Heartland

On the hottest day of the summer the tar that patches a badly cracked Midwestern road melts, bubbles and pops under the tires of the car I was driving to see a dear, old friend. It had been eight long, lonely and difficult months since the last time I’d been able to hear her laugh in my presence, since the last time I pulled her in for a second’s worth of an embrace that always silently said, “I love you my friend.” I longed for her to see my smile and not just have to trust that it was there on the receiving end of the telephone. That morning, I had cut across small mountains, winded my way up and down the veering black roads of mild mannered foothills, and drove with my eyes seemingly closed into the gauntlet of the big city Interstate, holding my breath and praying I’d make it to the highly anticipated reunion. When my dust coated car pulled groaning and hot, crackling against the stones into her gravel driveway, I was knocked once again from the pedestal of my own reality and flat on my back, staring at the enormity of the Heavens, reminded that long, lonely and difficult months haunt the lives of each of us.

It was not unexpected. I had met her before. Two years prior, I met her at a lunch where our common bond was the fact that both of us were kissing goodbye someone who was dear to us. My dear friend was moving far, far away and I met her mother for the first time around a crowded Applebee’s table, bustling with conversation and a looming sense that we were all already mourning my friend’s departure. It was not unexpected. I learned in December that my friend’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and in January would be undergoing a double mastectomy followed by chemotherapy treatments. For the first time since I had known her, I heard my friend cry through the muffled, raspy intonation of her cell phone. I knew she tried to hide it. She pushed it to the back burner or tried to stir down the boiling kettle of fear, sadness, and anguish. I also knew that my friend was now facing long, lonely and difficult months as she squinted and strained to watch her mother’s journey through cancer from miles and miles away. I had never loved either of them more, my truest friend, and her mother I barely knew.

The purple, glitter studded scarf that cradled and shielded the crown of her bare scalp from the searing summer sun was not unexpected. I peeled myself out of the car, sweaty and stuck to the seats. There on the bench, waiting assured, taking bets that I would fly past the house and have to turn around, were my friend and her mother, sitting in the shade being rocked by a warm breeze. When her mother stood to greet me, the subtle absence that loitered beneath the extra fabric of her t-shirt was not unexpected. No, for all of these things I’d been prepared. Through trips to the oncology floor at the Cleveland Clinic visiting relatives and friends, through cultural depictions and stereotypes about cancer patients, and through the massive exploitation of the pink ribbon for any Tom, Dick or Harry to make a buck, I’d been prepared. What knocked me to the ground that day was not seeing a mother who was bald and disfigured, not at all. It was her attitude, her presence, her sheer joy for the simple, good things life had dealt her. She sat on the bench, under a blanket of blue sky Ohio only lays out for special occasions, strong, radiant and defiantly facing long, lonely and difficult head on. When I arrived that day, there was no moment for sadness, there was no pause for pity, there was not a second or a word for misfortune. She greeted me as I imagine she’s greeted friends and family for her entire life, with a smile, a showering of compliments, and a meal.

I was treated that day to one of the most moving experiences I’ve known. Stepping from my car, I had expectations of being a pillar, a beam. I had expected to be supportive of my friend and her mother. As the afternoon panned out, I found myself feeling naive, and like a sweet child again, as my friend’s mother eagerly and graciously fed me, seated me at her table, and treated me like one of her own children. She showed me around the family’s expansive garden, which seemed to be growing before my eyes under the bright, blinding light of afternoon sun. She never missed a beat. I saw a potato plant for the very first time, was schooled in the taste and variety of New Zealand spinach, and was offered tastes of malleable snow peas, warm raspberries, and spicy fresh mint leaves. I felt in my own heart and soul the pride she and her family felt in their home, in their land, in their lives. That was it. It was pride, joy, triumph and courage that my friend’s mother refused to yield. After an afternoon full of the freshest fresh can get, of produce that passed only seconds between the plant, my fingers and my tongue, of baking Ohio heat, and of delighting in the fruits of labor and pride, my friend’s mother sat down only ever so slightly fatigued and told me that she’d just had her last chemo treatment one week before.

That night, I had the great opportunity to join my friend, her mother and her family at Relay for Life. They are a family that refuses to surrender the fun, the light-heartedness, and the quiet implications of day to day life that creates for them a sense of normalcy. We giggled through the National Anthem. We joked about how flattering or not the various shirts, shorts and shoes were that walked faithfully around the rubbery red track. We got ice cream, we laughed like children, and I knew as the sun faded, the breeze cooled and a humid night fell softly that this was how they did it. It was never disrespect. In fact, just by spending a few hours with them under a sky quickly filling with dots of tiny stars and the haze of moonlight, I learned how much they respected themselves. They were a family that knew who they were, where they came from, and that to change or to give in to fear, to panic, to the hard and rocky ground that paved the treacherous path which called itself “cancer,” would be betraying themselves…had they done that, they’d never have made it…she’d never have made it. It was the simplicity of the snow peas, the tiny sprouts of sturdy lima beans, the giant falling leaves of cabbages, and her motherly instinct to feed guests and strangers alike, to welcome them and make a home for them that seemed to help her make it through, perhaps unknowingly, perhaps secretly.

