On applesauce, taking stock, and making it, too.

Now, about that applesauce.

This recipe works its way into our repertoire every year as an afterthought. We’ll be looking for something or other to go with whatever meal we’ve got planned, paging through recipe files, knocking around in the cupboards, when one of us will ask, “Hey, what about that apple sauce?” Then, we'll smack our hands against our foreheads, say, “Oh, right,” and remember how very special “that applesauce” is. After the first pot, it sticks with us for the rest of the season, as a light, tart, Thanksgiving dessert; at our annual Chanukah party, atop Eli’s famous latkes; and on New Year’s Eve, blushing hotly alongside a cool glass of champagne. We got started a little earlier than usual this season thanks to a bag of last year’s cranberries that was tucked away in our freezer. Wait, have I mentioned that part yet? That it’s cranberry applesauce? I told you it’s special.



Way back in September, on the Tuesday before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, Eli and I got into our pajamas early, and stretched out on the bed with a few favorite cookbooks, a stack of old Gourmet magazines, a notepad, and a fresh pack of sticky tabs. We would be hosting a couple of holiday meals that weekend, and we were looking for inspiration. At the risk of sounding completely geeky, I’ll share with you that bedtime, pre-holiday meal planning is something I adore. I love the soft light of the nightstand lamp against the glossy magazine pages, the smell of the pillows, Judy Rodgers’s and Suzanne Goin’s familiar prose, and the curve of Eli’s back as he leans into a new recipe, and thinks it through. We talk in quiet voices about flavors and oils and what this one or the other of our dinner guests might particularly enjoy. We read aloud to each other from the recipe notes, mark pages, and make lists. And somewhere along the way, our conversation shifts to the new year, to where we’ve been and where we’re going, to what we believe in, and who we want to be for ourselves, for each other, and out there in the world. This year, I learned something new about Eli, which is that he will follow Tom Colicchio anywhere. Even if it means making a stock to make a stock (yes, you read that correctly) in which to braise one very lucky hunk of meat. Once Eli set his eyes on that recipe, he barely glanced at another cookbook. The next night, after work, he got started.

The thing about stock is that it has a way of eating up an entire evening. Between the prepping, and the simmering, and the cooling so that it doesn’t spoil the fridge, it would be two or three in the morning before Eli would finally come to bed. This situation may not seem especially hospitable to the making of applesauce, but just stick with me, if you would. I meant it when I said that we tend to get to this recipe in a roundabout way. The thing to remember is that a lot of stock-making time is downtime, and when Eli noticed the apples remaining from our Labor Day orchard excursion, he said – true to form – “Hey, why don’t I make that applesauce? I might as well.” Any man who, when faced with a few hours of late-night, mid-stock downtime makes applesauce because he “might as well” is dreamy, and that’s that. I knew I liked him.

If ever you find yourself in a similar situation, about to go to bed, when someone pipes up with an offer to make this applesauce, resist the pillow for just a few minutes, if you can. When the pot is filled with fruit and sugar and beginning to heat up, volunteer to stir so that you can watch the cranberries melt a little into the apples, split open with the occasional pop, and release their tart, rosy juices. Then, go on to bed, and in the morning, taking care not to wake the still-sleeping, late-night cook beside you, step out into your cinnamon-smelling apartment, poke a spoon into the fridge, and steal a puckery little bite. I don’t know why, but I got a little nervous this year that maybe it wouldn’t be as good as I remembered it, but sure enough, there was that zing.

If you skip all of the making and taking stock, and dive right into the recipe, you’ll find that this applesauce comes together in a snap. It takes only about fifteen minutes to prep the apples and throw everything into the pot, and then you just let the fruit, sugar, and heat do their thing. I know that I promised you this recipe almost two months ago, and I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you’ll find it was worth the wait.

(p.s. Hi, November. What?)



Cranberry Applesauce
Adapted from Gourmet, December, 2007

The original recipe calls for just 1 ½ c. cranberries, but I upped the amount to 2 full cups. I like tart. I enjoy this sauce warm, anointed with a small (or not-so-small, as you can see from the photograph) dollop of Greek yogurt or crème fraîche.

4 pounds apples (about 8 medium-small apples), peeled, cored, and cut into 1-inch pieces. We like to use a mix of whatever we have around. Our last batch included Jonagold, Honeycrisp, McIntosh, and Golden Delicious.
2 c. fresh or thawed frozen cranberries
½ c. sugar
1 cinnamon stick

Place the apples, cranberries, sugar, and cinnamon stick in a large heavy pot. Cover, and turn the heat to medium-low. Stirring every now and then, let cook for about 45 minutes, until the fruit is very tender, and begins to break down into a sauce. Discard the cinnamon stick. The original recipe indicates that you can force the applesauce through a sieve for a smoother texture, but I prefer it thick and chunky. I think it is best when made at least one day ahead, chilled, and then reheated. The applesauce can be prepared up to one week in advance. Keep covered and chilled.

oh, brother

This story begins with a Tilt-a-Whirl.

It was mid-May, 1992, the weekend of the Orange Jubilee, my small hometown's yearly spring festival. I was going on twelve years old. Amy, Kasey, and I handed our tickets to the ride attendant, and my sister and I ran ahead to find an empty car. I looked back over my shoulder in time to see Amy speaking quietly with the attendant, and before I knew it, my Dad - not Amy - was climbing up the metal steps to join us on the ride. I knew right away that something was seriously off. My dad may be able to stomach steep roller coaster drops, but it's a known fact that spin-y rides - spin-y anythings, no matter how mild, even winding parking garage ramps - are not for him. I demanded to know just what the heck was going on. Dad took a seat between us, pulled down the metal bar, exchanged a quick glance with Amy and then, as the ride slowly creaked into motion, he said it:

"Amy's pregnant."

