Irish Soda Bread, and other things that are not Hawaiian

"Please stand up and tell the class what you learned about your ancestry, or where your family comes from, Maggie." In retrospect, this question is terrifically problematic and likely highlighted the incredible cultural and racial privilege in the room. I slipped out of my seat, stood tall in my overalls and told my whole 2nd grade class about how my family came from Hawaii. I rocketed into a spirited tale about trips to the Big Island, the Aloha shirts, the ukulele music in Grandpa's van. My prose sunk my classmates' feet into hot sand and their fingertips into the ocean.

When I got home from school I announced to my family that I had given a spectacular speech, and that I would most likely be [the first Hawaiian] president one day because of my superior speech-giving skills.

"Our family isn't from Hawaii, Maggie. We are mostly from parts of Europe. Like England, Wales, and Germany."  My heart sank into my stiff overalls. But the trip! The shirts! And the music! "We just like to visit Hawaii sometimes."

My confusion was born out of my Grandfather's adoration of all things Hawaiian. Mostly, I think he just loved delicious things. Portuguese sausage, Kalua pork, spam (arguably not delicious). And beautiful things. The ocean, thick valleys, ukulele music. Turns out, he loved St. Patrick's Day like he loved Hawaii--he was not in the least bit Irish, but dove into corned beef and Scotch whisky like I dove into that 2nd grade speech. With curious gusto, and a need for the extraordinary.

While this Irish Soda Bread is not one I can claim has authenticity, I can promise you that I would have gladly baked some up to share with my not-so-Irish, not-at-all-Hawaiian, but-still-wonderful Grandfather. It is simple--no rising, punching or waiting. Just some fragrant caraway, gently sweet currants and a golden crust. Best if enjoyed with those who love all things delicious and beautiful.

Irish Soda Bread
Serves many
1/2 cup white sugar

• 4 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon caraway seeds
• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 1 1/4 cups buttermilk
• 1 cup sour cream
• 2 cups currants 
• 1 tsp. grated orange zest

Set your oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-10 in. round cake pan.

In a large mixing bowl, combine sugar, flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and caraway seeds.

In a separate mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, buttermilk, and sour cream until combined into a delicious slurry.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry, stirring with your favorite wooden spoon until just combined. Add your currants and orange zest, then give a few more stirs. The dough will be delightfully sticky, so do not fear. Place your dough into the prepared pan. Cut an X into the top of your dough (about 1in. deep) so it can breathe and grow.

Bake for 60-70 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown. Let cool on a wire rack. Slice or tear into hunks. Serve with corned beef and Scotch whisky. Or maybe Kalua pork and a Mai Tai.

Almond Butter Blondies with Dark Chocolate Frosting

I think I have a pun compulsion. This does not really make for a digestible blog. For your sakes, I will attempt to be less heavy handed with the puns. I will, however, be heavy handed with butter, almond butter, and dark chocolate. These bars are deeply nutty and complex. You remember the standard peanut butter blondie you threw onto your lunch tray in 5th grade? A beige, sugary square that sat squat on your plate, absorbing applesauce and pizza grease like a kitchen sponge? These almond butter blondies are not like the bar cookies you traded away for your best friend's oreos. These almond butter blondies are as sophisticated as your best gel pens. The frosting is as indulgent as watching that R rated movie your parents told you not to with your cousin, fistfuls of buttery popcorn and staying up past your bedtime.

Make these and share them with old friends. Maybe you could even trade them away for a bottle of good red wine.

After you have traded some for a bottle of red wine, stay up past your bedtime and watch that movie your parents never let you rent.

Almond Butter Blondies with Dark Chocolate Frosting

Adapted from a Joy the Baker recipe

Makes one dozen hefty brownies

10 Tablespoons butter, cut into large chunks

1.5 cups dark brown sugar

1 cup almond butter (I used chunky)

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

Preheat your oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 9x13 inch pan.

