Flowers

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson


The night has broken. It is too late to pick up the pieces and hastily, sleepily piece them together to block out the faithful morning sun. Golden tones rise up in the East, blending with and painting over the fading black and blue hue of a willingly receeding sky. Nothing shall keep the light from our faces. No pillar, no beam, not steel or stone can stand between the warmth of the rays and our cool, rested skin. And while we are eager to pull up our covers, hide our eyes, and prolong our slumber, there are those who are eager to receive the joy of summer's first mornings. Those who are brilliantly colored, brazenly beautiful and never shy. One would never find a bud unwilling to open, a petal too stubborn to smoothly pivot toward those first peeks of sun. In fact, there are those of these that spend their entire day following its cheeriness, its warm breath, its given heat from East to West until the day is done and they finally may droop, rest, and wait for its next coming. These are flowers, flowers, flowers.


We could all take a lesson from flowers some days. It's time for a little change, to keep me embracing life fully, and therefore this week is about not food, but flowers. Now, don't think one week of blogging about gardening will turn me into Martha Stewart Enterprises. Gardening is simply a hobby, but often its just the right change of pace.

Today my Mother and I ventured back out to a few of my favorite places. If you've read my blog before, you'd know that I adore Geauga County and it's bountiful produce and foodstuffs. Well, as it turns out, Geauga County produces some exquisite shrubs, plants, and flowers as well. Today's venture was to Urban Growers Greenhouse on Claridon-Troy Road in Burton, Ohio (Just up the road from my dearest produce stand, J & J). While perusing the vast aisles of a huge variety of plants, I fell in love. Yes, it was love at first sight. In fact, I can safely say that I've never had such feelings of love for a plant before ever in my life. This coleus is the apple of my eye...



I picked this up and walked towards my Mother's cart carrying this little four inch pot, and I told her that I loved this plant and I was going to buy it. This was just the inspiration. From there my Mom suggested that I plant myself a pot, with flowers that I liked in it, to help make our home feel more like mine. I guess she thought that if I could have one thing on the deck to look at that was mine, it'd make me feel better. She was right. So with coleus in hand I ventured to mix and match together a flat of other flowers that I liked and thought would look nice with my little plant. This is what I came up with...



After a good half an hour inside the humid and very toasty greenhouse, this is what our cart looked like...(my Mom loves flowers, really)...



We got home and I commenced with the planting, beginning with two flats of Impatients along the side of our house. Then a few more random little pots for my Mom. Finally, I got to sit down and get to work on my special project. It was so refreshing and fulfilling to work on this pot of my very own. Here is what I came up with, and hopefully in a few weeks it will be stunning...



And finally, just for fun, my Mom decided to try her hand at the camera while she was directing me on where the Portulagas should go. All I can say is that the flowers are almost as colorful as I am...




Next week: Rhubarb-Orange Marmalade and pictures from our trip to the produce stand. Back to food, no worries.

Home Sweet Home and the Smell of Cinnamon

It has never rained like this in May. For three soggy weeks, Northeast Ohioans have felt the belated gifts of April. What some people don't realize about a rainy May is the abundant warmth that accompanies a morning, afternoon, or evening shower. It is wedged somewhere between a cold, damp, bone-chilling April rain and the sure to come hot and humid thunderstorms of June, July and August. These are the rainy days we ought to be grateful for-all the water we need without some of the other more detrimental side effects. I am grateful for this rain, and I am grateful for this day.

The only sound that competes with the pitter-patter of raindrops along the screened sill of my window is the sound of heavy, sugary droplets falling from the edges of a golden brown, crackly pastry onto a heavy metal pan. With a large spoon, in my Mother's kitchen, I poured an orange scented glaze over the warm treat I had pulled from the oven just moments before. I am home now, for awhile, and gratefully so. To commemorate my latest inhabitance to a once empty nest, I made a vast cinnamon concoction for the morning snack my parents delight in on weekend mornings. My father loves cinnamon rolls and I love to make them, so nothing seemed more appropriate. Besides, what else says home like the smells of caramelizing auburn sugar and spicy, exotic cinnamon combined with a wafting breeze of bold and pungent perking coffee making its way through the hallways, in and out of the rooms and up and down the stairs. I sliced the pastry, poured the coffee, and could only hope that my parents knew the love and sincere appreciation that came in every bite of my offering of morning sweets.





