And I know a lot of them. Last weekend, I was (cheerfully) roped into helping prepare and serve a "proper" English tea by an old friend who had offered up her home, her china, and her silver tea pots for the benefit of my goddaughter's school. I have placed the word "proper" in quotation marks, because this was a tea hosted by Canadian-Americans, which means that it just might have been even more so than a true, English tea. The Canadians, after all, still celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday. The English, however, have long since moved on.

Scones were baked and served with Devonshire cream, butter, and jam. Little tea cakes were made available as were a number of precious, crustless tea sandwiches: cucumber, egg salad, smoked salmon, and Coronation Chicken.

It was the last one that really caught my attention. I asked Mary Pat, my friend Shannon's mother (and my former, formidable piano teacher), about it and she explained that the dish was called Coronation Chicken Salad because it was served at a luncheon in honor of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. Well, that seemed straightforward enough.

It also fit in nicely with the conversation about World War II food rationing I was having with my friend Craig and my goddaughter, Zelly, on the way to their house. Don't ask. These things just happen. We got so involved talking about u-boats, the Battle of Britain, and how Queen Elizabeth (mother of the present queen regnant) was glad Buckingham Palace was bombed so that she could then "look the East End in the face," that we forgot to stop for some necessary but overlooked tea supplies.

The Back Story
Coronation Chicken Salad was created by chef Rosemary Hume and the credit grabbed by one Constance Spry, a social-climbing society florist when students at her Winkfield Domestic Science School (at which Miss Hume was an instructress) were asked to cater a luncheon for the leaders of the Commonwealth Nations gathering together for the new queen's coronation.

Yes, Winkfield. The dish was anything but new at the time; merely a rehashing of the chicken in curried mayonnaise concocted for Elizabeth's grandfather, George V, in celebration of his Silver Jubilee. The name of the dish was, unsurprisingly, "Jubilee Chicken." And you'll never guess what was served in honor of Elizabeth's Golden Jubilee. It's true. Jubilee Chicken.

But we made it because we thought you loved it so much. I can just hear her mother (god rest her soul) saying that.

The recipe was published in the newspapers ahead of the coronation so that the common people might partake of what their new queen would be eating on her very special day. However, since food rationing did not end until 1954 (several months later), it is very doubtful that most of the common folk had had sufficient amounts of chicken and dairy products on hand to whip of a batch of the stuff. If they had learned anything in 14 years of food restrictions and shortages, it was to make do, to improvise. Perhaps that is why there are so many different versions of this particular salad. Individual households approximated the dish with what they had on hand.

Today's Coronation Chicken Salad is, essentially, cold chicken in curried mayonnaise. Simple but good. The original version, however, is a much more complex organism that included a cooked-down sauce of red wine, bay leaf, and tomato purée, and an addition of apricot purée and heavy cream. Throw in some mayonnaise and curry powder and...I'll put it this way-- I get the feeling that anyone who ate it would be spending more time on the throne than Elizabeth Regina.

Coronation-ish Chicken Salad
This is not the original recipe. Given the food rationing of the time, I think it's entirely in the spirit of the thing to improvise with ingredients one has on hand. For example, if a bottle of red wine is opened in my house, there will never be any left over for use in a chicken salad. Instead, I have added vinegar. I've also omitted the original call for heavy cream, and the cooking of the onions, owing to my own preference for bolder flavors and an even stronger tendency towards laziness. Feel free to add or subtract whatever ingredients you like. Except for chicken, mayonnaise, and curry powder. I don't mind, and I don't think Her Britannic Majesty will mind much, either. For the original recipe, please visit The Greasy Spoon, a site I stumbled upon and of which I am now rather fond.

Note: I had chosen to serve my salad clad in nothing but a crown of watercress. Upon examination of the opening photo, however, I realized that crowns are meant to be worn upon the head, not sat upon. It is a small but important error. If it bothers you, please feel free to turn the whole thing upside down and place upon your head or the head of the queen nearest you.