She told me she wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself. As I drove away from them that night, and I could see nothing but the short casted shadows of miles and miles of corn, made black by night and the light of the moon, with a cooler full of produce so generously picked and sacrificed for me, my long, lonely and difficult months seemed to fade into the background. With the windows down, the wind whipping my hair across my face, sticking it to my lips, I could do nothing but sigh softly to myself at the mysterious ways we are shaped, molded and changed. I’d learned something today, over a head of budding broccoli florets, while drinking ice cold, perspiring tea, and after snapping photos of the Fryman family at Relay for Life. Strength, courage, and all of those other traits and emotions we try to pull out of our humanity, those feelings that scare us to death until we need them, are as a matter of fact there all the time. It was easy to see them in my friend’s mother picking spinach and caring, lovingly as she always had, for her adult children. Perhaps then it was easier to see them in myself. Perhaps embracing an old friend, eating ham and Swiss with a bowl of freshly cut watermelon, and a day in the Heartland was all I needed.




Some more photos from the Fryman's garden...


One brilliant bloom enjoying the heat and the sunshine.


The flower of a potato plant, the first I'd ever seen.


A little tin man, made by my friend's very talented father.

Strawberries

There is no way to describe with words typed into this digital landscape the way a pot of thick, bubbling, strawberry jam smells. That is an experience I wish I could share with all of you, from the words on this blog to your noses. In the middle of June, when you find yourself sweating, standing over a heavy bottomed silver pot of strawberries and sugar, bubbles rolling up through the bits and pieces of fruit and seeds, you find yourself thinking about the one thing you can’t get away from—the smell. All the expert candy makers, all the factory equipment that mechanically produces our suckers and gummies, and all the artificial ingredients masquerading as strawberry flavoring in this world can’t even come close to what a simple brew of freshly picked Ohio strawberries and a little bit of sugar can create. As I stood over this pot, stirring until the perfect jam consistency was reached, I began to think of strawberries as June’s quintessential comfort food.



Now, those who know me well know that there are a few food rules to which I strictly adhere, most involving fruit and vegetables. One of these rules I have put in place for myself is that I absolutely, positively, no chance in a million years, eat a strawberry that wasn’t grown in the state of Ohio, and even then it has to be from pretty darn close to where I live. Okay, call me a food snob or whatever it is you’d like to say about that. But before you write that idea off, go to a grocery store and pick up a quart of California strawberries (just for example’s sake), then go to a local market and pick up a quart of locally grown, freshly harvested Ohio strawberries. Place one grocery store strawberry next to one market strawberry. Look at them. I guarantee you the Ohio strawberry is an eye-popping shade of candied red, and the grocery story strawberry—while looking vibrantly red in the store—now looks sad next to your “masterpiece-of-fruit.” If this test alone isn’t enough for you, then just go for the gold and bite into each of them. Not only is the flavor dead on for what your wildest dreams of what a strawberry should taste like, but the texture is juicy—yes, juicy. There’s a good chance your locally grown strawberry was harvested within 24 hours of when you bought it, and that means it ripened to its fullest potential on the plant, and that means it’s full of lip smacking strawberry juice. When push comes to shove, there’s just no comparison between the two, Ohio is a clear winner.

Why, some of you may be asking, is a strawberry the quintessential comfort food of June? Well, first off, it’s just about the only thing that’s growing right now. I mean, there’s lettuce, but who thinks of lettuce as a comfort food? No, the strawberry is America’s white flag for passage of spring over the finish line and summer is just getting the engine started. Go to any corporate restaurant, and you’ll see that as of April, strawberries were back on their menu as a seasonal favorite—I’ll leave the irony in this alone. Strawberries are the first arrival of fresh fruit for many of us. We find ourselves again delving into memories and sitting on our porches, patios or decks with bowls of cone-shaped red berries, studded with seeds, juice running down our fingers as we pop one after another into our mouths like popcorn. We think to ourselves that taking our small children out to pick buckets of strawberries is an excellent idea because they are so much closer to the plants then we are, and inevitably, we end up picking and they end up playing. We invite friends, family, and neighbors over for strawberry pie, strawberry shortcake, or just plain old strawberries, perhaps heaped over a slice of pound cake or a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We dip them in chocolate and suddenly become the most popular people on the block. We whir them into smoothies, cream them into milkshakes, and smash them into jam. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that Americans can often be caught “red-handed” enjoying our favorite seasonal fruit. So head out to the markets and farm-stands, or go pick them yourself, and take advantage of the quickly passing season of our ruby-red, Vitamin C and potassium packed, plump, juicy, comforting, sweet strawberries.