Home is Calling Cinnamon Bun Babka
(original recipe can be found on the Food Network Website, by Tyler Florence)

Dough:

2 1/4 tsp. active dry yeast
1 cup warm water (115-120 degrees)
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup melted margarine, cooled, plus more for brushing
2 large eggs (locally produced)
1 tsp. salt
2 cups hi-gluten bread flour
2 cups white whole wheat flour
1 TBS. vegetable oil

Filling:

1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
2 TBS. cinnamon
1 TBS. grated orange zest
1/2 cup dark raisins
1/2 cup coarsely chopped pecans

Glaze:

1/4 cup water
2 cups confectioners sugar
1/2 orange, zested
1 large egg white

1. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer fitted with a dough hook, dissolve the yeast in 1/4 cup of the warm water. Stir in 1/4 tsp. of the sugar and let stand 5-10 minutes, or until foamy.

2. Turn the mixer on low speed and add the remaining water, sugar, melted margarine, eggs, and salt. Add the two cups of bread flour and turn the speed up to medium, mixing until incorporated. Gradually add the two cups of white whole wheat flour and mix until the dough holds together but is very soft.

3. Turn the dough out onto a floured counter and dust the top with flour. Knead for five minutes until smooth and elastic, adding more flour if needed. Rub the inside of a large bowl with the oil, put in the dough and cover with plastic wrap. Let stand and room temperature 1 1/2 hours, or until doubled in size.

4. Pre-heat the oven to 325 degrees.

5. Combine the two brown sugars, cinnamon, orange zest, raisins and pecans. On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out to a 10 x 18" rectangle. Brush the dough with melted margarine, then sprinkle on the filling leaving 2 inches along one of the 18" sides. Roll up like a jelly roll, sealing the bottom edge where there was no filling. Holding each end of the roll in each hand, gently twist it like you were wringing out a towel. Then, on a sheet pan lined with greased parchment paper, coil the dough around itself in a swirl, sealing the ends. Brush with more melted margarine.

6. Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour or until very golden and the house smells like cinnamon. Cool on the pan for 5 minutes, the transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

7. In a medium size bowl, combine all the glaze ingredients and whisk until smoothy and incorporated. Pour over lightly cooled babka. Slice and serve.


Enjoy!

Milk and Cookies

It's been a rough week. There has been such upheavel in my life this week, such a dramatic change of events, and so much work involved that I decided I needed to write about something comforting, familiar, sweet and secure--milk and cookies it is.

While I am not sure of the exact origin of the pairing of milk and cookies, I am sure that anyone between the ages of five and forty-five knows of a dear childhood friend, blue in nature, fuzzy in texture and somewhat bug-eyed for being so popular. He has hands like mittens that he uses like a windshield wiper, sweeping plates full of chocolate chip cookies into his felty-black mouth (where the inevitably fall out the sides, though we never questioned this). Can you tell me how to get, how to get to...Cookie Monster. I have so many memories of watching Sesame Street as a child, and I cannot picture the character Cookie Monster without a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in front of him. Now, I know this is not the origin of the combination, but for me, it was an introduction. Sometimes I miss those days. My mother would walk me home from half-day morning kindergarten (we lived just around a beautiful block, studded with bright green lawns and small, but well kept, manicured homes). I'd sit on our retro brown, yellow and cream colored floral patterend couch, and I'd eat the lunch my mother had fixed for me and watch Sesame Street. This simple memory is enough to keep me going some days.

The funny thing about all of this is that in a sense, I am returning to this memory. Very soon I will be moving back in with my parents for an unspecified amount of time. While giving up my false sense of independence will be hard on one hand, on the other I am so relieved to be able to say to myself, "You know what, you're not that independent, you can't really support yourself, you have to take a few steps back and try again when you can." Now, I know I won't be sitting on the couch (not the same one fortunately), having my Mother make me lunch and watching Sesame Street (more like Millionare Matchmaker these days). I am not thinking that my worries are over now that I'm moving home. I am thinking that for a little while, I can feel comfort of the support I've been given until I am ready and able to get back out there, support myself, and be the independent person I've only made feeble attempts at being up until this point. For now though, I'm going to sip my milk, eat my cookie (dieting you know, note, just "cookie") and let myself roll back, recover and focus on just the next step, not the rest of my life.

