Having established that I like scones, let me reveal that we have tried to make scones before. But that recipe was a low-fat scone recipe, and it, sadly, tasted like it. So we decided to try to make some full-fat scones. Our task was challenging, since we were trying to match the taste in our minds, and that taste was crafted by a real, honest chef – and a French one, at that. So we tried two recipes, one making larger and one making smaller scones.

The most interesting part of this cooking adventure was cutting in the butter. We decided to try a different technique (new to us, but an old one, actually): “rubbing in” the butter with fingertips, rather than using the multi-bladed cutter. Turns out, it’s easier! Whoopee! (I’ve always hated cutting in butter.)

Obviously, these are not good-for-you recipes. But we were going for full flavor, not dieting. The larger scones turned out an odd bluish color – because the tea we used in the recipe was bright red. (No, I don’t know why it worked that way, but the bright red tea made the dough blue-purple.) Hot, these were a bit too light and cakey for scones.

The smaller scones would have been very good, we think – but I’m pretty sure I only put in half the baking powder and half the salt. The prior error kept them from rising, making them into little air-hockey pucks; the latter error meant that tastes weren’t “brought out” fully. The dough of these smaller ones was excellent, and they had the right “scone taste” and texture when fresh. The next-morning test, though, was interesting: the larger ones weren’t as light/cakey but were still quite good, while the smaller ones were a bit too dry (that may have something to do with how they were stored, though).

Anyway, we decided that the smaller-scone recipe is absolutely worth making again – especially to make sure we get the leavening and salt right!

‘Course we still won’t be giving any to our British friends . . .

Our adventure into cooking Jamaican patties was just that – an adventure.  As we’re wont to do, we mixed recipes.  The original plan was to use one.  Early on we discovered that the dough recipe wasn’t going to make as many as it claimed, so I decided to try another dough recipe as well, one that added seasonings to the dough (and, therefore, flavor).  The first dough was perhaps a little more difficult in the rolling-out, cutting, etc., but it was certainly of better texture (albeit a tasteless texture) than the mealy second one.  Our recipe verdict was to keep the first dough but add the curry and other seasonings from the second one. 

The meat filling was yummy  – and so healthy, as was the entire dish.  Butter and shortening are definitely health foods, right?  Adding a little more habañero to the recipe helps burn off the fat . . . or something like that. And actually, a bit more habañero would be good – a bit too mild as is. 

To complete the meal, I decided (during the cooking process – last-minute decisions are so much fun!) to whip up a batch of
Caribbean rice and peas (in this case, peas are beans). Delicious! 

So . . . crank up the music (or bang on pots and pans) and fix yourself up for a beautiful trip south!

I have a Kentucky grandma renowned (at least in my immediate family) for her gingerbread. Raising her ten children in poor circumstances, some of the time deep in a Kentucky holler, she could feed their bodies and warm their souls with homemade, slightly chewy, sweet-and-spicy gingerbread. I grew up hearing of this, and eating it, too: my father always wanted it when he visited his mother. Grandma’s gingerbread has proven impossible to reproduce, in part because grandma doesn’t exactly follow recipes for these things. You can watch her and try to copy her procedures, but. . . it’s just not the same.

I wanted, then, to try to capture grandma’s gingerbread. In beginning this quest, I chose two recipes for a taste comparison: Childhood Gingerbread with Molasses and Kentucky Gingerbread. The other chef, not so sure about recipes calling for this much molasses, kindly cooperated in the project. And the junior chef tried on a couple of occasions to get his little hands into some of the stuff, after spending some nervous time during the batter-beating process (the junior chef is rather sensitive to such noises).

The recipes are similar, but with interesting differences. Both produce very thin batters, and halfway through cooking (when the chefs generally turn things in the oven, to compensate for slightly uneven heating), both recipes look so soupy that one wonders if they’ll ever get done. And then the Childhood Gingerbread recipe has those strange cooking directions – start at 365°, then lower later. But both recipes produced beautiful, slightly gooey, fragrantly spicy, moist, delicious gingerbread!

In tasting them, both with and without whipped topping, the chefs were happy and satisfied. But neither recipe was “grandma’s gingerbread.” The Childhood Gingerbread with Molasses turned out to have quite a strong molasses taste and not as strong a ginger flavor. It was stronger in flavor overall, as well, and darker. Kentucky Gingerbread was closer to grandma’s, but it was too thick and light (cakey), while grandma’s gingerbread was thinner, about as deep as proper Southern cornbread. Grandma’s was also denser, a bit chewier, rather than cakey.

So perhaps the gingerbread quest will continue some time. But for now, the chefs have an excess of good (but not grandma good) gingerbread. I wonder who can eat some. . . .

And so our food this evening was yucky (no dessert for me).  We should give away the leftovers.  Or we should douse them in cheese sauce (the cure-all).  Maybe just drown them in more salsa.  The recipe should be discarded at a rapid pace.  Perhaps torn into little pieces and scattered on the waters.  

Okay, so the food looked all right.  We weren’t total failures in our cooking.  But, we are reminded that “beauty is only skin deep” (or phyllo-sheet deep, although phyllo won’t be winning any beauty pageants). 

