Yes (!)

Andrei proposed last Sunday, and I said yes. It really does call for an exclamation point, which is normally used judiciously around here. But I think we can make an exception this time, so let's try it again.

I said yes!




What else can I say except that I'm blissfully happy with the lot life has handed me. Especially since that lot currently involves rhubarb (and obvs the aforementioned engagement). Since an engagement can last half a year and rhubarb season a brief month, I made a tart from Florence Fabricant's New York Times Dessert Cookbook, which also contains wickedly good boozy cakes that have proven to be great conversation starters at office parties.





As is true with relationships, jobs, and even tarts--nothing happens overnight and the things that are really worth the effort certainly take more of it than we sometimes thought ourselves capable of. But then we find ourselves capable and are reminded of the strength in ourselves and others.

Our Tea Time

I don't have a recipe for these cookies that I made with Andrei's mom in Belarus, as I was too busy deciphering Russian--trying to decide if she was talking about child-rearing or a visit to the dentist. Nonetheless, they were delicious and gave us a reason to tinker in the kitchen together. What I can say is that they contain flour, margarine (I think?), a pinch of salt, and tvorg (Russian cottage cheese). They're light and tasty, especially with tea and a bit of jam.

I wasn't having tea with the Queen, but I was having tea with a woman who comes from a line of Russian aristocracy, and who gave Andrei and I two silver spoons for our apartment--with strict orders to use them every day because "every day is a celebration."

These cookies are the perfect thing to have with this sort of woman, while she tells you why "we" is the best word, why a woman needs to take good care of herself first before she can take good care of her family, and why Jackie O. is her favorite American. A pair of gloves she gave me (roughly this color) sealed the deal. This is a start to a long (and colorful!) friendship.




So here's to Belarus--its thick dairy, bountiful sunflowers, gentle sunlight, and for being a place to look forward to visiting often.

From (Bela)Russia With Love

After many sleepless hours and declining several glasses (5!) of complimentary wine on our Luftansa flight, we arrived to Belarus--only a train ride away from finally laying our heads down in a room that one of us called home. And a flower from a father who was awaiting our arrival.




Belarus won't be found on the list of the world's top places to visit, but it's truly a charming city in its own regard. A best-kept secret as I like to think of it. Oddly bright-colored houses dotting the countryside, old babushkas that give a long cold stare before it melts into a warm smile, Soviet-style buildings that demand attention, stern taxi drivers that listen to Eurotrash and probably don't give correct change but nobody cares, and of course the many various delicacies of the table.




My boyfriend's father grew up in a small village outside of Brest and is a master of all things pickled, fermented, forraged, and homemade. One of these gems I can't believe it took flying across the world to learn. It's called compote. It's dead simple and incredibly tasty--qualities that are reflective of almost anything you'll find on the Eastern European table. Compote, in essence, is homemade juice made from boiled apples and whatever spices or sweeteners you'd like.




Make sure the apples are sliced thinly (fresh or dehydrated), pour in the desired amount of water (less for a stronger flavor), give the mixture a squeeze of lemon and drop in any spices or herbs you'd like--maybe cloves, anise, or even thyme. Boil gently until the flavor is to your liking and keep the apples in the mixture while you store it. The flavor only gets better. You can drink this hot or cold, before or after a meal. Sweeten to taste with honey or sugar. Here, they usually drink it after a meal, in-lieu of tea or coffee in the middle of the day.

Compote barely scratches the surface of all that I've experienced and learned so far--like 'Russian Wassabi', pelmini, marinated mushrooms, pickled cabbage, poppy seed cheesecake, halvah, golden-yolked eggs, and not to mention the Cuban treats (honey, guavas, or rum, anyone?) that my boyfriend's mother brought back with her from a recent trip. But I'll leave all this for another time, until then-- "Dasvedanya"!

Buckwheat Loves Chocolate

In honor of our upcoming trip to Belarus (i.e. Meeting The Boyfriend's Family For The First Time) my attention for all-things baking has centered around buckwheat. (Eastern Europeans eat buckwheat like Americans eat Cheerios.) If there's one book on my shelf that saves the day when a random sack of flour (buckwheat, teff, spelt) is found in the cupboard, its Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain. And she had just the thing - Chocolate Buckwheat Muffins.




Boyce's recipe actually calls for persimmons, but that is not in on the regular rotation of our fruit bowl, so it got left out of the fun. The muffins were delicious nonetheless. Every time a baking recipe works out for me, I have to say I'm a bit shocked. I'm not a baker by nature. I like to improvise, I'm okay with ambiguity, and I can be found to have little patience in the kitchen. But my ever-piqued curiosity wouldn't let me take another pass at the bag of buckwheat without giving this recipe a shot.

And I'm telling you, buckwheat loves chocolate. Both are sweet yet bitter, and something about the depth of the chocolate made buckwheat immensely interesting, giving it almost a nutty quality.

Now that I know how nicely these once-miscellaneous bags of random flours play with the more extolled items in my larder, I'll be grabbing for them more often. (Recipe can be found here.)