In the midst of the chaos of the week, I made a remarkable and thoroughly exciting discovery. For several months now, I have been endlessly irritating the people who love me dearly enough to listen about Snowville Creamery milk. I first began drinking this perfectly crafted milk when I lived in Athens as an Undergrad at Ohio University. Produced not thirty minutes away from where I lived, it was and is the freshst, most delicious milk I'd ever had. Once you've tasted milk like this, you'll never be able to drink regular ol' grocery store milk with quite the same appreciation again. Snowville milk will spoil you, rotten. The farm is locally owned, the cows are of several different varieties and are pasture grazed, the milk isn't homogenized, and it is pasturized at the lowest legal temperature possible-all of these things make for rich, sweet, creamy, earthy milk, the way milk is supposed to be. Probably the best part of this milk, second only to the superior taste, is the fact that buying it means supporting an amazing Ohio-owned, Ohio-run business. If you've ever driven through Meigs County (where this milk is produced) and seen the beautiful rolling hills and the green and yellow pastures, it'd be no suprise that this milk is so delicious. Often times, I'd find myself driving through Snowville, peering about the windows of the car at the different fields, wondering if those were the cows that were producing my milk, or maybe those over there, or maybe those up on the crest of the ridge. I'm telling you, try it and you'll be hooked (and even perhaps obsessed, like me).



Snowville Creamery milk is one of the three things from Athens I'd do just about anything to get my hands on (the other two being a blueberry muffin from the Village Bakery and an Amerretto Cappucino from Donkey). I discovered on Thursday, at the Snowville Creamery website, that I could get my hands on it. When I clicked on the retailers link on the website, and Cleveland came up as an option, I almost fell out of my chair. I don't know how long they've been selling it here, but needless to say, I'm glad I found out. I ran right out on Friday and bought myself a half-gallon of Skim, which is now almost gone. Hallelujah for local farms, natural foods, and the good retailers of Northeast Ohio that carry them. To find out if Snowville milk is near you, check out the "retailers" link on the Snowville Creamery website.

Finally, the second half of the title and theme of this post...the cookies. For Mother's Day I made what have become my famous cut-out sugar cookies. I say they've become "famous," because the more I make them, the more people ask for them. I can't get over how many people really enjoy these cookies and I'm so very glad. These cookies are not only delicious, but they are part of my heritage and making them makes me feel proud. They are my Great-Grandmother's recipe, on my Father's side. I share a birthday with this Great-Grandmother, as well as a love of baking and making all things sweet. Making these cookies makes me think of her, and how much she probably would've enjoyed me as an adult, making cookies, cakes and jams together. Here is the recipe for the cookies, and the frosting recipe follows, but be forewarned...I don't use a recipe for the frosting, so you have to just dive in and see what comes out. Buy local, eat natural and enjoy.




Grandma Chlopek's Butter Cookies

1 c. soft butter
1/2 c. sugar
1 egg
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
1 TBS. lemon zest
3 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt

1. Cream together the butter, sugar, egg, vanilla and lemon zest. (I usually do this in a stand mixer)

2. Stir together the flour, baking powder and salt. Add this dry mixture to the wet mixture, mixing well until you have a stiff, well incorporated dough.

3. Divide in half and wrap each piece in plastic wrap. Chill 1 hour.

4. Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees. On a lightly flour surface, roll one piece of dough out to between 1/4" and 1/8" thick. Cut out shapes with a cookie cutter and place on greased baking sheets. Repeat with the remaining dough.

5. Bake for 5 to 6 minutes, until just barely browned on the bottoms. (I bake sheets one at a time, as they burn easily)

6. Transfer to wire racks to cool. Cool completely before frosting.


My Frosting

Powdered Sugar
a pinch of salt
lemon juice
water

1. For one recipe of cookies, I'd probably start with 3 cups of powdered sugar. Add the pinch of salt and mix well. Stir in enough lemon juice and water to make a spreadable frosting that's not too thick, but not so runny that it'll run off the cookies. I'd start with 2 TBS. of lemon juice and 2 TBS. of water and add some of each as necessary. Good Luck.