My head was spinning, and as we picked up speed, so was the rest of me. The ride tossed us from side to side, and occasionally flung us out in the direction of Amy, who was standing on the ground. When our car would whip around to face her, I'd do my best to time my "Congratu-LAAAA-tions!" perfectly, so that I could land and lean upon that fourth syllable when we were closest to her, just before the ride would lurch and swing us back in the opposite direction. Somewhere, there is a photograph of the three of us wobbling down from that ride, my Dad looking a little green; Kasey, rather dumbfounded; and me, in a Hypercolor t-shirt (remember those?), my mouth agape.

Five months later, my brother, Caleb, was born.

A brother! This was going to be good. I imagined a rough 'n tumble kid, someone I could wrestle, and play with in the dirt. I couldn't wait to meet him. My Dad, Amy, and now this new little creature, were living in St. Louis then. By the time Kasey and I arrived from Ohio, everyone was settling in back at home. I remember racing up the steps and bursting into the living room, ready to give this mud-pie eating little dude a slap on the back. With any luck, he would put me in a headlock. It hadn't occurred to me, I guess, that before brothers start looking and behaving like brothers, they're more like tiny, pink worms who peer up at their older sisters from blankets on the floor.

Seventeen years later, I am pleased to report that Caleb has come a long way since those squirmy, wormy days. Now, when I walk into a room and greet him, I don't look down. I look up. And up, and up: At six foot four (and counting), my "little" brother towers above us all. With Caleb, it's easy to focus on the physical. He's pretty much a knock-out, ladies, and a varsity soccer player, to boot. But this kid brother of mine is so much more than just a handsome face. He's a talented guitarist, an inspired photographer and, because I enjoy both laughing my head off and beating the pants off everyone else at the table, he's my absolute first-choice teammate in family games of Time's Up. If you happen to live in Columbus, Ohio, and you have a yard that needs tending, look no further than Caleb. I'm telling you: my brother works magic with a lawn mower. Take a drive through the neighborhood with the man himself and listen to his passionate front-yard commentary. There’s no denying that he’s an artist.

But wait, there's more: He buses a mean table at the neighborhood Italian restaurant, downs massive Chipotle burritos like popcorn, is a bit of a baguette snob and, when he's having trouble keeping up with his racing metabolism, has been known to ingest yogurts by the half-dozen and PowerBars by the handful in a single day's time. Best of all, Caleb calls it like he sees it, which means he's your man when you're in need of a good, smart, solid opinion on just about anything.

Caleb is also the guy who, when the going gets rough, will ask you how you're feeling and then listen, really listen, to the answer. And when you decide to tell him the truth, that you're actually pretty scared, he doesn't flinch. Instead, he tells you that he's a little freaked out, too, and then - if you're lucky - he pulls up some of his latest photography on his iPhone, and cracks you up with tales of unsavory dermatological conditions about which stellar high-school athletes know best.

Seriously, Caleb, you're such a star. You're my favorite brother in the world, and not just because you're my only. If I had another, I'm sure you'd give him a run for his money. I love you hugely.

There's one last thing that you should know about Caleb: He's just not that into cake. At birthday parties, even his own, he's been known to forgo the cake altogether and head straight for the ice cream. (Me too.) About cookies, however, he has no complaints.

Today's recipe was a wonderful rediscovery. When I was home in Ohio one year, I baked oatmeal cookies from a recipe that Amy had received from her sister, Jo. The cookies were plump, buttery, and smelled of brown sugar and cinnamon. Eli declared them his favorite cookies, and I declared the recipe one for the permanent file. Then, a couple of years ago, it went missing. I could have called Jo for an emergency, over-the-phone recipe dictation, but for some strange reason, I instead embarked on a two-year rotation of one oatmeal cookie recipe after another, and hoped that I would happen upon a winner. I never did find "the one," and so this week I finally decided to shoot Jo an e-mail and ask her for the recipe. It turns out that I had it all along, lurking silently on my pantry shelf. Jo's terrific recipe is the one right off of the Quaker Oats lid!



These cookies are high on my list of favorite cold-weather things. They're right up there with wool socks, fleece blankets, and my convertible mitten-gloves, handmade by my friend, Piera. That these cookies hold up so nicely, softening but not dissolving, when dipped into a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea, may have something to do with it. They are also perfect for folding up in a paper towel and toting along with you on marathon days of early morning workouts, classes, meetings about a certain slowly-emerging dissertation topic, CSA pick-ups and deliveries, post office runs, and doctor’s appointments. The idea, of course, is that somewhere in there you will find a moment to pull out that little wad of paper and cookie, and indulge in a cozy snack. If, instead, you accidentally forget about your provisions until the next morning, then hey, you've got breakfast.



Enjoy your cookies, Caleb. And as you begin thinking seriously about colleges, please remember that there are more where these came from. That's right, I'm bribing you with your own birthday cookies. Come to school in the Boston area, and I'll even throw in some arm scratching and back tickling. Sounds good, eh?

Oh, brother. Happy birthday, you.

[And with that, dear readers, we conclude the family birthday series here at Sweet Amandine. Mom, Dad, Amy, Kasey, Anna, and now Caleb, thank you all for playing along. You’re the best.]

p.s. – Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about that apple sauce. I’m hoping that these cookies will tide you over for another few days.

Quaker Oats Vanishing Oatmeal (Raisin) Cookies
Adapted from the lid of the Quaker Oats canister (with special thanks to Jo)

½ pound (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
½ c. granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
1 ½ c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp salt
3 c. rolled oats (not instant)
1 c. raisins (optional; I leave them out.)

Heat the oven to 350 degrees.

Beat together the butter and the sugars until creamy. I use a stand mixer to speed things along. Add the eggs and the vanilla, and beat well.

Stir together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt in a separate bowl. Then, add the combined dry ingredients to the butter-sugar-eggs mixture, and mix well. Stir in the oats, and the raisins, if using.

