Cookie Imitation is the Best Form of Flattery

On Thursday, I stopped into Dark Horse Espresso Bar on Queen West, and two things happened; first I ran into the lovely Derek Easton, of Easton’s in Toronto’s Kensington Market, and then I ate the best oatmeal cookie out there.

This post is about the cookie, but I should mention that Derek told me about the dry chorizo the venison sausages that he now has in the shop. He convinced me, and now both types of sausages are at my house.

But the cookie! It’s an oatmeal, pistachio, and fig cookie, which I’ve replicated, more or less. Happily, I share with you my version of the cookie.

Oatmeal, Pistachio and Fig Cookies
Makes about two dozen cookies

1 1/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup salted butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar, packed
¼ cup granulated white sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons Bourbon (or vanilla)
¼ cup water
2 ¾ cups rolled oats (not quick oats)
¾ (100g) cup pistachios, roasted at 300F for ten minutes, and coarsely chopped
10 dried figs ( about 100 g), with the “twig” removed, and chopped into raisin-sized chunks.

Pre-heat the oven to 375F.

In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside. In a larger, bowl, combine the butter and the sugar. Blend with an electric mixer for a minute. Add the egg and Bourbon. Continue mixing until the mixture is light and fluffy.

Add the flour mixture into the butter mixture, stirring with a wooden spoon, and alternating with the water. Stir in the oats, nuts and fruit.

On a greased cookie sheet, drop well-rounded teaspoons, flattening each cookie with the back of the spoon. Bake for ten minutes. Cool on a rack.

The Process

Sometimes, the outcome is not what you’d hoped for but the novelty of having ever tried in the first place redeems the experience.

Apparently Teddy Roosevelt, on his first buffalo hunt in the Dakotas’ Badlands (a trip that, by the way, partly fueled his devotion to national parks), lived for the process. After days in the blistering sun, little to drink, rain soaked camping blankets, nothing but dry biscuits to eat, and not a single successful shot, Roosevelt enthusiastically proclaimed, “By Godfrey, but this is fun!”

And that’s how I felt about my new pasta machine.

Don’t get me wrong, Yotam Ottolenghi’s instructions for Saffron tagliatelle with spiced butter (from his book, Plenty), are very good. The fragrant butter sauce is exciting, and the turmeric-stained pasta dough is flawless. It’s just that I’ve never used a pasta machine. And I’m afraid that in the end, the resulting meal was more like Spaetzle (a slightly gummy, sticky German squirt noodle), and less like a delicate tagliatelle.

Perhaps one day, when I’ve perfected the art of cranking out my own pasta, I will share some version of the recipe. But for now, here are some photos of The Process.

All photographs by Andrew Budziak

A hot lemon soup to cure you

The flu renders me useless. For instance, when I made this soup on Wednesday, there wasn’t much hope I’d get a better photo.

It went as follows: Make soup. Take a shitty picture. Whimper miserably. And sink into the couch with this hot, nourishing lemon and butter noodle soup.

Of course, this is best made with homemade chicken broth, if you have it. But if you’re the one fighting the flu, seriously, don’t bother. For God’s sake, don’t make chicken stock form scratch if you’re sick. Keep it easy, that’s the whole point of this recipe.

Lemon and butter noodle soup

Adapted from a recipe in Tessa Kiros’ “Apples for Jam”

Serves 3

1 litre chicken broth

The juice of half a lemon

1 oz butter

3-4 oz spaghetti, broken up into 1 centimetre pieces

Grated Parmesan cheese

Black pepper

A sprinkling of dried mint leaves

Bring the broth, lemon juice and butter to boil in a pan, and lower to a gentle simmer. Let the flavours marry, simmering for 5 minutes or so. Add the noodles, bringing the soup up to a more enthusiastic simmer, but not a roaring boil, by any means. Cook the noodles about as long as the package instructs, minus 30 seconds or so, since they will continue to cook after the soup is served. Add pepper to taste.

Ladle the soup into bowls, sprinkle with the cheese and the mint, and serve.

Making bread, part two

We flew back from Manitoba last month with a suitcase that weighed 98 pounds. It was full of frozen lamb, canned vegetables from the farm, and … a Black & Decker bread maker.

My mum bought it for us at the second hand store in Steinbach, Manitoba, which is run by the Mennonite Central Committee. It cost her twenty dollars. It came with a handwritten recipe, an add-on from the MCC volunteer who kindly tested the bread machine before putting on the shelf.

Now, I’ve written about another bread I’ve been making – a Nigel Slater loaf – and of course proper homemade bread is beautiful and therapeutic in its kneading, punching, and rising. I’ll keep that recipe close too. But machine bread is a snap to make. And it’s also a good recipe to have up your sleeve.

Since I brought this baby home, I’ve been baking all my one loaves, tweaking that recipe ever so slightly each time. More than a month and a dozen loaves later, I can tell you, confidently, that I’ve got the recipe I like.

Automatic Bread

This, of course, is only the kind of recipe that works if you have a bread maker. And if you have a bread maker, you know that the recipe “instructions” are unbelievably simple: 1) put the ingredients, in the order listed, in the baking pan; 2) insert the pan into the machine; 3) turn the machine on, according to the manufacturer’s instructions; 4) go away. This recipe is perfect for the machine’s 2 lb setting.

1 ¼ cup water

4 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp sugar

1 heaping tsp salt

2 cups white flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup mix of interesting dry bits (seeds/chopped nuts/cornmeal/wheat germ/steel cut oats, etc)

1 tsp traditional yeast

Evidence of September

Fall is here, or approaching anyway. I know this because of the vegetables I picked up at the Metro Square farmer’s market on Thursday.

Well, everything but the lemons and limes. I'll admit that.

And I know it's September because the sun looks like this, at 7 o’clock.

Delinquently yours,

These last few weeks, I've been taking photos instead of cooking. Though, arguably, these are photos of food, aren’t they?

Late July

We spent the weekend at the farm again, where I lazily watched my mum make the year’s first pickles. We had grilled venison for supper, and then went for a walk at sunset. As we watched the sun dip into fields, my mum recalled something she’d read from an Albertan landscape artist, something to the effect of: “Out here, the sky is the landscape.” I think the same goes for parts of Manitoba.