All Things Rhubarb

"It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

While I feel this way about Christmas usually, just yesterday I found myself humming this line as I drove through the vibrant green pastures harnessed by seemingly endless wooden rail fences in Geauga County. My Mother and I decided to take a trip to our favorite produce stand, J & J Produce, located at 16323 Claridon-Troy Rd, Burton, OH 44021. I would include a link to the website, but this place is so grassroots, so rural and so wonderful that they don't have a website. Owned by an Amish family, J & J Produce might just be my favorite produce stand in all of Northeast, Ohio. You will undoubtedly be hearing more about them as the growing season goes on and I highly suggest you take a trip there.

This entire week I've been on a mission to find one of my favorite early spring treats--rhubarb. The arrival of rhubarb, to me, is the arrival of growing season--something I look forward to from October to May. A couple of days this week have been sunny and warm, and I had a hunch the little red and green stalks might be just about ready. I've been driving around in the car and some days I can feel the sun baking my cheeks through the sunroof. It is not hot yet, it is not humid yet, it is May and it is perfect. On these warm days, I'd head out towards Geauga County typically, where they grow lots and lots of things, and sail past some of my old stomping grounds, looking to see if they had yet harvested any of the fantastically tart rhubarb that I have such love for. Each day had been a failure, but I knew it wouldn't be too much longer before success would knock on my doorstep.

Mom and I headed out on Tuesday, passing a little farm with a homemade wooden sign and a dirt driveway. This farm always has rhubarb in the spring. The sign said "Lettuce and Eggs," and yet again, no dice. I tried to resign myself to the idea that perhaps it was too early. As we drove further and further into the country, the day seemed to get better and better. The sun is brighter there in Burton and Middlefield, the grass is a shade of green that only comes from being shamefully sheared less often. People hustled and bustled around Burton square, and Mom and I stopped for a refreshingly thirst quenching iced tea. It was the perfect May day, and why it never dawned on me that my favorite produce stand would indeed have rhubarb, I don't know. All I know is that we turned the sharp bend and pulled up and over the tiny hill that blocks the stand from view until you are right on top of it. And when we were right on top of it, there it was. The industrial sign that can be changed daily with big, black, block letters to announce the days harvest said..."Asparagus...Rhubarb." It was as close to ecstacy food has ever taken me. I had been so craving and so anticipating the arrival of rhubarb season that this had caught me off guard and it was a wonderful and much needed surprise. I cleaned out the joint, snagging the last four bunches with plans to return this weekend for more. I lifted the stringy stalks to my nose and breathed in the pungent, tangy aroma that probably ought to turn people away. But, if you've ever enjoyed a slice of rhubarb pie, then you'd know that through the sour, starchy, weedy type odor of the rhubarb stalks lingers the suggestion of a bubbling pink, steaming, perfectly browned pie being pulled from your oven. Heaven.

A little bit about rhubarb for the masses that will read this...first and foremost the leaves are poisonus. Yep, poisonus. DON'T eat them. Really, don't. Rhubarb is officially considered a vegetable, but thanks to us Americans who are always so concerned about the extra pennies we have to shell out in taxes, it can legally be called a fruit (apparently you don't have to pay as much tax on "fruit"). It has been used forever, as far back as 2700 B.C. as a medicinal plant in China. It came to the United States in the 19th century, originating in New England and moving South and West with American manifest destiny. One thing that you really will want to know, other than it being poisonus, is that it is a potent laxative. You should have no problems the day after you eat the pie, if you get my drift. The last thing you should know is that it is delicious. Don't be afraid of it's sour taste, it's stringiness, it's poisonous leaves. Pair it with strawberries to make it less harsh, for all you first-timers out there. Just try it, give it a chance, and remember, buy it local.




Lovely rhubarb awaiting a good washing in the sink of my breezy kitchen.



Rhubarb stalks that are most desirable for baking and pies specifically, are long, thin, tender and red--like the stalk on the left. Those that are thicker and greener--like the stalk on the right--can be used, but will be a bit tougher and more sour so remember to adjust the amount of sugar if you get lots of these.



Pie in progress. The colors in this pie are to my eyes what music is to my ears...delightful.



A baby pie for a special friend.



An 'All Things Rhubarb' care package, including the baby pie and a mini-loaf of Rhubarb Walnut Bread. Plus all the love I put into making it.


And just for a smile...



My loyal kitchen companion and devoted baking assistant.