Line a cookie sheet or two with a silicone mat or a sheet of parchment paper. (You’ll need a couple of rounds in the oven, at least, to make it through all of the dough.) The original recipe calls for the dough to be dropped by rounded tablespoonfuls, for a total of about four dozen cookies. I prefer smaller cookies, and so I measure out my dough by the level tablespoon. This time around, I ended up with a little more than five dozen cookies.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the cookies to a wire rack. They will be quite soft when you remove them from the oven, but will harden as they cool.

every last word

Yesterday's news about the demise of Gourmet magazine left me shocked, saddened, and speechless. I'll miss the many talented voices of Gourmet not only in the kitchen, but also in the living room, where I would do my first pass each month with sticky tabs in hand; at the table, where I'd flip through several issues at once, and plan the weekend's dinner party; and in bed, where I'd read every last word of every (last) issue, and often quote a few lines out loud from a particularly moving article to Eli before turning out the light. To mark the passing of this magazine that is about so much more than food, I'd like to share some images of the various corners of my home that it inhabits.

Dear Gourmet writers, photographers, editors, stylists, and recipe testers: Thank you. Truly. My thoughts are with you all. It's going to be a lot lonelier around here without you.

a quick hello

Good morning, friends. I just wanted to pop in for a quick hello.

Eli and I are packing up the car this morning and driving to New York to spend the weekend with his family. We've got molasses cookies, cherry almond chocolate chunkies, and a pluot cake in tow, and several hours of old This American Life episodes for the ride. Which is not to say that I didn't also pack the requisite changes of underwear, a toothbrush, and a couple of sweaters, pulled just last night from our winter storage bin.

On our way to Eli's parents' house, we'll stop for a visit with my friend Maya, and her two little girls who, their mother reports, have a delightful muffin gnawing habit that tends to kick in when they're at the local zoo, and talking about owls and skinks.

We're just about out the door, but I thought I would leave you with a couple of photographs for the weekend. They're from our Labor Day trip up to the North Shore. It's hard to believe that it was almost a month ago.

We picked apples.



And ate fried things.



Clearly, I was focused on the onion rings. (Forgive me, but a pun that spans two media, photography and the written word? I was powerless to resist. Take a look at this shot big for the full effect.)

No recipe today, but take heart: A sizeable portion of the two pecks of apples that we picked ended up in a very special apple sauce, which I promise to tell you about next week.

Until then, enjoy the weekend. See you back here soon.

September, in a bowl

By now, you've probably heard about the blight that has ravaged this summer's tomato crop all over the Northeast. Called "late blight," this pernicious, highly contagious fungus is the same disease responsible for the Irish Potato Famine of the late 1840s. It's no laughing matter. And yet, – farmers please forgive me – there’s something about the word itself that makes me giggle. "Blight." I can't say it without imagining myself in a petticoat and poke bonnet, fretting about things like dropsy and catarrh. Of course, the dreaded thought of a tomato-less summer snaps me right back to my jeans-and-t-shirt reality. Could summer even be summer without drippy tomato sandwiches on crusty bread? Without overlapping rounds of red and yellow heirlooms, drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt and sweet basil?

Thanks to the fine people at Kimball Farm, I may never know.



If late blight is big news here in New England (and I assure you, it is), the tomatoes at Kimball Farm didn't get the memo. Week after week, not a ten-minute walk from my apartment, flats of beautiful, healthy, tomatoes line the Kimball Farm stand at the Charles Square Farmers' Market. The staggering selection of heirlooms is enough to make you cast off your bonnets and petticoats and declare, "Blight, shmight!" This season, I've eaten Aussies, Green Zebras, Cherokee Purples, Black Cherries, and Pink Brandywines. My favorite, and Eli's too, are the Pineapple tomatoes. They're rich and meaty, blushing in rosy clouds over their bright yellow skins. Pineapple tomatoes are marbled all the way through with streaks of pink and orangey-red. Sometimes, when I slice into one at just the right angle, I feel as if I'm gazing at an early-morning sky, and not a refugee tomato that managed to escape the late blight of 2009.

A fat, shiny tomato on the kitchen counter is the most delicious excuse I can think of to avoid turning on the oven. This excuse is especially appealing in the heat and humidity of a Boston summer, when just the thought of touching a knob on the oven can cause you to melt on the spot. Until a few weeks ago, I ate every one of my tomatoes raw, at room temperature. I'd slice them alongside avocados; chop and toss them together with cucumbers and peppers; or, in a classic move, slide them under downy half-spheres of buffalo mozzarella. When you're leaning over the kitchen sink, biting into a whole tomato, and slurping loudly, it can feel like summer will last forever.



And then, in rolls September.

She wasted no time in announcing herself this year. On September 1st, blue skies faded to grey, and temperatures dropped suddenly into the low 60s. You could smell the almost-autumn in the air. It was a day for pulling on sweaters; for tying on scarves that you didn't really need, but that felt reassuringly soft and snug under your chin. It was a day for turning on the oven. With the slight chill creeping in through the window frames, a little extra heat in the kitchen didn't sound half-bad. The lunch that I threw together that day is a staple in my September kitchen: roasted chickpeas and heirloom tomatoes. I've eaten it at least twice a week for lunch all month long. It has taken me a while to get it down here, mostly because the recipe feels almost too simple to be called a recipe at all. Maybe you can think of it as assembly instructions, only instead of ending up with a swing set or an IKEA bookcase, you get lunch. You start with some canned chick peas, roll them in olive oil, salt, and pepper, and roast them just long enough for the outer skins to crisp up. Then, you toss them with a chopped tomato, top with basil, and call it a meal. If you happen to have a hunk of day-old bread on hand, I highly recommend using it to soak up any remaining seeds, juice, and oil in the bottom of the bowl. That part always feels like the grand finale to me, a special treat, like eating the heart of the artichoke, or the bit of ice cream that pools in the last bite of sugar cone.