It's Quite Something

When it comes to winter, I'm torn. On one hand it's an excuse to stay in on the weekends and work my way through this behemoth, revisit music from college, cook next week's dinners, and go on an occasional drive when the sun eventually shines its face.

On the other hand, it means the vegetable scene is a bit grim. Which is why, during these months, soup is the mainstay of this apartment.




That we have beans and legumes to sustain us during these barren months, I will forever be grateful. Red lentil soup with lemons is reminiscent of tomatoes; green lentil soup with bacon could pass as, well, green lentil soup with bacon. (I tried.) And then there's the split pea family - yellow and green. God bless them. They could almost get by being called a vegetable.

To say that the only good thing these months offer is pea soup would be a grave disservice to this most-peaceful of seasons. Despite the complaints above, I couldn't get on without this rest. It's quiet, and I like that.

As our ever-changing landscape of technology can be noisy and distracting, quietness is a great ally for me. In last week's New Yorker, Adam Gopnik wrote an essay reviewing books about how technology is changing us. Although this topic has been written about ad nauseum, Gopnik hit it spot on when he said, "Once it [technology] is not everything, it can be merely something."

The latter part is how I feel about winter's limited food selection. It's no bounty, but it's certainly quite something in its quietness.




Yellow Split Pea Soup with Frankfurters
From 'The Book of Jewish Food'

This is the next soup recipe on my list, found in Claudia Roden's Book of Jewish Food. Although I'm as WASP-y is they come and Jewish food isn't a regular occurrence around here (but it soon may be), I simply love that this recipe gives hot dogs an air of class.

Roden suggests butter beans or red lentils could also be used here. Also, consider halving the recipe. (It serves 10.) I like split peas, but everything has its limits.

Ingredients
1 large onion, chopped
2 carrots, sliced
3 Tbs light vegetable oil
1 lb. yellow split peas, soaked overnight
13 cups chicken or beef stock (or 2 bouillon cubes)
A bunch of celery leaves, chopped
Salt and pepper
2 bay leaves
3/4 lb. skinless frankfurters or wurst sausages, sliced
Juice of 1/2 lemon or more to taste

Instructions
In a large pan, gently fry the onion and carrots in the oil till they soften. Add the drained yellow peas and about 2/3 of the stock and bring to a boil. Remove the 'scum', add the celery leaves, and simmer, covered on very low heat for about 1 hour, or until the peas are soft. Liquefy the soup in a blender or food processor and return it to the pan.

Add salt and pepper, the bay leaves, and the rest of the stock-the amount depends on the consistency that you prefer. (Author's Note: The reason for adding it at this stage is to make blending easier with less liquid.) Cook 1/2 hour longer. Add the sausages and lemon juice, and a little water if necessary, and cook a few minutes more. Serve very hot.

Lemon Love

If I had it my way, it wouldn't be lemonade that one supposedly should make when life hands them lemons, but lemon curd.




Luckily, the only lemons in my life are these beautiful golden jewels below, which are like globes of sunshine in this tiny apartment. The thing about lemon curd is that it isn't too much of any single sensation (tart, sweet, rich, light), but is the quiet sum of them all. I like to call it 'Lemon Love'. The other thing it has against lemonade is that it's spreadable, and who doesn't love slathering a layer of a delicious-anything over buttered toast in these chilly months?




This curd's uses are endless: spread on toast, top a pancake, layer a cake, dollop on ice cream, stir into yogurt. Heck, I've even stirred it into Earl Grey tea to both sweeten the tea and give it a kick of lemon. Why not?

This recipe is actually adapted from a lime curd recipe, and I substituted the lime juice for the same amount of lemon juice. Also, vanilla was a last-minute addition to warm up the flavor.

It must be noted that the cookbook this recipe came from, Nigella Lawson's 'How to be a Domestic Goddess', is divine. As with many of Lawson's books, its pages are filled with wit, luscious photography, and style - the type of cookbook that easily passes for bedtime reading. Tea, toast, and lemon curd are sometimes required.

Lemon Curd
Adapted from 'How to Be A Domestic Goddess'

Ingredients
6 Tbs unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup lemon juice (about 4 lemons)
1 tsp vanilla, optional
zest of 1 lemon

Instructions
Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan, add all the other ingredients and whisk to a custard over a gentle heat. Let cool before filling a jar - or a cake - with it. Keep it in the refrigerator. Makes about 1 3/4 cups.

Staying In

The combination of spattering rain, laundry begging to be done, holiday travel packing needing to be planned, and the acquisition of a new cookbook all leave me with no choice but to do one thing on the weekend - stay in.



That, and we've had some beautiful breads grace our kitchen lately. What more does one need? (Butter, yes - but that's a given.) So that's what we did this weekend. And by 'we' I mean 'I', although I had my partner by me, cleaning and tasting all the while.

The Europhile in me cannot get enough of Nigella Lawson's cookbooks lately (note the new purchase above) and this Brit has been inspiring me left and right. She's got an arms-wide-open approach to both cooking and life that I just love. See her for yourself.

So, here's to good bread and being inspired. Hope you all have a great Holiday.