We really don’t think it was our fault this time.  Things seemed to turn out according to the recipe.  It’s just that the chicken stuffin’ was bland, tasted bad, was yucky.  So, we had a good experience, shall we say. . . .

One chef pestered the other chef for days to choose a recipe. The chef decided to try something with phyllo dough, that mysterious, whispered-of-but-never-seen-raw-before ingredient of familiar Greek dishes such as baklava and spanakopita.

After some quality time online, the chef found a phyllo-requiring recipe, Spicy Chicken Phyllo Rolls (blah!  blah!).

Fortunately, the Meijer location the chefs visited did carry phyllo in the freezer section – but only one variety, so the chefs just hoped it would work. (The box insisted on calling it “Fillo,” with phyllo in parentheses and smaller letters. It was made in Cleveland. . .).

But the “Fillo” really seemed to be fine.  It was interesting to work with – drying out incredibly quickly, ripping easily, dissolving where water drops hit it.  Very precious stuff.  Don’t think we’ll be making our own phyllo anytime soon.

And so, we confess: we want more flavor!

My mother creates the most extraordinary dish of oatmeal that anyone could wish to discover.  The preparation is remarkably simple but obtains phenomenal results.  I requested her permission to share this sublime concoction.  It is as follows.

Pour the desired amount of Gerber oatmeal flakes into a plastic bowl.  Gradually add fresh milk, stirring continuously, until cereal reaches desired consistency.

Mama’s oatmeal is perfect for a nighttime snack.  Consider combining with fresh, pureed green peas to encourage healthy dining habits.

– Submitted by Junior Chef

The chefs started the operation early in the evening, given the long first rising and the second rising, and the early bedtime of the junior chef, who only oversees from a distance. Things were going well, although during the 10-minute kneading one chef exclaimed that raisins and currants kept popping out of the dough. And should the chef have added that much flour during kneading?

So, with the dough in its bowl for the first rising, the chefs set out to find some dinner they don’t have to cook.  (Note the devotion to cooking, as evidenced by this action.)  

Returning from dinner, a good bit later than the prescribed 1.5 rising time, the chefs removed the dough, kneading it into its two logs.

            Chef 1: How long is this supposed to be?

            Chef 2: Twelve inches.

            Chef 1: Shall we measure?

            Chef 2: Nah – as long as we cut it into 12 equal pieces, we should be okay.

Somehow the first log became about 15 pieces instead of 12. Whoops! But the chef didn’t count right away, simply started rolling the dough into balls and placing them on the baking sheet. Of course there were too many, and some were too small. So the chefs decided to merge a few.  This turned out to have an interesting effect, as after the next rising some of the buns ended up looking like two-buns-stuck-together-but-with-a-noticeable-crevice-between-them rather than one, proper-sized bun.  Ah well, just a guaranteed number to keep and not give away.

After the second rising and application of the egg-sugar glaze, into the oven they went! (A note about that glaze. The recipe calls for an egg to be beaten with superfine sugar. But who wants to buy a package of superfine sugar just for 3 tablespoons?  Understanding that superfine sugar is simply broken into smaller grains than normal sugar, the chefs decided just to use regular sugar. And this seemed to work, to their relief.)

It was the second pan, with all proper-sized buns this time, that saw the second crisis. One chef – yes, the same one who couldn’t count earlier – overapplied the egg glaze, causing it to run down and gather around the base of each bun. The chef had noticed on the previous pan that the glaze lent the buns a nice, brown surface, so the chef wanted the second pan to have a better browning, since this batch of buns looked better. Unfortunately, when baked, this excess glaze. . .well, not exactly burned, but definitely browned around the bottom (and on the bottom) of the second batch of buns.

As with Confession #1, then, everything was a bit messed up. Batch one had several freak-of-nature buns that appeared to consist of two opposing buns, in full-scale war trying to separate from one another. Batch two looked good on top but had a delightful(!) scorched-sugar-and-egg coating on the bottom.

Given the late hour and the junior chef’s bedtime needs, icing the buns waited until Saturday morning.  It’s amazing the mistakes you can hide by (1) carefully selecting the models for photography and (2) carefully positioning the buns to avoid showing certain overdone features . . .

Act I: Earlier in the Week

Chef 2: So, what are we making this week?

Chef 1: Dumplings, potstickers – whatever they’re called.

Chef 2: Do you have a recipe?

Chef 1: Alton Brown.

Chef 2: Hmmm. I like the authentic Asian ingredients – you know, ketchup, mustard, brown sugar. . . Chef 1: Hey, we don’t have to be authentic.  Just as long as they’re good. 

Chef 2: What about a dipping sauce? Do we need to make a dipping sauce?
Chef 1: (Duh!)  Potstickers aren’t worth anything without sauce!
Chef 2: Hmmm. The dipping sauce calls for white vinegar. White vinegar? Wouldn’t rice vinegar be more. . . Asian? I think rice vinegar would taste better, more authentic, you know?
Chef 1:  Uh . . . I guess. . . I don’t exactly go around drinking vinegar.  Is that what you’ve been doing recently?
Chef 2:  [says nothing, takes another sip]

Act II: Friday Evening

Chef 2: So, you’re in charge this week, right?

