gumdrop cookies

My grandma’s church cookbook from the 1970s is called “COOK BOOK” and it has a picture of an old-fashioned wood oven on the front.

It’s full of gems, like applesauce cake and dilly beans and pork chop casserole.

I love this cookbook.

I recently liberated it from my mother’s house and it has been giving me no end of inspiration: sour cream cake, tomato juice cake (?!), potato chip cookies . . . and gumdrop cookies by a parishioner named Barbara Groves.

I am already head over heals for gumdrop cake, so when I saw this recipe for oatmeal-gumdrop cookies, I was in.

There was a bit of drama in baking them. First of all, I had to learn the difference between gumdrops and jujubes. Turns out, what I think is a gumdrop is actually a jujube. So these are technically jujube cookies. But they’re so similar that I made the executive decision to retain their original gumdrop cookie name.

Next, I had to get over the fact that gumdrops (OK, jujubes) stick to knives.  Actually, that’s not so bad – they’re pretty easy to peel off and chop again.

The batter came together beautifully and handled like a happy dough. 

You can imagine my shocked agony when I peeked in the oven and saw them spreading like butter on a hot summer’s day.

I took a few deep breaths and tried not to panic.

I stayed calm as I later pulled the tray of flat cookies out of the oven. I’ll just let them set, I told myself. Breathe.

And that’s it! That’s the trick to these cookies: let them cool and set.

I was smitten at first bite.

Turns out that even though I don’t remember my grandma making them, they are the quintessential grandma cookie: chewy and buttery and homey-tasting. I can just imagine them in a tin in the pantry – if they last that long.

last april: butterscotch pudding

A note about weights: When I adapt traditional recipes to make them gluten-free, I adapt them by weight, assuming that one cup of wheat flour weighs 140 grams. Because various gluten-free flours have such different weights and properties, this makes my baking much more successful. From now on, I'm going to start using weight, instead of volume, to measure gluten-free flours. If you're nervous about buying a scale, try to overcome your fear. It really is a much simpler way of baking and leads to more consistent results. That's because no two people measure by volume (in cups, etc.) the same way: one person might pour and one person might scoop with a different intensity. Wheat flour is versatile enough to adapt to those small changes, but gluten-free flours can be more finicky. But when you weigh it, it is exactly the same every time.


gumdrop cookies

bakes 24 big cookies

2/3 c. gumdrops or jujubes

1/2 c. butter

1/2 c. brown sugar

scant 1/2 c. white sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1 egg

1 c. wheat flour

            Or, for gluten-free:

            45 g. (1/3 c.) sweet white sorghum flour

            25 g. (3 tbsp.) teff flour

            35 g. (1/4 c.) sweet rice flour + 1 tsp.

            35 g. (scant 1/3 c.) arrowroot or tapioca starch

1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. baking soda

1/4 tsp. salt

1 c. oatmeal

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Prepare two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Take out a big knife and sturdy cutting board and cut up the gumdrops. They will stick to the knife. Don’t let it stress you out. (They’ll come right off again.) Put them in a small bowl and stir 1 tsp. of sweet rice flour into them until they’re coated and somewhat separated. Set aside.

Cream butter and sugars. Stir in vanilla. Add egg and stir. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, combine flour(s), baking powder, baking soda and salt. Stir until well combined. Slowly add to creamed mixture. Stir in gumdrops. Stir in oatmeal.

Use two spoons to scoop out small balls. (They will spread, so use your judgment about how close you want them to sit.) If you’re using gluten-free flours, chill for 20 minutes.

Bake for 9 – 13 minutes, depending on size. Watch for their edges to turn just golden and their centres to let a bit less like cookie dough. (They will look fragile, but once they cool, they’ll hold together. Trust me.)

Remove from oven and put tray on rack. Wait until they are completely cooled to transfer to rack or container. (You may need a butter knife to separate them.)

up island

I have been hunting and gathering up Island in the Comox Valley and this is what I've found: spicy beans, salsa and sauerkraut from the farm down the road from my dad's land. The farmers were just putting up a new greenhouse in the mud as we walked up, their big, friendly dog trotting along beside us.

Further down the Island highway, we managed to find Woody's wild-flower honey, and locally-roasted coffee beans in Royston.

This was all part of a long weekend we created with my dad to celebrate my birthday. Instead of a cake, we made huckleberry-bramble-buttermilk pancakes for breakfast and sat at the table with quince blossoms dad had forced. Then we went out for lunch. Actually, we went out for a few lunches . . . a couple of cafés so good that I've added them to my favourites in hop & go fetch it. (Look for Courtenay and Cumberland.)