Over medium heat, melt butter and sugar in a medium saucepan until all wisps of butter have disappeared into the deep brown sugar. Remove from heat and cool for about five minutes. Add almond butter and stir until well incorporated. Allow to cool for another five minutes. Don't skimp on the cooling time--you don't want to scramble your eggs! Whisk in eggs and vanilla.

Whisk the salt, flour, and baking powder. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients all in one shot. Stir until just incorporated. Pour the batter (do not fret if it is rather thick) into your buttered pan and spread evenly from corner to corner. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the blondies comes out clean. Resist the urge to frost right away and allow them to cool to room temperature.

Dark chocolate frosting

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 1/2-2 cups powdered sugar

3 tablespoons milk

3/4 cup good quality dark chocolate chips or chopped bar, melted

Using an electric mixer, beat together butter, cocoa powder, and salt. Add 1/2 cup powdered sugar and 1 tablespoon milk. Beat until incorporated. Add 1 cup powdered sugar and 2 tablespoons milk. Beat until incorporated once more. Melt chocolate chips in the microwave or in a double boiler. Add melted chocolate and mix until the chocolate goo is one with the thick frosting. If you feel like your frosting isn't quite sturdy enough, add another 1/4 to 1/2 cup powdered sugar. Spread generously over your cooled blondies.

Soup Soup Resolution

Okay, so the title may be a bit of a stretch. I usually pride myself on conjuring up suitably witty, slyly creative titles. God I'm smug. Really, I think the horrible title is evidence of my discomfort with resolutions. I never declare hope for personal change in the new year, mostly because the dieting industry gives me hives and I am quite certain the dieting industry patented New Year's Resolutions. Though, this may be the year I hop the resolution wagon. 2011 is going to be a pulsing year--full of more love and more change and more responsibility and more soup. Honestly, I feel like every morning I brush my teeth with anxiety and rinse with excitement. I feel like I need to follow up with some resolution floss, just to make certain that no unwanted cavities of worry and disappointment rot between my teeth.

Maybe it isn't a resolution or two I am itching for. . maybe it's soup. Soup can be creamy, acidic, spicy, chunky, salty, bland, hearty, silky, sweet. My senior thesis will be creamy, with writing as smooth and flavorful as clam chowder. My sweetie will continue to fill me with more joy than I can possibly find the words to express--certainly, I have a hearty love stewing with complexity and layered gratitude. My graduation will be sweet, like chilled cucumber soup, with a good glugof celebratory champagne for good measure. My future plans, though, are confusing to my mind's palate. Too salty with frustrated tears? Too acidic with biting, puckered expectations? Spicy with curried anticipation and new opportunities?

Yeah. Curried future. It's colorful, spicy, different and lovely. You have to strike a tender balance between the thick, cloying coconut milk and the aromatic, motley crew of colored spices. I, too, have to find a balance between fear and the unknown and excitement and expectation. I think I find balance in this soup, let's hope I can find balance in my future.

Curried Coconut Vegetable Soup

1 cup rice, grain mix, quinoa etc..

1 medium onion, chopped

1 buncha greens (I used chard, I believe), rinsed and ripped into an edible size

A couple of carrots, peeled and chopped into thin medallions

2 ears of corn (if in season), or 1 cup of frozen corn*

A spoonful of minced garlic

1 tablespoon curry paste

3/4 cup vegetable broth

1 can coconut milk

Salt, pepper, cayenne, cumin, any other seasoning you fancy to taste

*I have only made this using fresh corn, never frozen. I liked the sweetness and the slight crunch paired with the spicy broth. I can't guarantee frozen corn won't be too chewy, or reminiscent of the microwaveable yellow side dish next to the brownie in Kid Cuisines.

Cook your grain of choice and set aside to fluff and cool.

Saute the onion in olive oil (or ghee if you are feeling wild) until translucent in your favorite saucepan, burner set to medium. Add the greens, carrots, corn and garlic and saute for just about 30 seconds. Add the curry paste and saute until the veggies are coated and your knees are buckling with the intoxicating smell.