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:
4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, poached and diced
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon curry powder (more or less, according to taste.)
2 tablespoons mango chutney or apricot preserves
1/2 yellow onion, finely diced
1 stalk celery, finely diced
1/4 cup currants or raisins
1 tablespoon vinegar: cider, champagne or whatever
the juice of 1/2 lemon
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup chopped cashews for garnish
watercress, washed and de-stemmed, for garnish

Preparation:
1. Combine mayonnaise, curry powder, vinegar, chutney, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir well.

2. Throw in the chopped chicken breast meat, onion, celery, and currants/raisins. Stir until everything is well-coated.

3. Refrigerate overnight to let all the ingredients get to know each other a little better.

4. To serve, place on a bed of watercress and top with chopped cashews. Or slap some between two slices of bread. I will leave the decision of whether or not to discard the bread crust up to you.

I'd never thought much of the carrot in terms of dessert food. Before you ask the obvious "But what about carrot cake?" question, yes, I know it exists. I just choose not to acknowledge it any longer, thanks to my volunteering to bake that particular dessert for a friend's wedding several years ago. 150 people to feed and a Barbie-sized oven left me exhausted, but proud of the mission accomplished. I have since moved on. I don't think I'd even uttered the word "carrot" in years.

And then I went to a potluck dinner at a home I once partly owned, hosted by a man I used to live with, and a dog who used to know me.

The theme of the dinner was Cal/Asian, which gave people a lot of wiggle room with savory dishes, but not so much with dessert. Whole roasted petrale soles, rices dishes, green onion pancakes and a host of other items crowded the dining room table. Just off center, however, was a bowl of bright orange that caught my attention, as though I had just spotted Lucille Ball standing in the middle of some crowded Beijing shopping center smoking a Phillip Morris-- a beautiful standout, if a little out of place amid the beige-y, earthen tones.

"I suppose I should have put that to the dessert buffet, but I didn't want to move the booze." was offered by a woman named Razili, who had brought the dish. In my brief assessment of her offering, I hadn't thought that it was a dessert.

She explained that it was a carrot pudding, or Gajar ka Halwa-- a specialty from Punjab, her family's place of origin.

"We changed it a little," she said. The milk, the cardamom, almonds for cashews.

It got me thinking about how, as Americans, we all inherit the dishes and traditions of our ancestors from their various distant origins. In my family for example, it's the cannoli. Every holiday, silver trays of the confections were placed on the table for dessert-- one studded with candied citron, the other with chocolate. While the older generations consumed the citron, the kids went for the chocolate. As the years passed and the older folks-- some of them actual Italians-- died off, so did the use of citron. The cannoli we make today are only with chocolate, to suit our Americanized tastes. They are still cannoli, just not ones my Sicilian great-grandmother would be likely to touch. They are still recognizable, but they bear the branding of adaptation, of assimilation.

I know my family isn't alone in this morphing trend. It's how we as a country traditionally have made anything "foreign" or "other" its own. Think pizza or nachos or just about anything Chinese. We take an idea from one place, adapt it to our own needs or desires (the blander version of something exotic perhaps, made with ingredients easily obtainable in our own markets), and the results are familiar, yet different.

That's how I saw Gajar ka Halwa when it was described to me-- strangely familiar (carrots and almonds), yet exotically different (dessert?). Of course, when it was being described, Razili never called it by its Punjabi name. "It's carrot pudding."

It was my favorite dish of the night. And, believe me, there were some great things on that table.

Carrot Pudding

Serves: 4

That's what I'm calling it. The ingredients are hardly exotic, unless you think cardamom is fanciful. In that case, you most likely don't have Central European, Indian, or Persian ancestors, to name a few.

It's a remarkably easy dish to prepare (if you don't mind a lot of stirring), inexpensive, and really, really delicious. I've changed Razili's recipe slightly to suit my own tastes, but of course, that's to be expected, given the sub-theme of today's post.

Ingredients:

3 cups shredded carrot
2 cups whole milk
3 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1/3 cup of sugar
10 to 15 cardamom pods or a heavy pinch of ground cardamom powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Toasted sliced almonds for garnish. I candied mine.

Preparation:

1. Melt butter in the bottom of a wide pan over medium heat. More surface area= faster cooking time, I promise. Add carrots and stir occasionally until soft and thoroughly cooked. About 5 minutes.

