room temperature and the amount of yeast in the air. So be patient!

Once your starter is bubbly, add 2/3 cup warm water and stir until combined. Strain out the grapes through a large mesh sieve. Discard the grapes and feed the starter with 1/2 cup bread flour, stirring to combine. Again, place the starter in a warm place to continue fermenting.

Day 3: Feeding time! Stir and feed your starter again with another 1/2 cup bread flour and 1/2 cup warm water. Let it hang out for another day.

Day 4: It's party time! Your starter should be ready to use in whatever recipe you might have that calls for sourdough starter. You can store it in the refrigerator in quart-sized Mason jars, just make sure you punch a hole into the top so it doesn’t explode.

The care and feeding of your starter
Your starter should be fine if you keep it in the fridge and feed it once a week, with 1/4 cup bread flour and 1/4 cup warm water. If it grows too big though, you either need to start making some bread or give it as a gift to your friends and family! Or just throw it away, but really that’s wasteful, so why not just make some bread. Or waffles, scones, biscuits, pancakes, pizza, whatever you can come up with...