Pour the broth and coconut milk over the veggie mixture and stir to combine. Add seasonings according to your master chef palate. Turn your heat to low, and let simmer until the carrots are tender. When you are plucking carrots out of the pot and chewing away at their velvety texture, stir in your grain of choice and take the pot off the heat.

Serve with cardamom iced coffee to sip and balance the heat of the soup. For dessert? Some Etsy window shopping for your imagined future apartment, finished with a flourish of graduate school essay writing.

Just beet it

If Mother Earth had a favorite food, I think it would be beets. Deeply maroon spheres with wispy tails and wild bushy green hair, beets look like they have a story to tell. Their guts are firm and range in color from blood red to light pink and yellow spirals. Their taste is organically earthy--like the sopping wet loam you find hidden underneath blankets of thick moss. They are shy creatures, though, as they rarely make an appearance in standard fare. Only the most adventurous, Earth-loving people wrangle beets on a regular basis.

Before receiving a bundle of these little critters in my CSA box, I had never tried them. A shame, really. I have Meadville to thank for a lot of things, I suppose. For the last two years I scoffed at the suckers who had to spend their summers bogged down in Meadville. I was certain that a summer vacation in Meadville would be lonely and stale. Boring. Beige. I pictured a sad, empty town complete with tumbleweeds and ill-fitting tank tops. This summer has been living, breathing vibrancy. A slurry of late nights with summertime friends. Laughing with the local bakers and coffee-shop owners. Picnics and iced coffee in the bleachingly hot Meadville sun. New music pumping life into the walls of our creaky, ancient apartment. Plucking young vegetables from the Environmental Science

departments experimental garden. Big, bright flavors dancing out of our tiny kitchen. One of the boldest and sunniest treats to march out of our kitchen was beet pizza. With beautiful local beets and spicy pepper jack cheese, this is a slice of Meadville summer. A wedge of a more independent, brave, Earth-wrangling and friend-making Crumb Bum.

(As it turns out, pizza is ridiculously easy to make at home. Seriously. Do it. )

Spicy Beet Pizza

Serves 2-4

Crust from Smitten Kitchen, the rest from the mind of Bum.

For the crust:

1 1/2 cups flour (I used whole wheat*)
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon active dry yeast
1/2 cup lukewarm water (you may need up to 2 Tbs. more)
1 tablespoon olive oil

For the sauce**:

A few of your favorite tomatoes

A sprinkling of brown sugar

Some fresh basil (preferably plucked from your college's garden while skipping home at 2:00 am after a particularly good 4th of July party)

Salt n' pepper

For the toppings:

3 large beets (the greens, too!)

1 medium onion

Your favorite amount of pepper jack cheese

Make the crust:

Combine flour and salt. Dissolve your yeast in 1/2 cup lukewarm water. Add the yeasty mix and

oil to the dry ingredients. Stir all ingredients together into the best dough ball you can muster. Flip ball out onto a lightly floured surface, kneed daintily, and form into a ball. Oil the bowl you just used to mix the dough. Return the dough to the newly oiled bowl and cover lightly with plastic wrap. Let it nap for 1-2 hours, or until it is doubled in size.

When the dough is thoroughly rested, flip it out onto a lightly floured flat surface (I use a cutting board, as my counter is dappled with mysterious sticky spots). Gently press the air out of the dough, and let it be for another 20-30 minutes.

While you're waiting, preheat your oven to its top temperature and...

Make the sauce and toppings:

For the sauce: Cut your tomatoes in half (if you are using cute little plum tomatoes, leave them whole). Sprinkle with salt, pepper, and brown sugar. Throw them into the oven for about 15 minutes, or until soft enough to squish.

While the tomatoes are roasting...

Chop the toppings: Peel the beets and slice into thin medallions. Take the bitter veins out of the greens, and rip the leaves into bite-size pieces. Slice the onions thinly. Shred your cheese. Set all topping aside. That was easy!