2. At the same time, heat milk in a saucepan or microwave, if you're that kind of person. I am, but mine broke and it's low on my priority list to replace it. Add cardamom pods to milk. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat and let the cardamom steep. Stir occasionally to prevent the milk from forming a skin.

3. Remove cardamom pods from the milk. Add milk to the cooked carrots. Stir constantly to prevent burning. Continue this form of exercise until the all the milk has absorbed/evaporated. The carrot mixture should be a little wet. About 10 -15 minutes. Add sugar and stir for another 3 minutes or so, just until the sugar has melted and absorbed. Turn off heat and stir in almond extract.

4. Place in serving bowl, top with almonds slices and serve warm. Of course, it's still really good eaten cold out of the fridge at midnight as well.

Do what you will, it's your tradition now.

I've been spending entirely too much time watching episodes of The French Chef with Julia Child that my friend Craig gave me.

I find Mrs. Child oddly hypnotic. There is something about her uniquely-accented voice and the not-entirely graceful movement of her formerly 6' 2" body that compels me to watch her.

And watch her I do. Over and over again.

This week, I've been enjoying an early, black and white episode wherein she gives a champagne and coffee party in honor of:

"...the Queen of Sheba, which turns out to be this dark beauty, made of chocolate, and almonds, and rum, and butter!"

She then invites us into her kitchen where she promises we'll make:

"the best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth."

That's one heavy promise, but I love her enthusiasm.

I decided to put my money where Mrs. Child's mouth is and examine this cake and the woman behind it, however superficially.

And one or two other things, of course.

First, there is the name:
The Queen of Sheba

The legend of the Queen of Sheba can be found in both the Old Testament and the Qur'an. As a polytheist monarch of tremendous wealth and wisdom, she was intrigued by King Solomon of Israel, who was famous for his own wealth and wisdom, plus the odd little fact that he and his people worshipped only one god (1 Kings 10:1-13). She set off to visit him, laden with spices, gold, jewels, and a series of riddles to test his alleged wisdom. She was more or less awed by him, and he rather impressed with her. She returned to her southern Kingdom with "all that her heart desired", including a new, solitary god.

Despite what the vampy costume of Betty Blythe might suggest in her 1921 epic The Queen of Sheba, most accounts suggest that the relationship between Solomon and herself were of a respectful, intellectual nature.

Most.

Unless you choose to believe the Ethiopians. They claim her as their own. In fact, the legitimacy of their nearly 3,000-year, dynasty was founded on the belief that Solomon gave her slightly more than gold and jewelry as a parting gift.

Whatever you choose to believe, it is clear why the "best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth" was named after her-- she was dark, rich, and sophisticated. A queen fit for the queen of cakes.

Of course, I couldn't end it there. Not with Oscar season around the corner. Nor an obvious tangent staring me in the face.

Come Back, Little Sheba

One of the few vintage, Oscar-winning performances I have yet to see is that of Miss Shirley Booth's turn as Lola Delaney in Comeback, Little Sheba from 1952. The dowdy, shuffling, and unambitious Lola and her husband "Doc" (played by Burt Lancaster) are 20 years into a loveless, shotgun marriage. The baby was lost and both find comfort in their own particular ways; he with alcohol, she with a little dog named "Sheba" on whom she lavishes all of her attention until it runs away from her, most likely from fear of emotional smothering.

And that's before the film even begins. I won't give the rest of the plot away, most likely since I have no idea what happens next. I'm hoping it's some kind of sex comedy, but my hopes aren't aimed too high, since films about deep regret and personal failings aren't generally funny. Or sexy.

In stretching the limits of credibility, I have begun to think of this cake as somewhat appropriately linked to this film. Both are reportedly richly-layered, slightly crestfallen, alcoholic, and a bit nutty.

Almonds, you know.

Which leads to a warning to keep one's logical stream-of-consciousness in check. Miss Booth may have won the Academy Award for her performance in Come Back, Little Sheba, but her biggest success came later as the star of the popular 1960's situation comedy Hazel, in which she played the title role of a dictatorial-yet-endearing live-in housemaid.