The strawberry fields at Secor's Nursery in North Perry. I have found these to be the best strawberries in Northeast Ohio.


My Mom. Also known as my partner in crime on these little food adventures.


Bubbling jars of processing jam. It's a hot job, but someone's gotta do it.


The finished jars. I have enough jam to last me until next summer, because I am a pioneer at heart and clearly cannot access strawberry jam unless I make it myself.

Ohio Farms Meet the Middle East

"If you really want to make a friend, go to someone's house and eat with him... the people who give you their food give you their heart."

-Cesar Chavez

Finally you'll say. Finally. She's finally made some food. We cannot exist on floury, sweet treats alone. Finally, I've made some food. Not just food, not just one dish, but a meal. The time has finally come to start getting inventive with fresh vegetables again. Spring is sprung and hopping away faster than any of us could imagine. Summer is beckoning and in her basket she carries the earliest savory succulence to bring to our tables. In Cleveland's Farmers Markets and Farm Stands, you'll no doubt begin to see lettuce, kale, swiss chard, spinach, beets, kohlrabi, and asparagus. These early season specialties won't last long, so get shopping and get creative. That was my motto this week.

Now, my flare for the spices of the Middle East and the citrus acidic tones of the Mediterranean could be attributed to my blossoming imagination alone, but that wouldn't be fair. Last weekend, like millions of other American women in love with a modern day fairy tale, I put on my high heels and headed out to the cinema to see Sex and the City 2. While seeing the first movie only inspired three rounds of Cosmopolitans at Casa Nueva in Athens, Ohio...the second movie took place almost exclusively in Abu Dhabi (shot in Morocco, same idea though). When I left that theater last Saturday night, I wanted to hit up my favorite Middle Eastern restaurant for some hummus, shish kabobs, mint tea, and then three rounds of Cosmopolitans. My craving for the alluring spices, textures, and bold flavors of the land stretching from the Mediterranean to China to the Arabian Sea was insatiable, and therefore, as Samantha would say, "Attention must be paid."

The second inspiration for this menu came as I perused the Lake Farmpark's Market on Wednesday. A grass-fed beef stand caught my eye, and after talking to the nicest, most friendly woman from Ashtabula County, I decided to buy two pounds of shish-kabob meat and attack my craving head on. The meat was from Millgate Farm in Austinburg, Ashtabula County, Ohio. This beef was beautiful right out of the package. It was the perfect shade of purplish-pink, and had such a smooth and velvety texture. I highly recommend it to anyone who is interested in eating locally, naturally raised meats.

The rest of the meal evolved from beets I had previously purchased at my favorite farm stand, J & J Produce in Burton, the abundance of fresh herbs in my garden, and a small head of delicate, savory red butter lettuce I purchased at the Farmpark Market when I bought the meat. The theme of this week's blog post is...be creative. I created every dish I served in this meal, thinking constantly about melding flavors and textures and colors. Cardamom, mint and parsley are three common flavors I used to tie things together. They reflect not only the dishes they were used to season, but also the flavors of the Middle East I was so desperately trying to channel. Well, Mission Accomplished (insert appropriate George W. Bush/Middle East joke here)! The meal was amazing. It was brilliant to the eye, intriguing to the nose, and absolutely mouthwatering. It was a great way to use some locally raised Ohio products, and pull a new, different flavor profile as well. So this week, I encourage you to try these recipes, and perhaps even more so to try some of your own. Get to the markets, buy local, and be creative. Cooking is easy, most people just don't want you to know that. Enjoy.

Menu:
(Serves 4)

Spiced Ohio Beef Shish-Kabobs
Yogurt Sauce
Mashed Root Vegetables
Mediterranean Salad
Honey-Spice Grilled Apricots


Spiced Ohio Beef Shish-Kabobs

2 lbs Ohio Grass-Fed Beef (tenderloin, roast, anything that's thick enough and isn't ground), cut into 1 1/2 inch cubes
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. coriander
1/4 tsp. cumin
1/4 tsp. paprika
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. cardamom
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
1/8 tsp. ground rosemary

1. Rinse and pat-dry beef.

2. In a large bowl, combine salt, garlic powder, coriander, cumin, paprika, cinnamon, cardamom, black pepper and rosemary. Toss the beef pieces in the spice mixture until evenly coated. Feed onto metal skewers, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

3. Oil the plates of an outdoor grill. Pre-heat grill to 400 degrees. Grill the beef skewers for 4 minutes per side, 12 minutes total. (I usually make shish-kabobs have 3 sides) Make sure to maintain the grill temperature at 400 degrees for a medium-well finish on the meat. Serve with yogurt sauce.