The tomatoes are starting to smell sweet and lovely...

Return of the sauce: Take the tomatoes out of the oven and slide them into a medium bowl. Take a fork or whisk, and blend until mostly smooth (I like mine chunky). If you prefer yours to be velvety smooth feel free to use a blender at this point). Stir in ribbons of basil.

Assemble your pizza:

Make sure your surface is still dusted with flour. Roll out your pizza dough to your desired thickness. Slip the circle (or in my case, wobbly oval) onto the baking sheet you used to roast your tomatoes. Adorn your crust with your sauce and veggies. Practice your Feng Shui, and arrange your topping harmoniously. Sprinkle cheese over top of everything, taking care to make sure your greens are mostly covered (they may burn if there is no tasty milk fat to protect them). Pop your pizza into the oven for about 10 minutes, or until the cheese begins to blister. Don't turn that dial, or the pizza may cook unevenly. When the unbearably delicious fragrance drives you to jump in the oven with your pizza, remove the pan and allow it to cool as best you can (my impatience usually trumps the safety of my taste buds at this point). Cut into uneven slices, and serve with red wine (preferably the kind with a cute goat on the label).

Showin' how funky and strong is your fight

It doesn't matter who's wrong or right
Just beet it, beet it. .

*Some will say that all purpose is the way to go, but I say nay! Use whatever flour you like. Spelt, quinoa, rice. . it's all gravy.

**You can use any sauce you like, really. You can even leave your pizza mostly naked (just drizzle some olive oil on the crust)!

Take another little piece of my scone now, baby..

These sour cherry oatmeal scones are the Janis Joplins of the treat world. If they had vocal chords, their voices would sail until they were horse--serenading your taste buds until your last bite. Their silvery pitch of sweetness is punctuated by a rustically raspy oatmeal crumb. These scones have deep soul, man.

Their look is delicately decorated, but the headstrong flavor of the sour cherry slams through the lace exterior with wild thrust.Their bluesy bite and folksy texture is unlike anything you've ever tasted before. A synchronized synthesis of soft and hard. Sensual and lonely. Wild and reserved. These scones' dynamic flavor swings and swoons with your mood, saying just what you need to hear. And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I’ve had enough,

But I’m gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough.

Bullied by the bourgeois cream scones, these scones perfected unconventional attitude. They find solace in the Lead Bellys (sourdough pancakes) and Bessie Smiths (persimmon pudding) of the treat world. These scones howl for social justice and peace, aching to be consumed by any and all people. Believe in your brother, have faith in man, help each other, honey, if you can.

They will kick and scream for your love and memory. Once you bite into this scone, you will promise to never forget their aching beauty.

Sour cherry oatmeal scones

[Makes 8 hearty scones]

Adapted from my mom's old PTA cookbook

1 cup whole wheat flour

3 Tbs. dark brown sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. ground cinnamon

1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/3 cup cold butter, cubed
1 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup dried sour cherries
2 eggs
2 Tbs. milk (I used whole)

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.

Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Cut in cold butter* until the butter resembles little peas. Toss in oats and cherries and mix to get them mingling. In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs and milk. Add the milky mixture to your dry mixture. Stir gingerly, until combined.

On lightly floured surface, pat the dough into a roughly seven inch circle. Cut into 8 wedges--if you find your knife sticking to the dough, just give it a dip into some flour before continuing to cut. Place wedges on ungreased baking sheet. (Insert egg/milk wash here if you are feeling particularly fancy today). Bake your wedges in a 400 degree oven for about 10 to 12 minutes. They are done when they are lightly golden around the edges.

*If (like me) you don't have a food processor or pastry blender, use your hands for this step. 'But what about using two knives?!" you say? I can't get the hang of it. If you like that clean route, take it. I'm gonna get my hands dirty. For tips on using your hands to cut butter into flour, I recommend this page: http://www.bonappetit.com/tipstools/tips/2008/04/how_to_rub_butter_into_flour.