Though critics have complained that the show was contrived and only "mildly amusing," Hazel does have her die-hard fans, who are referred to as "hazelnuts." Irritating, certainly.

The evident danger here is heaping too much honor upon Miss Booth by substituting the above-mentioned nuts for the traditional almonds, but that would be another cake entirely.

Little Shebas

I still intend to honor Miss Booth. Or at least the dog who had sense enough to run away from her emotionally-starved owner by making this major player in the classic repretoire of chocolate desserts into a minor figure size-wise, while still keeping the integrity of the classic recipe.

I have omitted the chocolate glaze used by many recipes, including Julia Child's. I simply think it's gilding an already-perfect lily. Oh, and I'm lazy. It is a rich cake, with a slightly gooey, warm center. More chocolate only makes it heavier. Still, I think it is a cake that would make its ancient namesake proud.

I doubt very much that Lola Delaney would have either the emotional wherewith all or even the equipment to make one herself, but Hazel would certainly find it easy to whip up for Mr. B when she wasn't busy whipping the rest of his family into shape. And , chocolate glaze or no, I think Mrs. Child would still enjoy putting one in her mouth.

Sadly, this is not as popular a cake as it used to be. Chocolate trends of the past several years have lead to denser, darker, more chocolaty, chocolate cakes. The virtue of this cake is it's balance of chocolate and nuttiness, with just a hint of rum underneath. As befitting a queen, it demands respect by virtue of its subtle complexity rather than by beating the palate with her sceptre. And that's all too bad because I think this little Sheba is definitely ready for a comeback.

The following will make one large Reine de Saba in an 8-inch cake pan, or make six petite versions in a large (3 1/2-inch diameter) muffin tin. Comme tu veux.

Ingredients:

4 oz semi-sweet chocolate (bittersweet may be used, but I'm going the Child route here)
2 tablespoons rum or coffee
1/4 lb butter at room temperature
2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 egg, separated
2/3 cup finely ground almonds
1/4 tsp cream of tartar
1/4 tsp almond extract
1/2 cup cake flour, measured then sifted
one good pinch of salt

Preparation:

Pre-heat oven to 350F and place rack in the middle.

1. Melt the chocolate and rum or coffee (choose your poison) in a pot set over simmering (not boiling, please) water, stirring to combine. Cover, turn off heat, and leave alone. You'll come back to it later and it isn't going anywhere. Cream the butter and 2/3 cup sugar together until pale yellow and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks until paler and even fluffier than before. Add almond extract.

2. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites on low-to-medium until foamy, then increase speed as you like, adding 1 tablespoon of sugar and 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar until soft peaks form.

3. Return to your melted chocolate and give her a little stir. The consistency should be somewhat satiny and fluid. Beat in a bit of butter/yolk mixture at a time, stirring constantly so the yolks do not curdle. Repeat until all is one.

4. Combine almond meal, flour, and salt. Now add this dry mixture to your chocolate goo, incorporating bits at a time. When this has been accomplished, gently fold in egg whites, starting with about 1/2 a cup and working the rest in ever so skillfully.

5. Immediately set to placing about 1/2 cup of your batter into each of the six muffin tins. Give her a good, hard bang or two on your kitchen counter to level and remove any bubbles in the batter. Bake for 12 minutes, then begin to peek into your oven obsessively until finished. A pale, chocolatey crust should form, but the cakes shold jiggle a wee bit, too. Ideally, a toothpick inserted about an inch from the edges should come out dry, but one poked into the center should not. When this has been acheived, remove from oven and let cool for, oh, I don't know, let's say an hour, because you've got other things to do. When ready to remove from pan, run a sharp knife around the edges of the cakes, invert onto a tray, and you're done.

Not exactly. At this point, you may either top them with a chocolate glaze or simply dust them with powdered sugar.

Serve them to friends at your upcoming Oscar party, or just feed them to your pets and watch their little hearts explode from the chocolate.

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.

It's the Holiday Season, if you haven't noticed. Sappy music is piped into our ears if we dare venture pretty much anywhere outside. Macy's is back to putting live kittens in their store windows. People are stressed out at the thought of having to entertain, buy presents, and spend their dwindling piles of money.