This got me thinking about other favourite restaurants in other cities I've been meaning to add to hop & go fetch it. Finally, this weekend, I put them in. If you're looking for new restaurants in Toronto, Vancouver or Victoria, voilà!

last march: sophisticated marshmallow squares and a soup among friends

grand forks borscht

 

When I was 10, I met a new best friend. Alison came from a Doukhobor family, and she had just moved to Kelowna from Grand Forks, a little town nestled in the mountains of the West Kootenays of British Columbia.

Doukhobor cooking is, shall we say, not for the faint of heart. The Doukhobors are a pacifist Russian sect who take their anti-violence belief all the way over to not eating meat. But they make up for it with copious amounts of butter and cream.

In fact, their cooking is so amazingly rich that Alison and her family convinced me – a Canadian girl from good meat-eating German-Scottish stock – to become vegetarian.

For 12 years.

Doukhobor food is that good. 

Alas, as is the way of the world when you’re 10, best friends don’t stay best friends for long.

I still dream about the perfect pyrahi – yeasty pockets of dough filled with cottage cheese or peas and drenched with melted butter. And I still make vareniki; think of pierogie-like things, again smothered in butter.

But for a long time, I couldn’t replicate the creamy borscht Alison’s mom made. There are so many different kinds (and spellings) of borscht – with white cabbage and beef bones or pork hocks . . . The list goes on. But none of it was the Doukhobor borscht I longed for – I'm talking dill and cabbage and beets and cream.

Until one fateful day when I was looking through my parents’ old recipe cards and came across a recipe in my mother’s handwriting for Grand Forks borscht. She had written the name “Bea” on the top. I’m not sure who Bea is – I think she might be my mom’s old teaching friend.

The recipe was strange. It called for dill and mashed potatoes and copious amounts of butter and cream, and leaving it out at room temperature over night . . . But it was from Grand Forks. And it called for copious amounts of butter and cream. This, I thought, was a good sign.

And it is. This is the soup I have been missing since I was 12.

Grand Forks borscht is now a winter standard at our house. The recipe makes enough to feed a small army – invariably, I end up splitting it into two large pots halfway through cooking. But it is so very, very comforting and creamy on a cold rainy day. It’s definitely hearty enough for dinner and perfect in your lunch the next day, or frozen to grace a lunch later on. It might even make you consider becoming a vegetarian. 

last march: dahl for dinner, dahling and canadian boterkoek 

grand forks borscht

feeds 10 – 12 hungry people

4 large potatoes, chopped

salt and peper

1/2 – 1 c. whipping cream

3/4 c. – 1 1/4 c. butter

1 large beet, grated

3 large carrots, chopped

3 – 4 sticks celery, chopped

20 – 28 oz. (600 – 825 ml.) diced tomato (canned or fresh)

lots of dill, chopped

3 onions, chopped finely

4 cloves garlic, chopped

1/2 head of purple cabbage, chopped

Boil the potatoes in a large soup pot with lots of salted water. When they are tender, use a slotted spoon to scoop them out into another bowl. Mash them with 1/2 – 1 c. cream and 1/4 – 1/2 c. butter. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Throw the beet, carrots, celery, tomatoes and dill into the potato water and bring to a simmer. After they’ve cooked a few minutes, taste the vegetables and decide if you’d like to add another 1/2 tsp. of salt. Boil until tender.

While the vegetables are boiling, heat a large frying pan over medium heat. Melt the butter and fry the onion and garlic until it’s soft.

If you have another pan at this time, also heat it over medium heat. Melt the butter and fry the cabbage until it has softened.

When the boiling vegetables are soft, throw in the onion, garlic and cabbage. Add more water if you don't have enough stock. Simmer until everything is a soft as you like it in a soup. Stir in the mashed potatoes. Taste and add more salt and pepper as necessary.

Serve. Or, if you follow the original recipe, let stand at room temperature all day or overnight; then heat and serve.

Also freezes well, if you don’t have 10 – 12 people to feed immediately.

turnip puff to the rescue!

Have you ever noticed how ugly most winter vegetables are?

My theory is that they need to be ugly so we won't be tempted to eat them in the fall. Because if we did, we’d have nothing to eat in the winter.

I have never been inspired by a turnip. It is hardly attractive, not to mention its odd pale-orange and purple colour.

However.

My friend Lisa – who has excellent taste in both food and clothing – raved about her family’s recipe for turnip puff. She told me how a holiday dinner at her house isn't complete without turnip puff. This woman is devoted to turnip puff.

So when she brought me the recipe, I knew I should treasure it. I carefully put it in the vegetable section of my recipe binder . . . but two years passed before I could find myself inspired to make it.