Yogurt Sauce

7 oz. lowfat greek yogurt
1/4 cup shredded English Cucumber
1 tsp. freshly grated lemon zest
2 TBS. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 TBS. finely chopped fresh mint
1/4 tsp. salt
pinch of sugar

1. Mix all ingredients until well blended. Refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving to meld flavors.



Mashed Root Vegetables

3 medium size redskin potatoes, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
3 parsnips, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
3 carrots, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
3 beets, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
1 TBS. olive oil
1 TBS. butter
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper

1. Combine all vegetable pieces in a large pot. Cover by 1 inch with water. Boil vegetables for 25 minutes, or until each vegetable is tender. Drain.

2. Return the vegetables to the pot and add the olive oil, butter, salt, and black pepper. Mash together with a hand masher, leaving some larger chunks of vegetables if desired. Taste for salt and pepper, add if necessary. Serve hot and enjoy.



Mediterranean Salad

2 cups fresh, locally grown leaf lettuce, chopped
1 cup fresh, locally grown spinach, chopped
1/2 cup chopped English Cucumber
1/2 cup chopped fresh tomato
1 TBS. chopped fresh parsley
3.5 oz. reduced-fat crumbled feta cheese
Herbed Lemon Dressing

1. Toss all salad ingredients together. Pour dressing over salad and gently toss with your fingertips so as not to break up the tomatoes or bruise the lettuce.

Herbed Lemon Dressing

1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 TBS. freshly grated lemon zest
1 TBS. white wine vinegar
1 TBS. chopped fresh mint
1 TBS. chopped fresh cilantro
1 TBS. chopped fresh oregano
1 TBS. chopped fresh parsley
1 tsp. chopped fresh rosemary
1 tsp. salt
pinch of sugar
1/3 cup olive oil

1. In a large liquid measuring cup, whisk together the lemon juice, lemon zest, vinegar, mint, cilantro, oregano, parsley, rosemary, salt and sugar. Slowly drizzle in olive oil while whisking until well emulsified, and no oil is visible floating on top. Pour over Mediterranean Salad.



Honey-Spice Grilled Apricots

4 fresh apricots, halved and pitted
1/4 cup low-sugar, all natural apricot preserves (low sugar, not sugar free)
2 TBS. locally produced honey
1/4 tsp. cardamom
1 tsp. fresh mint, finely chopped
1 TBS. dark rum

1. In a small bowl, whisk together the apricot preserves, honey, cardamom, mint and dark rum. Baste the cut sides of the apricots with this glaze.

2. Oil the plates of an outdoor grill. Pre-heat the grill to 400 degrees.

3. Place apricots cut side down on the hot grill. Baste the other side of the apricot halves with the glaze. Grill for six minutes. Turn apricots over, baste again with the glaze, and grill on the opposite side for six more minutes. Serve warm all by themselves, with whipped cream, or with vanilla ice cream.


And finally...



p.s.- Don't be afraid of parsnips. The Mashed Root Vegetables were sweet, creamy and amazing. Nothing snippy about it.

Early Summer Crisp

A quick mid-week post for my loyal readers, today I spontaneously decided to make a Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp, and I've decided to share the recipe. I made this up as I went, and we decided it was pretty delicious and almost guilt free. It's not too sweet, yet not too tart, and definitely full of awesome natural flavors like honey and orange zest and cardamom. It's a perfect way to kick off the summer baking season. I was able to get strawberries grown in Wooster, which I didn't consider too far away to not be local anymore. Enjoy!



Bea Kay’s Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp

Filling:
½ lb. thin, red rhubarb stalks, chopped into ½ in. pieces
1 quart of fresh, locally grown strawberries, washed, hulled and halved
½ cup white sugar
¼ cup locally produced honey
1 TBS. freshly grated orange zest
2 TBS. cornstarch

Topping:
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup rolled hot cereal mix (barley, rye, wheat and oats) or 1 cup rolled oats
¼ cup dark brown sugar
½ tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. allspice
¼ tsp. cardamom
Pinch of salt
¼ cup or half a stick of cold butter, cut into ½ cubes
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract

1. Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Grease or butter a glass or ceramic 9x9in square baking dish.

2. In a medium mixing bowl, combine rhubarb, strawberries, white sugar, honey, orange zest and cornstarch. Toss together until well mixed and all berries and rhubarb are coated. Pour into greased baking dish.

3. In another medium mixing bowl, combine whole wheat flour, hot cereal mix, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, allspice, cardamom, and pinch of salt, mix well. With a pastry blender, cut in the ¼ cup of butter until the mixture resembles fine crumbs. Pour in 1 tsp of vanilla and mix with pastry blender until incorporated. Pour evenly over berry mixture.

4. Bake for 30-45 minutes until golden and crunchy on top and bubbly underneath.

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.