And I'm busy-- I've got lots of parties to go to. Because I'm that popular.

I have decided that this year, in light of my own evaporating bankroll, I shall indulge in the spirit of giving by sharing with my friends and loved ones items I have made with my own little hands. Or not so little-- I have more than an octave reach, in piano terms. Not that I play the piano.

This year, I am making Bourbon Balls. No jokes, please. They contain all the vitamins and minerals necessary to get me through the Season: sugar, chocolate, and alcohol. They are relatively easy to make, but look as though I've slaved away at them. And they're good. Chocolaty, not too sweet, slightly salty, and just a little boozy.

The way I see it, the chocolate boosts not only one's endorphins, thus enhancing one's Holiday mood, it helps out the immune system, too. Alcohol, of course, lowers one's inhibitions, which helps at just about any party I've ever been to. This leads me to the conclusion that, if there is some hot stranger in a Christmas sweater you've been eyeing from across the room, I might prescribe several Bourbon Balls before making your move. With the resultant boost in mood, courage, and disease immunity, you'll be nicely set up for an approach. If he or she simply stares blankly and then proceeds to sneeze on you, you're well protected. If this is the case, return to the plate of Bourbon Balls and repeat with your #2 choice of mate.

Bourbon Balls

The basic recipe seems to be comprised of crushed cookies, nuts, bourbon, and cocoa powder. None of the recipes I perused included salt, which I found alarming. So I added some. I would advise against going overboard with the Bourbon. You want the balls to taste of Bourbon, but not reek of it. Again, no jokes, please.

Makes about 25

Ingredients:

For the filling:

28 to 30 vanilla wafers, finely crushed (about 1 cup)

1 cup toasted, shelled pecans, finely chopped

3 tablespoons good, unsweetened cocoa powder

2 tablespoons confectioner's sugar

1/4 cup light corn syrup

3 tablespoons bourbon. Might as well make it a good one.

1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

For making them presentable:

25 whole pecans. On the small side. Either toasted or candied. I chose candied because, well, I'm making candy.

About 12 oz. of good bittersweet chocolate

Preparation:

1. Mix crushed wafers, pecans, sugar, cocoa, and salt together in a medium bowl. Combine bourbon and corn syrup in a separate, smaller bowl, add to the wafer mixture and stir well until combined. With a teaspoon measure, scoop a small bit and roll into a ball approximately the size of a walnut in its shell. Transfer onto a sheet pan lined with paper towels. Repeat, of course until done.

I say paper towels because, these balls are going to weep, which is not entirely surprising, given the faced that they have been so mercilessly plied with booze. It happens and we must be prepared.

2. In a double boiler or glass bowl which fits snugly over a saucepan with a little water in it, melt the chocolate. Gently place the balls, one by one, into the chocolate, turning them around with a fork (do not impale them. I use a small fork to allow excess chocolate to drip off the balls with ease.). Lift the ball out of the melted chocolate, and shake gingerly to remove excess chocolate. Place on a sheet pan lined with waxed or parchment paper. Repeat until all balls have been dipped. And you can stop your giggling now, thank you very much. While the chocolate is still wet, top each ball with a candied nut. Let them cool.

You may keep these refrigerated for up to one week, but I don't think they'll be around that long. Really.

I've had chowder on the brain ever since I attended a rally a couple of weeks ago at which I mistook the crowd's chant of "Louder! Louder!" as-- thanks to people blowing horns into my ears-- "Chowder! Chowder!" I was teased about it by a friend of mine (the proud owner of two hearing aids, no less) who leaned over to me afterward to say, "All this heat and talk of marriage is making me crave a hot, milk-based soup."

Sometimes, we hear what we want to hear.

I've been craving it ever since. Chowder, not marriage, I mean. Popping around the corner to Swan's Oyster Depot is easier said than done, thanks to the usual line several eaters-deep on any given day. And I don't want it from a can-- that's just too single-man-living-alone pathetic. And I'd hate to have anyone find the can in my garbage, because I have a reputation to protect. Since no one has offered me a steaming bowl of the stuff lately, nor is anyone on the horizon likely to, I knew I would have to make it myself.