People tend to talk about September in terms of where we've been and where we're going. We look back on the dog days of summer, cozy up to the idea of tights, hot cider, and evening fires, and brace ourselves for the coming winter. But for me, September is not about being betwixt and between. It's a special time all its own, and deserves to be enjoyed in the moment. Playing cool tomatoes off of warm, nutty chickpeas, this recipe celebrates just that. It's September in a bowl. And with autumn making its first official appearance tomorrow, I'm going to dig in my heels right here and, as long as there are tomatoes to be had, help myself to another serving.



Roasted Chickpeas and Heirloom Tomatoes

Because this recipe involves only four ingredients, it is important to go for high quality. I prefer Goya chickpeas, because – as far as canned chickpeas are concerned – they seem to stand up best to roasting. If you're lucky enough to have a selection of heirloom tomatoes at your fingertips, use whichever tomato is your favorite for slicing and eating raw. I have a feeling that "regular" tomatoes on the vine, and even cherry tomatoes, sliced in half, would also be delicious. If you feel like taking one step further in the direction of autumn, you can try replacing the basil leaves with fresh thyme.

1 15-oz. can of chickpeas
1 large, or 2 medium tomatoes (that have never been refrigerated)
2 T. good quality olive oil, divided
About 6 basil leaves, sliced into ribbons
Coarse salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Drain the chickpeas, and toss with 1 T. of the olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Spill the chickpeas onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, and shake them into a single layer. Roast for 20-30 minutes, until the skins brown slightly and begin to pull away a little from the beans.

Chop the tomato into large, bite-sized chunks. Toss the hot chickpeas with the tomato and the additional tablespoon of oil, and sprinkle with basil. Add a few extra grinds of salt and black pepper, to taste.

Serves two.

happy birthday, dad

In 1999, on the cusp of the new millennium, my father discovered exercise. While alarmists warned of nuclear meltdowns and plummeting airplanes, Dad glided into Y2K on the roller-ramps of a Precor EFX elliptical. Dad not only got moving; he got eating, with a brand new attitude towards what kind of food he wanted to put into his body. This fall marks ten years of the fitter, fab-er you, Dad. I like to think that if you keep this up, you might just live forever. A girl can hope, anyway.

Dad has long been known for his pancake towers, his tomato-mustard grilled cheese sandwiches, and his Chunky bar habit. The launch of Dad, version Y2K, didn't change any of that. He still indulges in the occasional scoop of Graeter's black raspberry chip, ends a nice dinner out with a crème brulée and some serious ramekin scraping and, when given the chance, downs almond M&Ms by the handful. Dad has always been slim, so his transformation had little to do with deprivation, and everything to do with eating more of the foods that both his taste buds and his body could agree on. Just as much as he enjoys clean, simple foods, he loves the idea of taking care of himself by eating them.

For my father, eating well is a matter of pride. And I mean swagger-inducing, sit-up-straight, fork-flourishing pride. Dad's enthusiasm for fruits and vegetables in their purist forms is especially fierce. He is prone to dramatic pronouncements of his love for roasted Brussels sprouts, and one bite of a wild strawberry can inspire a slap on the table hard enough to turn the knotted wood black and blue. To the uninitiated dinner guest, my father's bug-eyed, awestruck expression might appear to signal distress, or anger, even. But most likely, it's just that he has never tasted a beet so sweet and flavorful. Give him a minute to recover, and he'll tell you so.

We tend to laugh and poke fun at Dad's earthshaking re-discoveries of, say, rice and beans. But secretly, I love these emphatic, hungry moments. Take, for example, a scene from my last visit home. We were seated at the dinner table, and my dad had just chewed and swallowed his first bite of the green, ruffle-y vegetable on his plate. It began quietly, as if to himself: "What is this?" Then again, a little louder, incredulously: "What IS this?"

"It's kale, Dad."

There was the thwack of his hand against the table, and finally, the exuberant declaration:

"I LOVE kale!"

This is what I mean when I tell you that good, healthy food, especially the plucked-from-the-earth variety, simply blows his mind.

I am my father's daughter, this much is clear, and not only because a perfectly cooked leafy green makes my day, too. The resemblance between us is undeniable, and far more than skin deep: There's our love of telling stories, our tight hamstrings, and our laughably poor senses of direction. And then there are the habits, the inclinations, and the tendencies: to intimidate without meaning to; to write late into the night, long past bedtime; ask pointed questions; and connect fully and deeply with the people we love. We read the newspaper and wonder aloud why the writer chose this word instead of that. We are hard on others, and even harder on ourselves. We want what we want, when we want it. (And frankly, we're awfully good at getting it.) We live so much in our heads, and so much in our hearts; we feel each moment triply, experiencing it, reflecting on it, and experiencing it again, all at the same time. We say what we mean, and mean what we say, and what I have to say is this: No daughter has ever had a father better suited to exactly who she is. (I used to tell people that Dad and I share a brain, but given recent events, I hesitate to wish that upon him.)

My inheritance also came with lessons, at the piano, in the pool, and on the sofa over a cup of chamomile. He taught me what a marriage isn't, and what a marriage is. For that, my gratitude knows no bounds.

And now, it's about time that I say what we've all been waiting for: Happy birthday, dear Dad.

Instead of celebrating with a recipe, I thought I'd share a couple of artifacts from my childhood, brought to you by none other than the birthday boy himself. Behold, two of the many lunch bags that Dad painstakingly created to transport my sandwiches and juice boxes from home to school or, in the case of these fine specimens, to Stagecrafters Theatre Camp. (Click on the lunch bags for larger, more readable images.)





Dad, I smush you. (Which is much, much better than love.)

[Never fear, Dad. Though this post lacks a recipe, you'll still be receiving a birthday treat at your door. It's something from the archives, and I can't wait for you to try it.]

all of it

Sometimes, I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. No, scratch that. It’s that I have too many ideas, I think.