Enjoy with coffee or tea (or Joplin's favorite: Southern Comfort). Spread peace and love (or butter). Eat while listening to "Ball and Chain".

I mean, if you gotta' care for one day, man.

I don't mean, if you, say maybe you wanna' care for 365 days, right? You ain't
got 365 days. You got it for one day, man...

That's a crunchy tune, man.

Note: This post is dedicated to a Ms. Stanko, who needed a crunchy recipe in her life.

I love crunch. It has texture. It has sound. It talks back. It strums to the beat of your jaw. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. You can swing your hips to it. Tasty music.

Maybe I prefer to crunch because I hate tasting silence. My limbs fly every which way and my legs go all wobbly. I fight silence with the power of giggles and cheeks full of blush.

Example:

My partner and I went to a lovely little bakery with the promise of free day-old artisan bread and biscotti. The young lady working behind the counter was perfectly nice, if a little hesitant. I'm probably intimidating. I'm normally a friendly person. Certainly polite.

But it seems everywhere I go a thick, clumsy fog nips at my heels. My normally articulate conversation devolved into babbles and grunts, and I did this odd shuffle/spin/shuffle combination when it was my turn to order. Then it was the cash register. Why is that when I had to pay for my goodie [I chose chocolate biscotti], I went limp and radiated a ruddy pink? I think it is the horrible silence that fell over the counter. The silence that stood between me and my dunk-able dessert. The silence of invisible information channels approving my out-of-state debit card. The silence of the cashier calculating the slim tip I gave her. The silence of wanting something extra. I barely remember the "Have a lovely day!" I wished the cashier, as I shuffled/spun/shuffled away from the counter so quickly I nearly tripped over the clumsy fog that followed me in.

The fog dissipated as soon as I lifted the biscotti to my lips and crunched through its buttery core. Crunch crunch crunch. I can breathe. Crunch. My cheeks cooled, though they remained a light pink (as they always do). Crunch. The sound of wanting something extra. Crunch. An extra I can hear. Crunch. A want I can swing my hips to.

Should you so desire a crunchy conversation with your food, I am here to share the crunchiest recipe I have. I'm talking Funkadelic crunchy. The kind of crunchy that makes you want to drop out of college to buy new Birkentocks and learn how to play bass guitar. If you enjoy the liberating crunch as much as I do, you will find this granola delectable.

Cherry-almond granola

Adapted from Everybody Likes Sandwiches

[Makes enough to fill the better part of a Ziploc freezer bag]

2 cups rolled oats
1 tsp cinnamon
pinch of nutmeg
1/4 tsp salt
3 Tbs oil (I used Safflower)
1/4 cup honey, warmed slightly
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
3/4 cup whole almonds (any nut will do)
2/3 cup dried cherries

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, toss oats with cinnamon, nutmeg and salt. In a separate bowl, whisk together the oil, honey, brown sugar and vanilla until they are one. Pour the honeyed mixture into the oat mixture and use your hands to combine the two until everything is mingling and gooey. Don't forget to rise your hands before you go on to the next steps (as I did).

Cover a baking sheet with parchment paper and pour the mixture over top. Spread evenly. Bake for 5 minutes. Open the oven and use a spatula or a wooden spoon to stir your granola. Before sliding the pan back into the oven, sprinkle the cherries and almonds over the granola. Resist urge to eat scalding hot granola. Bake another 5 to 8 minutes, or until golden brown and fragrant. Really trust your nose during the second round of baking, as I have lost many a batch of granola to stringently suggested baking times.

When your nose has told you it's done, remove the baking sheet from the oven and let the granola cool completely. I like to eat my granola with yogurt and blueberries, as a proper Washington State 'hippie' is wont to do. Store in an airtight container and enjoy when you need some texture and crunch in your life.