But what kind?

There are any number of chowders to choose from. New England, Manhattan or Shrimp Chowder from the Gulf Coast? There are chowders made with oysters, with clams, lobster, crab, fish, and even corn. Thin and milky, or thick and creamy? There are as many types of chowder as there are people who make it. No two chowders are the same. There is not one particular recipe that defines the word, no matter what you might hear to the contrary. I have the feeling one could put Rice Krispies in a bowl with some potato, salt pork, and milk, heat it up and still get away with calling it a chowder, however the people of the North Atlantic Coast of this continent might complain.

The word "chowder" is most likely derived from the chaudière, the three-legged pot or cauldron in which it was cooked, in various forms, all along the Atlantic Coast of France in the centuries prior to European colonization of America.. Others might claim that the word is the bastard child of the Old English jowter, or fishmonger. I vote for chaudière, because I am, at heart, a francophile.

Coincidentally, Atlantic Seaboard-residing, pre-Columbian Native Americans made their own form of chowder which the early English colonists were initially hesitant to latch onto, since they seemed as mistrustful of shellfish as they were of just about everything else. Preferring bivalves to starvation, early settlers added their old standbys of ship biscuit and salt pork to the pot. The rest is, I believe, history.

Corn and Clam Chowder with Bacon

Since just about anything is fair game, in terms of chowder-making, I decided to combine two of my favorites, just to see how things went. A lobster chowder sounded wonderful, but too expensive. Crab, which was local, was at about $30.00 per pound. No thank you. I found some lovely Manila clams, which were not exactly local, but neither were they from Manila. The price was good, so I took them home in a little net bag with the thought of steaming them to death in the near future.

I love corn chowders, too, and anything with bacon it. I thought I'd throw all of these things in my own, legless chaudière and see what happened. The results were excellent. Nothing earth- shattering but, then again, I have no plans to change the world by virtue of my chowder-making. Still, I am pleased.

The various amounts of ingredients are approximate, since I was just letting both the creative and clam juices flow. I neglected to write everything down.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 lbs. Manila clams, rinsed clean

1 stalk celery, coarsely chopped

1 medium-sized carrot, likewise chopped

1 yellow onion, peeled and diced.

1 bay leaf

3 stalks of thyme

several black peppercorns

1/4 lb salt pork, diced

3 cloves garlic, peeled and minced

3/4 pound ( five or six) red or other waxy potatoes, cut into 1/2" cubes

2 cups fresh or canned yellow corn kernels, depending upon the season.

1 cup half and half

pinch of pimenton, or cayenne pepper

4 thick slabs of bacon, diced

salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. In a saucepan large enough to accommodate them, lay the clams in with enough water to cover the bottom of the pan about 1 inch. Steam them until they are dead and have released their juice. Remove any unopened clams and give them a proper burial. Remove clam meat from shells. You may either discard the shells at this point or save them for a future crafts project. Set meat aside.
2. Add four cups cold water to the clam liquid, along with carrots, celery, peppercorns, thyme, and bayleaf. To make even clammier, you may add bottled clam juice to this mix. I did not. Cover and simmer on low heat for 45 minutes to one hour. Strain stock through a fine mesh sieve. Return to the same pot and reduce by half.
3. To the chaudière of your choosing, add bacon and fry slowly, rendering as much of the fat as possible. Do so until pieces are crisp. Remove and drain. To the hot bacon fat, add diced salt pork, and sauté over medium-low heat until likewise crisp. Drain and remove.
4. Add onions and garlic to the hot, double pig fat. Cook over low heat until soft, about 20 minutes.
5. Add onion mixture to the clam stock, along with the potatoes, salt pork, and corn. Simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are tender. Stir in clams, a pinch of pimenton or cayenne pepper, and half and half. Do not boil, or you will regret it, deeply. Simmer for another 3 to 5 mintues.
6. Ladle into warm bowls and garnish with thyme and crispy bacon which you have not let anyone eat prior to serving. Eat with beer and oyster crackers, unless you have found clam crackers, which I have never in my life heard of. If you have, please send me some.