Now, I understand the devotion.

This recipe is hard to describe, but let’s just say it’s the most delicious turnip incarnation I could ever imagine. It almost feels like a soufflé on the tongue and it’s savoury in just the right way, with that hint of nutmeg and brown sugar rounding it out. (Does anyone have The Flavor Bible? Tell me that turnip and nutmeg aren't superstar companions.)

Let me take you on a journey from ugly vegetable to divine turnip puff.

When I went to buy my turnip, the produce man told me that what we call turnip in Canada is actually a cross between a turnip and a cabbage. It's also called rutabaga. That explains its distinctive odour.

We decided together that my turnip puff recipe probably really wanted this crossed turnip, so I hefted it into my cart. Then I also bought a pure turnip to cook up later on.

See them here – the pure turnip flaunting its purple and cute status on top of the crossed-turnip cubes and crossed-turnip bottom. (I liked looking at that bottom and imagining its cabbage ancestry.)

Once you have these nice cubes, throw them in a pot of boiling water.

And boil them.

And boil them.

And boil them some more.

 (Turnips, I now understand, take a lot longer than potatoes to get soft.)

Eventually, they get soft and their colour becomes a pretty golden-orange. After straining them, pull out the potato masher. I get pretty excited at this part, because I always like mashing unsuspecting vegetables and watching them become a whole new kind of food.

Stir in flour and almost everything else, and your turnip puff is almost ready to bake. Just need to scatter some bread crumbs and drizzle some melted butter . . .

Turnip puff in the oven!

Now, the agony: will my turnip puff puff? Will it stay a soggy lump of mashed-up turnip? Is that a bit of – dare I say it – puff?

This is not a dramatic turnip soufflé, all billowing and full of air. It is a puff. Puffs are gentler. Keep this straight in your head, so you can keep your expectations in check.

After about 45 minutes, it should be puffy and golden-brown. Pull it out and admire what you have made. If anyone else is around, call them over to admire it, too. Look what you’ve done with a turnip!

Eat right away. Even if it’s not Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. And it’s all alone on a plate. Just eat it and be happy. Because turnip is a very inspiring vegetable indeed.

last february: little lemon cakes and olympic nanaimo bars

A note for the gluten-free among us: If you’d like to make this gluten-free, use the sweet rice flour and use gluten-free breadcrumbs. I made mine this way and it was scrumptious.

turnip puff

feeds 6 – 8 as a side dish

6 c. turnip, peeled and chopped

2 tbsp. + 2 tbsp. butter

3 tbsp. wheat flour or 2 tbsp. sweet rice flour

1 tbsp. brown sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

3/4 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. ground pepper

nutmeg (a good grating)

2 eggs, beaten

1/2 c. fine bread crumbs

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Salt it lightly, if you wish. Throw in the turnip. (Stand back, so the hot water doesn’t hit you!)

Boil for a long time until the cubes are soft. This took me about 30 minutes. In the meantime, mix the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, salt, pepper and nutmeg together in a small bowl. Set aside. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs. Set aside. Butter a casserole dish. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

When the turnip is tender, strain it in a colander. Rinse the empty pot with cold water to speed up the cooling process. Also rinse the turnip in the colander with cold water.

Tumble the turnip back into the almost-dry pot. Add 2 tbsp. butter. Mash with a potato masher. (This is easier than you think.) It should not be steaming hot at this point – only luke-warm or cool. As long as it’s not steaming hot, stir in the flour mixture in stages, sprinkling a bit at a time. Stir in the beaten eggs. Scoop it out into the prepared casserole dish.

Scatter bread crumbs over top. Melt 2 tbsp. of butter and drizzle over. Put in the oven and wait for it to slowly puff up and for its topping to become golden. This should take 40 – 50 minutes.

Serve immediately.

a strange time to celebrate

One year ago, on February 9^th, I started telling people about this fledgling blog.

This year, on February 9^th, a truck ran into our car and almost sheared off the trunk.

We are thankful we’re still alive and not in the hospital.

But otherwise, as we struggle through the fog of headaches and stiff necks and sore backs, we are exhausted just trying to get through the day.

By the time evening finally comes, making dinner – and doing the dishes – seems like a gargantuan task. Instead, we’re making the rounds of our favourite less expensive restaurants: Thai, Turkish, Mexican. We sit drained, trying not to grimace, hardly noticing the food.

Needless to say, I have not felt like celebrating. 

But before the accident, I knew dollop of cream’s one-year birthday was coming up, and I bought all the ingredients to make my favourite party food. I have looked at those ingredients every day since the accident, those slices of bacon and dates and olives and almonds, sitting so innocently and full of hope.