For a while – the entire first decade of my life, in fact – these many ideas at least had the courtesy to take turns. I was a serial monogamist, wedded heart and soul to one career at a time. In preschool, it was carpentry. My grandparents owned a lumber yard, so my early exposure to sky-high stacks of two-by-fours and plywood may have had something to do with it. I carried around a block of wood and a square of sandpaper in the pocket of the carpenter’s apron that my grandfather had given me. Wherever I went, I sanded. I had big plans: One day, I would build a sprawling house where I would live together with my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.



We would have our own separate wings, and bunk beds, and – get this – every morning a train would loop around to each of our bedrooms and carry us down to Grand Central Station (the kitchen, of course) for breakfast. The carpentry years are well-documented in a caricature that still hangs on the wall of my childhood bedroom. In it, a five-year-old me sits happily sawing away at a sawhorse (because what else does one do at a sawhorse?), with several nails pressed between my lips. That last part always struck me as kind of dangerous, but, well, a carpenter’s got to do what a carpenter’s got to do. On Career Day, I would tie on my carpenter’s apron, tuck a T-square under my arm, and silently pity the mini-lawyers and businessmen who, as far as I could tell, had only suits, slicked back hair, and squeaky shoes to look forward to in adulthood. Not me. I was going to be a carpenter, and that drawing proved it. Its black plastic frame sealed my fate.

Until the second grade, that is, when I discovered a higher calling: veterinary medicine. I had a very specialized practice in mind. I would treat dogs and, in a nod to Roy and Innis, the Polish Arabians who lived in the stables across the street, horses. This veterinary phase lasted until the summer before the fourth grade, when I learned from a camp counselor of mine (he had been a psychology major in college) that psychology is what you study if you want to learn about the way people think and feel. Who wouldn’t want to know about that? Psychology, I decided, would be my life’s work.

But then came the fifth grade, and with it, the unsettling realization that there sure is a lot out there to be when one grows up. I read a book by Jane Goodall, and decided that I, too, wanted to study chimpanzees in their natural habitat. And my life would not be complete without a simultaneous career in musical theatre. (Painful and harmonically redundant as it sounds, I was going through an Andrew Lloyd Webber phase at the time.) Fifth grade was also the year of the poetry circle in Mrs. Barron’s English class and, to top it all off, the year that I discovered that holiest of tomes, The Thesaurus. It dawned on me like the blazing, incandescent sun: I would be a poet. One that would force her readers to dodge flowery adjectives like rapid-fire bullets, apparently. Oh, and a psychologist. Yes, still. I had far from abandoned that path. Laugh if you wish, dear readers, but I was dead serious. About all of it.

In the thick of this primate-pondering, show-tune belting, thesaurus-thumbing, and head-shrinking, I met a girl named Rachel. Rachel’s father was a produce man. To this day, I’m not certain exactly what that meant, whether he delivered the produce to the markets or arranged it on the shelves, or both. What I do know is that Rachel had a special claim to fame. At lunchtime, on a fairly regular basis, she would dump her brown bag lunch onto the table, and smugly announce: “I have never eaten a plum that is yellow on the inside.” I watched closely - we all did - and this daughter of a produce man spoke the truth. Every plum that ever crossed her lips was clearly blushing, inside and out. Of course, some plum varieties, at their ripest and most flavorful, are actually supposed to be creamy yellow beneath the skin. But we didn’t know that, and we didn’t care. To us, Rachel’s rosy plums were the plums to beat.

My curiosity about Rachel’s father’s career never blossomed into a full-fledged desire to work in produce. I did, however, entertain fantasies of the fruit that could be mine if ever I were to follow that path. The perfect plum often eludes me. It’s hit or miss. But if I were a produce professional, I would have it all down to a science. Or maybe a feeling, a stone fruit intuition, that would guide my hand to the sweetest, juiciest plums of all.

As it stands, I’m a mere layperson in the produce aisles. I never acquired any such plum-picking powers. Instead, I made the acquaintance of a certain plum-like fruit that is consistently more hit than miss: the pluot (rhymes with “flu shot”). The pluot, not to be confused with the plumcot or the aprium, is about three-fifths plum and two-fifths apricot in parentage. Deep purple, reliably sweet, with a tart, grapey finish, the pluot has officially joined the ranks of my favorite late-summer stone fruits. As its name reflects, this little fruit refuses to be just one thing. And you know, I think I might follow suit. There’s no better life than the cross-pollinated life. That may be my new mantra.

I enjoy pluots right out of hand, yes, but most of all, I like baking them into all manner of crusty, custardy, crumbly things, like galettes, clafoutis and, most recently, this simple cake.



I first tried this recipe with raspberries, and then with blackberries, but my favorite topping by far is the pluot. I think it has something to do with the way they caramelize around the edges. A slice of this cake has it all: a moist crumb, a whisper of lemon, and the sweet nuttiness that fruit takes on when it melts and curls up into itself under an open flame. It’s good company on late nights spent dreaming, scheming, and figuring things out. And even better for taking a break from all that, and simply digging in.

Pluot Cake
Adapted from Everybody Likes Sandwiches, who adapted it from Not Derby Pie

1 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
Zest of 1 lemon
¾ c. sugar
2 eggs
½ c. canola oil
1 t. vanilla
4-5 pluots, or other small stone fruit (or 1-2 c. berries)
1 T. raw sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter (or oil) and flour an 8-9 inch springform pan, and slice the fruit into thin crescents. In a large bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, and lemon zest. Add the sugar, eggs, vanilla, and oil, and stir until the mixture forms a thick batter. Pour and scrape the batter into the prepared pan. As I said, it will be thick, so you may need to use a spatula to spread the batter evenly. Arrange the fruit slices on top in any pattern that pleases you. I like to go with overlapping rows on this cake. Sprinkle the top with the raw sugar, and bake for 50-60 minutes, until a cake tester inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.

Do not overbake. I beg you. Just a couple of extra minutes rob this cake of its moisture, so check early and often. I have found that this cake is at its best on the second day. I like to bake it, let it cool, cover with plastic wrap, and keep it overnight on the counter. With this treatment, the moist crumb turns almost creamy. If you feel the need, you can slip the day-old cake under the broiler for a minute, or use a kitchen torch to re-crisp the top.

thank you

Wow.