Today is, as I have been informed, Halloween.

Well, okay then. Boo.

Life can be rather ghoulish-- especially now what with Presidential elections, hunger, global warming, terrorism, people who think that inserting discriminatory amendments into the California constitution is a good idea, home foreclosures, and Dancing with the Stars filling our mental goody bags with more tricks than treats. You get the picture. I suppose we might as well have a holiday to celebrate.

In contrast to all this unpleasant scariness, I have decided to dedicate my post to one of the nicest desserts to ever cross my path-- The Baked Alaska. It's cake and ice cream wrapped up in fluffy white meringue. Like a child's birthday party all rolled up into one dessert. With a Party Clown. Nothing could be so wholesome as that.

A little background check:

According to foodreference.com, the Baked Alaska was originally a dessert consisting of ice cream on sponge cake encased in a piping hot pastry crust. Thomas Jefferson served it at the White House before it was even white, causing a guest to comment, "Ice-cream very good, crust wholly dried, crumbled into thin flakes."

Many people have claimed creation of the later, meringue-encased version. Most notable among them was American-born Benjamin Thompson, later styled as Count Rumford (namesake, but not inventor of the baking powder). This Traitor to the Republican Spirit claimed to have invented the dish in 1804 after investigating the heat resistance of beaten egg whites. He called it "omelette surprise" or omelette à la norvégienne. God struck Rumford dead at the tender age of 61 for his sins, but not before he invented the wax candle, Rumford Soup, and established potato cultivation in Bavaria-- saving many poor Germans from starvation.

It wasn't until 1876, when Delmonico's Restaurant in New York (think Hello, Dolly!) placed it on their menu to celebrate the newly-(13 years prior-- newish for the mid-19th Century) acquired territory of Alaska that the dessert got it's modern American name.

The dessert didn't gain true popularity until the 1950's, a time when America abandoned its big, unclean cities in order to breathe the fresh air of the newly-paved-over and sub-urbanized farmlands, fought Communism by digging enormous holes in their neatly manicured back yards, and connected with neighbors and families through the uniting, thought-provoking medium of television. The territory of Alaska itself was welcomed as a full member-state of our American union in 1959. Its eponymous dessert was, in my opinion, a true symbol of a great American era-- cool on the inside, white on the outside, and sweet all over. It is impossible to imagine anything as pure and wholesome coming out of that other state admitted to the Union that year, Hawai'i.

It is high time for this dessert to make a comeback.

I hadn't given the Baked Alaska much thought until a Canadian friend sent me a charming article on the subject by a little American housewife named Eve Ensler. Perhaps, as a British Columbian, he has Alaska on his mind, owing to the fact that Alaska is his next door neighbor and he can, therefore, actually see it from his own front door. Whatever prompted his sending me the link, I'm glad he did, and I think it's delightful that Mrs. Ensler bothered to take the time to write down her little recipe and share it with her friends and neighbors.

Baked Alaska

This dessert is all about appearances. Try it out at your next dinner party. It will dazzle your guests with its fancy meringue get up. They'll think you've put a lot of effort and know-how into its creation, but we know better. A pretty confection of fluff that wraps itself around a heart frozen at its core. Delicious.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

4 3/4 inch slices of old cake, be it a genoise, sponge, or pound cake. I prefer old pound cake because I can buy it in the store cheaply and not have to sully my hands with the unpleasantness that is baking anything.

4 egg whites

1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar

1/8 teaspoon salt of the earth

1/2 cup superfine sugar

1 quart of ice cream. Your choice. Jesus told me to opt for something less vanilla this go-around, so I am, like many people I know, voting for chocolate.

Soaking the cake with a little brandy is purely optional, but I think we could all use a little more alcohol in our diets right now.

Preparation:

1. Mold the ice cream, which has been softened just enough that you can shape it, into any form you please on top of your sliced cakes. I chose to make individual cakes, but please, by all means, do your own thing. Place ice cream-topped cakes onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. Put into freezer.

2. In a stand mixer, whisk egg whites until almost stiff, then add cream of tartar and salt. Beat in sugar one tablespoon at a time. Beat until stiff peaks that resemble the snow-capped (for the moment) top of Denali form.