Even in the midst of everything else that seems to be taking over my life, I am still delighted I have this little blog to work on. So, this morning, I gathered up my energy and set to work.

And, as we sat down with these hot little salty-buttery bundles, we forgot about our backs and necks for a few minutes. We just ate this happy treat to celebrate dollop of cream and all the joy it has brought me.

I first made these little bundles for Scott’s 33^rd birthday. We were secretly engaged and I could hardly stop grinning the whole party. I rolled up the bacon around the dates around the olives around the almonds, baked them and watched them disappear as soon as I set them on a plate. 

They are incredibly simple and wonderfully decadent. They also meet all the requirements of party food – salty, sweet, chewy, crunchy and smooth – all in one little bundle of goodness.

last february: muesli

Because this is a party food, it’s really more of a narrative than a recipe with official instructions. (Even the title isn’t exactly short and snappy.) Here we go . . .

bacon-wrapped dates with olives and almonds

bacon

dates

olives

roasted almonds

Take an almond and push it into an olive. (This part works much better if the olive has been pitted.) Take your almond-stuffed olive and put it into a date. Roll a piece of bacon around your almond-stuffed-olive-stuffed date. Do not try to skimp on the bacon so that you’re stretching and stretching the bacon to meet, but the bacon just starts falling apart, and eventually you go back to your original bacon and use the longer pieces anyway. (This might have happened at our house.)

Take a toothpick and carefully poke it through the bacon seam, the date and the olive, and all they way out the other side. Sometimes, you might need two toothpicks, if you’re not an expert. (This might have happened at our house.)

Put the bundles on a cookie sheet. Bake them at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for about 12 minutes, depending on the thickness of your bacon. (I used thick bacon.) Remove the cookie sheet from the oven and put the bundles on a plate lined with paper towel for a minute or two. Or, if you’ve run out of paper towel, use a fancy chicken napkin. (This might have happened at our house.)

Eat one before they all disappear. Prepare to accept compliments from your happy guests. Make more.

whisky marmalade

Winter is a hard time of year for a canning addict.

Because I'm not craving pickled squash, it seems like there’s nothing local to preserve.

In desperation, I must look south.

Luckily, California is just one international border and three states down the coast. (Let's call it “local-ish.”) And it’s citrus season!

When I saw Seville oranges all bright and orange in the grocery store, I knew they longed to be canned and that only I could help.

This was my first time making marmalade and it’s a very satisfying process. Kind of like taking all that California sunshine and distilling it in a pretty jar.

I started with a recipe from the always reliable Canadian Living. I couldn’t resist adding a tumbler of Laphroiag whisky. The deep bitterness of whisky seems to be a natural companion for these sharp oranges. Not to mention, it’s more fun to eat whisky marmalade than to eat regular marmalade.

It seems very civilized to slather my toast with butter and spread on a good dollop of whisky marmalade at breakfast.

May the canning continue, unhindered by season.

last february: ugly vegetables make beautiful soup

whisky marmalade

adapted from Canadian Living

2 lbs (907 g.) Seville oranges
1 lemon
6 1/2 c. sugar
1/4 c. whisky

Wash the fruit and cut off stems, blossoms and blemishes. Cut all the oranges in half. Squeeze out the juice, saving the rind, pith and seeds. Use a sturdy spoon to scoop out any white pith that's left next to the rind. Put the pith and seeds into a square of double-layered cheesecloth and tie tightly with string. Let's call this the pith bundle. Set aside.

Cut each half-orange rind in half again. Slice paper thin.

Pour the juice into a large heavy-duty pot, such as a Dutch oven. Put in the pith bundle and sliced rind. Add 8 cups water. Heat to a good simmer, stirring often and using the spoon to squeeze juice out of the pith bundle. Simmer, uncovered, for about 1 hour, until you can mush up the rind pieces between your fingers. (The original recipe called for 2 1/2 hours, but I found it was concentrated and soft after 1 hour.)

Turn off the heat and carefully pull the pith bundle out. Once it's cooled, squeeze as much goopy liquid through the cheesecloth as you can back into the pot with the juice and rind. Discard the pith bundle.

Measure how much liquid you have in the pot. Add water or boil it down to make 6 1/2 cups. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Add whisky. Stirring often, bring to a rolling boil over medium heat. Keep stirring every minute or two and boil for 12 to 15 minutes, until it reaches the gel stage.

Fill and seal jars. Can in hot water bath for 10 minutes.

rosemary gruyère baked eggs

Philosophical question:

Are ramekins worth the space they take up in your (very small rental) kitchen cupboard?

Sure, they sit there looking all cute and individual, but do I ever pull them out and actually bake things in them?