And I say "wow" only because, this being a blog and all, I need to type something. The truth is, I've been sitting here staring at this blank, white screen for waaay longer than I'd like to admit. There are simply no words. So I hope you'll bear with me as I try to express a fraction of my gratitude.

If, last August, someone had gazed into a crystal ball and revealed to me what the following year would bring, news of three brain surgeries would have shaken me to the core. But even more shocking, I think, would have been the part about the hundreds - dare I say, thousands? - of people I have never met who would be waiting for me on the other side of it all, sending love and cheering me on. I never would have believed it.

All I can say is thank you. Really, thank you. You all just blow me away.

When I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and released that last, terrifying post into the world, I thought you might look away. I wouldn't have blamed you. But instead, you stepped closer. You let me hear your sweet voices, some of you for the very first time. You turned on your ovens, and your warm wishes sailed in on banana-scented breezes. My family members were the first to benefit from your generosity. They sat in the waiting room nibbling banana bread, and read your kind notes as they drifted in. Later that evening, Eli pulled up a chair by my bed and read your words aloud. This tiny sliver of virtual space, my little Sweet Amandine, was bursting at the seams. It's a wonder she didn't explode. Throughout the ups and downs of the last few weeks, I have turned to your voices again and again. Every word of every comment lifts me up. You have no idea.

This year, it has been easy to count my lucky stars. You know how it is with stars: The darker the sky, the brighter they shine. I count all of you among them, dear, shimmering readers. The sky above me is aglow with your twinkling.



Hey, I just realized that I've left out something very important, which is that I'm feeling great. It sure is nice having my head back in one piece. Forehead, I missed you. Seriously.

Last Wednesday, August 19th, marked one year since the aneurysm ruptured. My "aneurversary," as I like to call it. (How many people get to have one of those?) I celebrated by going for a short, slow run with Eli. It was more like a shuffle-jog, actually, but no matter. I felt like I was flying. Afterwards, I made the same fruit smoothie that I've slurped every day since returning home from the hospital. It tasted especially good post-"workout." I know that you don't really need a recipe for a thing like this, but I didn't want to show up today empty-handed. After this whole ordeal, you deserve a special treat, one with layers, and loads of frosting, and a cherry on top. Then again, given the heat, something cold, fruity, and sip-able might just hit the spot. (Dictionary.com wonders if I mean "skippable" or "rippable," but I assure you that I do, indeed, mean "sip-able," whether or not it is a real word.)

In any case, here you go.



And now, onward! Let's get Sweet Amandine back to her regularly scheduled programming, shall we? Yes, oh yes, we shall.

[p.s. Before signing off, I want to take a moment to thank Elisa, Jory, and Lisa over at BlogHer for voting me "BlogHer of the Week." I am honored and humbled to be in the company of such talented bloggers. Lisa, I owe you a special thank you for writing so beautifully and sensitively about Sweet Amandine. I was truly moved by your words. And to the reader who nominated Sweet Amandine for this distinct honor - whoever you are - many thanks to you. You are so good to me. All of you.]

Banana-Berry Smoothie

1 medium banana (best if a little overripe)
1 c. frozen wild blueberries
1/2 c. frozen raspberries
1-2 T. ground flaxseeds (optional)
1/2 c. unsweetened almond milk (I like the Pacific Natural Foods brand.)

The short version of this recipe is as follows: Dump all of the ingredients into a blender, and blend until smooth.

But of course, I just have to add my two cents. I find that piling the ingredients banana first (broken into chunks), then berries, then ground flaxseeds, and then pouring the almond milk over top, results in the most efficient and enjoyable blending experience. The bananas around the blade quickly turn to mush, which allows for some much-needed blending action around the hard, frozen berries. After about twenty seconds, if the spinning blade doesn't seem to be making progress, I turn off the machine, remove the pitcher, and give it a shake or two. Then, I blend until smooth.

Yield: 1 tall glass, plus a few extra slurps.

the other side

The story that I have for you today is hard for me to tell. I fear that it may also be difficult to hear. It’s a story about me, but it’s also about you. For a long time, I wasn’t sure that I would ever tell it here. But now, I think I want to. I’m ready. So here goes:

Last August, while running on a treadmill, I suddenly fainted. When I awoke on the floor, the paralyzing pain in my head was too big for my senses. Something was terribly wrong. I lay there and tried to make sense of it: I was in the best shape of my life. I had just completed the New York City half-marathon. That was me, nailing those hills in Central Park; running through a car-less Times Square; smiling up at the towering billboards, the lights blinking only for me. Until the moment I fell, I felt strong, healthy, and fast. My body was used to ten-mile runs. Why, after only three miles, was I now on the floor?

An aneurysm had burst in my brain. I spent the next month in the intensive care unit, and underwent surgery to clip and seal off the ruptured aneurysm. When I was finally allowed to get out of bed, my muscles had weakened so dramatically that I could not take a single step without assistance. “But I’m a runner,” I would whisper, through tears, to the nurses. I entered rehab, and regained enough strength to walk short distances. In late September, I came home.

Let me pause here to say that the majority of people who suffer ruptured aneurysms die on the spot. Those who survive are typically left with life-altering physical or mental deficits as a result of either the hemorrhage or the high-risk brain surgery. Somehow, I escaped all that. Statistically speaking, I am supposed to be dead, or at least severely disabled. I am neither of these things. The doctors told me that my recovery would be long, measured in months. But, miraculously, it would be complete. I was grateful, to say the least. It’s not that I wasn’t devastated, but for some reason I felt that I had the constitution to handle a thing like this. I knew that the only way out was through. With my family and friends beside me, I would make it.

Then came round two.