3. Remove cakes from freezer. Enrobe them with at least a 3/4 inch thickness of meringue for insulation and put back into freezer. They'll need to be as icy as possible to stand up to the withering heat of your oven, the Liberal Media, or what-have-you.

4. A few minutes before serving, remove cakes from the freezer and pop under a very, very hot broiler for about three minutes, watching carefully all the while. If you are among those who do not believe that Man is responsible for rapidly increasing temperatures, that Global warming is God's Will, the wait time may be considerably longer.

5. When sufficiently browned, remove from broiler, plate, and serve immediately, because this particular dish doesn't have much of a shelf-life.

If you've always wanted to learn how to work with chocolate, you're in luck. Chuck Siegel of Charles Chocolates will be giving chocolate classes. Head into the Charles Chocolates factory kitchen to learn the basics of working with chocolate through an entirely hands-on, intensive class led by Siegel himself.

Starting with the basics of working with chocolate, the curriculum will also include more technique driven skills like preparing ganaches, rolling truffles, tempering, shell molding and more. “People are curious about working with chocolate, and I get asked for tips and lessons all the time,” said Siegel. “Once you know the basics, there are so many ways to creatively use those skills.” Recipes are fine, but nothing beats hands-on experience.

The classes will take place on Saturday afternoons, and last approximately five hours. You must wear closed toed shoes in our factory kitchen and please wear clothing that you don't mind getting a little bit of chocolate on.

What: Chocolate Classes at Charles Chocolates
When: Saturday, June 14 from 1-6pm, other dates to follow
Where: Charles Chocolates Chocolate Bar, 6529 Hollis St., Emeryville
How: Purchase tickets $300
If you have any questions, please call 510.652.4412 x311 or email events@charleschocolates.com.
Why: Learn to make chocolates from a master chocolatier and take home all of the confections you make, plus a deluxe kit containing molds, an offset spatula, sheet pans and several recipes developed by Siegel -- everything necessary to use what was learned during the class at home.

Here's a sample recipe you can try at home:

Perfect Chocolate Truffles (untempered)
courtesy of Chuck Siegel, owner of Charles Chocolates

Ingredients:
250g/2 cups 65% Bittersweet Chocolate
250g/2 cups 41% Milk Chocolate
345g/1 1/3 cups Heavy Whipping Cream (not ultra-pasteurized) – When infusing cream with herbs or tea, increase by 50% to 518g to allow for evaporation. Use only 345 total grams of infused cream in recipe.
1 Vanilla Bean
150g/5.5 oz. Unsalted Butter – softened
453g/4 cups 65% Bittersweet Chocolate for dipping
225g/2 cups Natural (not Dutch processed) cocoa powder for rolling

Directions:
1. Melt chocolates together to 120°

2. Slit vanilla bean in half and scrape seeds into cream - Heat cream to 120° (note that variations like infusions of fresh mint, Earl Grey or Jasmine Tea or the addition of fruits like raspberries or mangos would be integrated into this step).

3. Add melted chocolate to cream and, starting from the middle of the bowl, stir with a silicone spatula to start the emulsion. As the emulsion forms in the center of the bowl, move to the edges to completely blend the ingredients.

4. Add the room temperature butter and mix with immersion blender

5. Pour ganache into a saran wrap covered ¼ sheet pan and smooth out with an offset spatula – cover with another sheet of saran to prevent a skin from forming on the ganache.

6. Refrigerate until firm (at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight)

7. Remove ganache, remove saran and invert ganache onto the back of a second ¼ sheet pan. Using a steel ruler, mark edges of ganache in 1" increments.

8. Using a pizza cutter or sharp paring knife, using the ruler as a guide, cut ganache into 1" squares. Roll each square in latex gloved hands into a smooth ball and refrigerate for 1 hour.

9. Melt bittersweet chocolate for dipping. In latex gloved hands, alternately place small amounts of melted chocolate and truffle balls in your hand to coat.

10. Drop coated truffles in natural cocoa and roll to coat. Place coated truffles on a saran covered ¼ sheet pan and refrigerate until ready to eat.