Possibly twice, since I picked them out after our wedding almost four years ago.

At the time, I really liked the idea of them: sweet little casserole dishes especially for each person. I bought two sizes and promptly stacked them at the back of the cupboard. Where they stayed.

Until now.

Until baked eggs entered my world. 

I even used both sizes of ramekin. (Although that was because I buttered the larger size and realized it was too large, so had to pull out the smaller. But those ramekins sure felt useful, let me tell you.)

Baked eggs fit perfectly into my smaller ramekins, with just enough extra space for cream.

I have Mark Bittman – he of the addictive and delightful three-minute New York Times videos – to thank for the inspiration. His original video recipe calls for prosciutto, tomato and basil, although he did note that baked eggs can adapt to almost anything.

My husband has declared that his favourite version so far has rosemary and Gruyère cheese – a combination I stumbled upon by checking the fridge’s cheese section and also remembering that rosemary was the only herb left in the deck garden. I also found a lone Californian tomato* on the counter . . . which offered the perfect tang for the creamy, cheesy egg.

Really, you can use almost anything, as long as it includes an egg in a ramekin. Oh, ramekins, I believe I will let you stay.

* Shocking, I know. But sometimes a girl needs a tomato and California is the closest place. Still more local than Mexico!

rosemary gruyère baked eggs

bakes 2 eggs

1 tsp. butter

2 – 4 slices tomato

1/3 c. Gruyère cheese, grated and divided

sprinkle of fresh rosemary, finely minced

2 tbsp. whipping cream

salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Use fingers to liberally butter the ramekins (possibly the funnest part of this recipe).

Place tomato slice(s) on the bottom of each ramekin. Sprinkle rosemary over. Divide the grated cheese, saving half for the tops. Sprinkle cheese in ramekins. Carefully, break each egg into a ramekin. Pour cream in each ramekin, along the side where the egg didn’t reach. Add salt and pepper. Top with the rest of the cheese.

Bake in the oven until the egg white is set, about 12 – 15 minutes. Check on them after 10 or 11 minutes.

glorious hummus for bean month

Perhaps January should be the official month of the bean?

I pulled out the chickpeas and whirled up a batch of glorious hummus in early January, feeling content I could use the humble and healthy chickpea to make such a tasty spread.

And suddenly – everywhere I looked – there were beans!  

Chard and white bean stew 

Split pea soup 

Black-eyed pea and chorizo soup 

Rancho Gordo beans 

Lentil and root vegetable soup 

I see that soup is also emerging as a January theme. If you must have both soup and beans, may I also suggest red lentil coconut curry soup? Or, ripe bean soup?

Now, back to the hummus for bean month. This hummus is everything I ever wanted in a hummus: subtly spicy with a kick of sriracha hot sauce, rounded out with just enough roasted red pepper to make you wonder what the secret ingredient is.

The recipe has evolved in three distinct stages, and I was lucky enough that my friend Queenie passed it on to me at its third and most delicious stage.

As you might have guessed by the ingredient list, it also has an impressive multicultural pedigree. It is a Middle Eastern-Chinese-Haligonian recipe. Seriously.

The recipe was born at the Coburg Coffee House in Halifax, a cozy coffee shop in an old house near Dalhousie University. Queenie, who is from Hong Kong, worked at the coffee shop for a few months this fall. While she was there, Queenie made the original glorious hummus recipe. Then, her coworker Denise shared her secret recipe: add sriracha hot sauce, curry powder and roasted red pepper or pimentos. Queenie loved it, but then she took it to the next level . . . with honey and cinnamon.

Honey and cinnamon in hummus! I was shocked, but I trust Queenie, so I tried it. She is, of course, absolutely right. You don’t really taste the honey and cinnamon, but they add another sweet round dimension to the hummus. Trust us, you will like it.

Happy bean month!

last january: shortbread in january

glorious hummus

28 oz. chickpeas, canned (or dried and softened)

1 tbsp. tahini

1 tbsp. lemon juice

1 clove garlic

3/4 tsp. cumin

1/2 tsp. curry powder

sprinkle of cinnamon

1 tbsp. olive oil

3 sundried tomatoes, softened and chopped finely

1/4 c. roasted red pepper or 2 tbsp. pimentos

1/2 tsp. sriracha hot sauce (for a moderate kick)

1 tbsp. honey

salt and pepper to taste

Set aside the chickpeas. Process everything else in a food processor or blender until it’s a nice paste.

Add half of the chickpeas and process until everything is blended. Add the rest of the chickpeas and process again until you have a smooth, glorious hummus.

Delicious on its own with crackers and carrots, or in a wrap or on a sandwich.