It started with a high fever just a few days after I arrived home. My head and face swelled, and soon we were back at the hospital. I had contracted a dangerous infection in my brain. Surgery was necessary to scrape out the infection and remove the infected part of my skull. I spent another month in the hospital fighting the infection and other complications, the details of which I will spare you. The infected bone could not be saved, and so I now sport a several-inch indentation above my left eye. Depending on the angle and how I’m wearing my hair, it looks anywhere from mildly disturbing to pretty darn creepy. Because I am missing a piece of my skull, the doctors gave me a helmet (it’s actually a hockey helmet!) to protect my brain from injury. (If you’ve seen a girl walking through the streets of Cambridge in a sticker-covered helmet, no bike – or hockey stick – in sight, that’s me!) The plan was this: Wait one year to make sure that the infection would not recur. Then, I would have one last surgery to replace the missing bone with a synthetic piece. I would look and feel as good as new.

But when I returned home in early November, I had trouble believing it. I had lost twenty pounds from my already small frame. I was so weak that I needed help with the most basic and private tasks. I faced powerful, intravenous antibiotics three times a day for weeks. While I knew in my mind that everything would one day be okay, I lacked the visceral feeling that it was so. I was afraid.

Coming home was more difficult than I had imagined it would be. It may sound odd, but I felt that my apartment had certain expectations of me. And I could not meet them. There was my little office with its piles of books, its highlighters and colored pens. My office chair demanded that I take a seat, that I turn on the computer and pick up where I had left off. But I could not sit up in a chair for more than a few minutes; I could not look at the bright screen, or even read more than a page of text without discomfort. And then, most of all, there was the kitchen. The Japanese knives and wooden spoons, the heavy pots and squeaky oven door. Where there had been noise and laughter and motion, now there was silence. I knew that in order to reclaim myself, I would need to reclaim my home.

I started this blog when I was strong enough to stand at the stovetop and stir for several minutes at a time.



In the early months of my recovery, people suggested that I write about my experience. I couldn’t. For me, writing is a process that brings me closer to my subject. But I was already there: I was living my illness. I didn’t want to be any closer. Then, one day in late December, I mentioned to my friend Megan how much I missed my kitchen. She asked, “Have you ever considered writing a food blog?”

A what?

Megan tossed out the names of her favorites, which I promptly forgot. At home, I typed “food blog” into Google and hoped for a few hits. Well. Two million search results later (in under .18 seconds, Google informed me), I realized that I was likely the last person on earth to discover this lovely creature, the food blog. I poked around to find out what this blogging thing was all about, and the next day, Sweet Amandine was born. My very own aneurysm-free zone.

I think you’ll understand when I say that Sweet Amandine has both nothing and everything to do with the aneurysm. Starting this blog was my way of saying, “I’d like to talk about something else now.” I was tired of being upstaged by my illness. Here, in this big, white, open space, I could look away from the pain and fatigue, and begin to remember who I am. I could celebrate the people I loved, and what nourishes us. I could celebrate my life, my living. Because, aneurysm or not, this life of mine trembles with joy, beauty, and love. I can’t help but to see it, and take note.

The last thing I wanted was to shroud this space in mystery, so I purposefully avoided vague references to exploding brains and holes in the head. Those in the know no doubt picked up on subtle nods and hints to my illness, to the quiet courage and profound kindness of the people closest to me. (When I said that in matters of life and death, Eli swoops in and saves the day, I wasn’t kidding.) But mostly, I trained my eye on more important things. Things like cake, and a tableful of friends who make me laugh my dented little head off.

A week before my twenty-ninth birthday, I told Eli that I wasn’t sure I wanted to celebrate. I felt cheated of twenty-eight. How could I celebrate twenty-nine? Eli took my hand, and said, “Erase this year, and there would be no Sweet Amandine.” That just wouldn’t do.

The way I see it, we’re always broken in one way or another. I just happened to wear my brokenness on the outside this year. Sweet Amandine gave me a place where I could feel whole in my brokenness. And this is where you come in. Although we have never met, by reading these pages, leaving sweet comments, and dropping the occasional e-mail in my box, you helped remind me who I am at a time when I felt least like myself. It’s hard to know how to thank someone for a thing like that. So I’ll just say thank you, and tell you that in those two little words lie galaxies of gratitude. Without you – all of you – this recovery would have looked very different. I shudder at the thought.

In the spring, we learned that my final surgery would take place sooner than expected. I was doing so well that I wouldn’t need to wait the full year. Tomorrow, August 3rd, I’ll check into the hospital for one last surgery to repair the hole in my skull. We’re calling it Humpty Dumpty Day, in deference to that tragic nursery rhyme figure whose run-in with a wall left him far worse for the wear than my measly aneurysm. Given the poor track record of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, we’ve opted for a neurosurgeon to do the job instead. It’s major surgery, and it won’t be pleasant. But after where I’ve been in the last year, all I have to say is bring it on. This time, recovery will take weeks, not months. And once my head is back together and I’m fully healed, well, that’s just it: I’ll be fully healed. I’ve been on medical leave from school this year, and I’m scheduled to re-enroll in the fall. (In case you’re wondering about all of those exams you have been hearing about recently: Once I regained the stamina to study and write for several hours, my advisors allowed me to take them even though I am officially “off the clock.”) Soon, so soon, I’ll run again along the Charles. I’ll get all dressed up for dinner and leave the headgear at home. Tomorrow, I’ll hang up that helmet for good. I can’t wait.

Dear reader, are you still there? I hope that I have not completely traumatized you. I’m guessing that you could use a piece of cake right about now. I know I could. Fortunately, I’ve come prepared.



In my kitchen, banana bread is a food of departure. Before some time away, I always try to use up any remaining fresh produce that might otherwise go to waste. I blend berries into smoothies, chop greens and peppers into omelettes and, if I’m lucky enough to have a couple of overripe bananas lying around, I make banana bread. It’s only fitting that I baked a loaf this morning, since it may be a while before I’m able to stop in here again. I find that a slice (or two) and a cup of tea settles the nerves when, say, you’re about to go in for brain surgery.