Chef 1: No.  We work together.

Chef 2: But wasn’t I in charge last week? Didn’t I start the bread dough?

Chef 1: Uh, no.  I just went and started it.   

Chef 2: Oh. Okay.

Chef 2: Is this enough green onion?
Chef 1: I think you should measure it.
Chef 2: What? You’re kidding!
Chef 1: [says nothing, hands over the cup measure]
Chef 2: Oh, all right.

Chef 1 gets out the wonton wrappers, covers them with a damp cloth. 

Chef 1: Well, are we ready?
Chef 2: I guess so. . . .

Chef 1 peels off a wonton wrapper or two; the chefs fill them. 

Chef 1: How do you fold them?

Chef 2: I dunno. I just squeeze ‘em together and fold ‘em around. . . .

Chef 1: Maybe ya just fold them down and leave them.

Chef 2: Like that?!?

Chef 1: Yeah!  You can do whatever.

Chef 2: Yours look kinda like something I’ve eaten.

Chef 2 begins to copy Chef 1 – they do look better that way. . . . 

Chef 1: Maybe we should just do one pan at a time.

Chef 2: Yeah, that’s probably safer.

The chefs put seven potstickers in the oiled pan for two minutes, then Chef 1 gently adds canned chicken stock, which sizzles and boils on contact. After there’s enough stock to surround the potstickers, Chef 1 covers the pan with a lid, lowers the heat and waits two minutes. The potstickers are uncovered, and Chef 1 removes them from the pan to an oven-safe plate. 

Chef 1: Want one?

Chef 2: Now? Are we eating them fresh?

Chef 1: Well, yeah!

Chef 2: Oh. Okay.

The chefs try a (hot) potsticker each. They’re pretty good! And the sauce is pretty good!

Act III: Later (43 Potstickers Later, to Be Precise)

Chef 1: I think I want to put cheese in the last few.

Chef 2: I was thinking the same thing!

Chef 1:  Small minds think alike.

The chefs put Monterrey Jack cheese in the final three wontons.

Chef 1: Uh-oh.
Chef 2 [from the other room]: What?
Chef 1: [says nothing]
Chef 2: What? What’s wrong?
Chef 1: Well, the cheese leaked.
Chef 2: Whoops!

Chef 1 [tasting the half-filled cheese wonton]: Hmmm. Interesting.
Chef 2: Not good?
Chef 1: Well, different.
Chef 2 [tasting cheese-filled wonton]: They’re good!
Chef 1: They’re chewy.
Chef 2: So what! They’re good!

The chefs sit down to eat a plate of potstickers, with accompaniments. 

Chef 2: Well, that was cool! Neat to make them. Good choice!
Chef 1: I’m just amazed we could actually do it.
Chef 2:  Yeah!  We didn’t burn them or put in wrong ingredients.

Chef 1: What are we making next week?
Chef 2: Not sure – I was thinking about that today.

A few minutes pass.

Chef 1: So, what are we making next week?
Chef 2: I don’t know yet!

A few minutes pass.

Chef 1: What did you say we’re making next week?
Chef 2: I don’t know! I haven’t decided yet!

Our first attempt at the pseudo-gourmet (rosemary focaccia bread) met with difficulty from the first. One of the cooking party wasn’t sure how to count to five. She thought maybe she’d arrived there with her cups of flour, but couldn’t remember for sure. Unfortunately, this flour was dumped into wet ingredients so couldn’t simply be re-measured. With five or six cups of flour, yeast, and whatever else at stake, the chefs decided to proceed with the possibly cabobbled batch, as well as make another – in case it was, indeed, messed up. If they both turned out fine, then the neighbors could enjoy abundantly the fruit of our labors. If not, at least we might end up with one good batch and one fit for the four-legged neighbor in the back yard. Of course, we didn’t count on the same absent-minded chef to use canola oil, instead of the prescribed olive oil, in the second for-sure-the-right-amount-of-flour batch. Woe is me!

Extended kneading by hand (’cause we’re behind the times in kitchen appliances), two hours of rising, finger-poking indentions in the top of the bread – all seemed to work okay, as far as we could guess from our instructions.

While one chef completed bedtime procedures for our infant son, the other chef monitored the bread’s progress in the oven. Amazingly, our son’s sleepiness wasn’t overcome by the clanging and scraping coming from the kitchen! We can wash the dishes tomorrow, okay? –Alas! The sounds weren’t dishes being washed. The bread was being scraped from the bottom of the pan! Lesson number whatever of the evening: olive oil should not be used to grease the pan.

The outcome: our two batches of bread ended up at about one, by the time you cut the. . . very dark, shall we say, bottom half off. The questionable-flour-amount recipe was heavy. The non-olive oil variety didn’t have the right focaccia taste. We managed to ruin all of our bread – I mean, other than what we happily gobbled up. . . with the bottom cut off.

Thankfully, it was the other chef who oiled the pans.