The Green Eyed Monster Soup

I've been thinking a lot about envy lately. My skin has been crawling with it. I'm not talking about the sidelong glance you give you barista's cute haircut while you think "God. I could never pull that off. No cheeks.. Unruly eyebrows.." I'm not dealing with Cosmo-induced social comparison envy. I'm unpacking my creativity envy. It's a big piece of baggage. The kind you put on the special belt at the airport.

You see, I surround myself with people who ooze creativity. They write and paint and think and live with a voice. The type of voice you can pick out of a crowd (make that a mob... an angry mob). You see them and you know they have colorful souls. Their vibrancy brightens up my everyday. The problem? Sometimes their color makes me feel dull. Overcast with a chance of gray. I'm not the 'writer' or the 'artist' or the 'musician'. I'm the one who likes to read, but struggles to write. The one who likes classic rock, but can barely play the first few notes of "Stand By Me" on my guitar. The one who ___, but ___. Promising, but unbearably plain. Like hospital cafeteria soup. It smells lovely, but as soon as glides over your tongue the wonderful smell is deadened by a flavor of tap water and canned carrots.

I walked around all last week feeling like a big batch of watery soup. While wallowing in my soupy self-pity, I made soup (go figure). But this soup wasn't dull. It was spicy. It was creamy. It had a voice. Could it have been my voice bubbling up through the quiet undertone of cayenne and crisp note of lemon?

You will have to make this soup for yourself and listen for my voice. I hope you can hear it.

This soup recipe will make other soups envious. The once mighty tomato cheddar’s creamy attitude will quiver. The smug chicken noodle will shed extra salty tears. But this soup won’t brag about its beauty. It’s far too humble to boast. Instead, it will give Tomato Cheddar a hug and tell them they are lovely just the way they are. It will wink at Chicken Noodle, and maybe even bake them some chocolate chip cookies.

This soup really is a sweetie. It is very simple, and easy to adapt to your pantry (or, if you are a college student like me, your makeshift food shelf made out of particle board). The ingredient list isn't miles long. You won’t end up halfway through cooking this soup, just to realize you don’t have the jewel-encrusted peppercorns and ancient plum paste to finish it off. The ingredients can change with the seasons--both Mother Earth's and your own. Feeling particularly carnivorous today? Throw some ham into the mix! A vegan afternoon? Forget the milk!

You can serve this any way you please. This soup isn't picky. It wants you to relax and enjoy your meal. It won’t judge you for licking that splatter of soup off your forearm. It will make you breathe deeply and be thankful for your taste buds.

Spicy broccoli and spinach soup

Adapted from Joy the Baker

[Will serve about 2 people a heapin’ helpin’]

A splash of olive oil

½ of an onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped/mashed/or otherwise squished

Bunch-a broccoli cut into small florets (about 2 cups)

1 tsp cumin

¼ tsp cayenne (if you’re especially fiery today, feel free to ratchet up this measurement)

1 ½ cups of your favorite stock, or water

1 ½ - 2 cups spinach (or arugala, or kale, or even that bag of organic spring mix sitting at the bottom of your crisper…)

1/3 cup milk (I used 2%)

Fresh squeeze of lemon

Salt n’ pepper to taste

Sauté the onion over medium heat until translucent (I happened to get some turnips and snap peas in my CSA box this week, so I threw them in the pan at this step). Add the garlic, and swirl the contents of the pan around for about 2 minutes, or until fragrant. Toss in the broccoli and cook until it is a bright beautiful green, about 5-7 minutes.

Season with cumin and cayenne (or whatever spices you please) and add broth to the pan. Cover and reduce heat. Simmer until broccoli is tender and irresistible. Kill the burner.

Here is the fun part—we are going to blend this soup into submission. Add about half of the soup to a blender. Throw in about half of the spinach half of the milk. Blend until smooth. Repeat with remaining soup, spinach and milk.

Throw the soup back over low heat, and if you think it needs more spice lovin', go for it. Squeeze some fresh lemon juice over the pot just before serving (and if you're me, fish out the seeds that squirted into the pot).

Serve as is, or with a dollop of sour cream.

Contentedly gobble your green soup.