I’ll do my very best to return just as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you could keep me in your thoughts, and send some positive vibes my way.



See you on the other side.

[p.s. Since I don’t want anyone to worry, I’ve asked Eli to sign into my Twitter account and send out a post-surgery report tomorrow evening. You can check in here.]




Banana Bread with Cinnamon Crumble Topping
Adapted from Bakesale Betty, as seen in Bon Appetit, September, 2008

For the bread:
1 ½ c. flour
1 c. granulated sugar
1 t. ground cinnamon
1 t. baking soda
½ t. salt
1 c. mashed ripe bananas (2-3 medium)
2 large eggs
½ c. vegetable oil
¼ c. honey
¼ c. water

For the topping:
2 T. granulated sugar
2 ½ T. packed golden brown sugar
1 t. cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9x5x3 inch metal loaf pan. (I use cooking spray in place of the butter.)

Prepare the batter:
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, 1 c. sugar, 1 t. cinnamon, the baking soda, and the salt. In a large bowl, whisk the mashed bananas, the eggs, the vegetable oil, the honey, and the water, until smooth. Add the dry ingredients to the wet, and stir. Pour the batter into the prepared pan.

Prepare the topping:
Mix together the 2T. granulated sugar, the 2 ½ T. brown sugar, and the cinnamon. I use my fingers. Sprinkle the topping over the batter.

Bake the bread for about one hour, until a tester inserted into the center comes clean. Cool in the pan for 30 minutes. Then, turn the pan on its side and gently slide the loaf out onto the rack. Easy does it – you don’t want to dislodge the topping.

a good thing

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from pie, it’s that it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

The trouble is this business of the double crust. I love a flaky, buttery crust as much as the next person. But for me, one crust per dessert is plenty. Now, before you write me off as a heartless, un-American pie-hater, you should know that despite my misgivings, when someone offers me a slice of pie, I take it. I have a plan in place for such occasions, though friends, it isn’t pretty. I slide my fork beneath the top crust, and pull down and out, taking the fruit filling and bottom crust with me. I hollow that crust right out, until only a sad, soggy shell of a slice remains on my plate.

Then, one day, I learned that it doesn’t have to be this way.



In her memoir, Comfort Me with Apples, Ruth Reichl includes a pie recipe that, in terms of crust, takes a good thing to its limit and stops, mercifully, right there. This pie is a member of the all too rare single crust variety. You are no doubt familiar with several pies of this species: pumpkin, pecan, and lemon meringue, to name a few. Oozy, fruit-filled pies that rely on a single crust are considerably harder to come by. If this pie catches on, I believe it could change all that.

In place of a top crust, Reichl’s pie sports a crackly, crumbly shell that begins as a spreadable paste. “Paste,” I realize, is not the most appetizing word to use when you're talking about pie, but bear with me. This pie begins in the ordinary way: roll out a bottom crust, fit it into a pan, and fill with just-ripe fruit. The genius begins here, when you trade in your rolling pin for a saucepan and a spoon. Melt some butter over a medium flame, add a little flour, sugar, and nutmeg, and stir until the mixture forms a paste. (Suddenly “paste” doesn’t sound so bad, right?) Spread the paste over the bare fruit, and there you have it. The topping hardens in the oven, and adds a welcome crunch to each tender, juicy bite.

The result is a cross between a pie and a crumble. A pie-rumble, if you will. Though now that I’ve typed that, all I can picture is a West Side Story street fight in which dancing, finger-snapping gangsters wield pies instead of knives. Perhaps prumble is a better fit. Whatever you call it, with its solitary crust and crackly finish, this pie is a very, very good thing.

[p.s. If you’re in the market for another one-crust wonder, click on over to The Blue Hour, where Brian has just baked a blueberry and peach pandowdy. Unlike prumble, the pandowdy features its single crust on top. Also unlike prumble, pandowdy is a real word.]



Peach (or Apricot or Anyfruit) Pie
Adapted from Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me With Apples

Reichl’s original recipe calls for apricots, and I have to admit that the apricot-nutmeg combination is hard to beat. But when apricots are scarce, peaches more than do the trick. I like using stone fruits in this pie because they can be pitted and thrown directly into the bottom crust. No peeling, no extra sugar or flour necessary. In the fall, I make this pie with apples, which I do peel, slice, and toss with a little lemon juice, flour, cinnamon, and vanilla. I bet this pie would also be wonderful with berries, cherries, or rhubarb. Without a true upper crust, the sky really is the limit!

½ recipe of Martha Stewart's pâte brisée (or use the pie dough recipe of your choice)
2 lbs peaches (or the fruit of your choice)
1 stick (1/2 c.) unsalted butter
¾ c. sugar
¾ c. flour
½ tsp. nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Roll out the pie dough and fit it into a 9-inch pie pan. Using a fork or your fingers, press down along the edges to form a pattern. Place the pan in the freezer while you complete the following steps:

Wash and dry – but do not peel – the fruit.

If using apricots: Break them in half with your fingers, and remove the pits. The halves will go directly into the pie shell; no slicing required.

If using peaches: Halve the peaches with a knife, and twist the fruit to separate the halves. Remove the pits. I find that larger peaches do best when each half is split in two. That is, each full peach should be quartered before placing the fruit into the bottom crust.

In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Stir in the sugar, and turn the flame down to low. Add the flour and the nutmeg, and stir until the mixture becomes a smooth paste. Remove from heat.

Place the fruit into the unbaked shell. Using a spatula, cover the fruit with the sugar mixture. Don’t worry about covering every last bit of fruit. The fruit should peek out from the cracks; during baking, juices will bubble up through the holes.

Bake in the center of the oven for 10 minutes. Then turn down the oven to 350 degrees, and bake for 35 minutes more, until the top is crusty and brown.

Transfer the pie to a rack and cool – but not all the way. Serve warm, preferably with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Serves 8-10.