Half-Failed Experiment

I've recently become intrigued with finding substitutes for eggs in baking.  This curiosity has been piqued by two factors: guilt and money. The guilt stems from reading The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. It's a great book that changed the way I see food, and also made me feel horrible for layer hens that are trapped in cages.  I won't go into the details of why I feel so bad for them, but I feel really bad for them. I am fine eating regular eggs that someone else buys, and I manage quite easily to not think about the chickens. But when I am shopping and I get the normal eggs in the cart, I am permeated by guilt as I inevitably envision what I read about in that book. And suddenly the normal cheap eggs seem like they actually cost an awful lot.

So now we get cage-free eggs, most often through our CSA, which leads us to factor two: the money. Cage-free eggs cost more. Kind of a lot more. As a result, I prefer to eat them as eggs rather than use them as, say, binding/leavening in a quick bread.  I pretend I get more out of them this way. (These eggs are easier to separate, and the colors of the yolks change based on the diet of the chickens! Fascinating!) When I read The Hobbit in the eighth grade, I had no idea how right Bilbo really was in that riddle competition. Inside an egg is golden treasure - expensive golden treasure - that goes into my baked goods.  I think of this and cringe every time I crack an egg into a mixing bowl.      

I started researching egg substitutes, hoping that the vegan baking trend could give me some guidance. I came upon ground flax seed. Mixed with water, it makes a good substitute, I read. And so healthy too, I thought, all those Omegas, even though I have no idea what Omegas do. So I tried it in banana bread. Oh my, success! So I tried it in brownies. Epic failure!

Well, half an epic failure. They were absolutely delicious! But they were rock solid. Let me reiterate: Rock. Solid. Steve and I could tell something was amiss with the brownies when they were molten after thirty minutes of baking and refused to set until forty-five minutes in the oven. Before we realized the magnitude of the disaster, we took the brownies over to Kaylen and Pete's apartment to share with some friends enjoying a game night.

I slid a knife into the brownies and they cracked. Yikes. Steve explained the situation and, lo and behold, a couple there had recently tried the same experiment.  Their brownies were of the molten chocolate disaster persuasion, they explained. Hm, I thought as I gnawed on a brownie that could have been used as liner for a bulletproof vest. What went wrong?

I decided I had no idea. This is why I am a musician and not a scientist.

Pretzels and A Fond Farewell

If the word "pretzel makes you think of the adjectives "dry," "crunchy," or "healthy," you have never been wooed by the homemade pretzel and rarebit at Dressel's Pub here in St. Louis.  Once you are subject to the charms of this butter* beauty, this fresh from the oven pillow of dough which is then dunked in a beer and cheese sauce, you will never (never, and I mean never) think of pretzels as something you buy in large plastic barrels from the grocery store.  The trouble is, when you go to Dressel's for a pretzel you're going to ask for a pint of beer, and while you're at it an entree or dessert since you visit the establishment less often than you like (but more often than you should).  A real-life, grown-up, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie scenario that results in quickly spending too much money in the name of the pretzel.  So what is a girl, The Mouse in this case I guess, supposed to do? Try to replicate the heavenly experience at home, of course. 
 

Steve researched and was in charge of the rarebit, which was a rousing success and proved itself on the first try.  The pretzels were good, not great. But encouraging enough to try it again for some friends, perhaps partially because I loved shaping the dough so much.  The second attempt yielded slight improvement, but I really have to say the third time was the charm.

The secret? Kneading the dough in the KitchenAid. For months, the KitchenAid laid dormant in the cupboard as I insisted on doing almost everything in the kitchen by hand, even though it took extra time. After a convincing argument from a bread book I had out from the library, I decided to give the KitchenAid a try...and I don't think I will ever knead bread by hand ever again. The dough came out beautifully and was better incorporated than I ever thought possible in a homemade bread. As a result, the pretzels came out perfect: a crispy, golden exterior, and a light, fluffy, almost cloud-like interior.  Between the risings and the restings and boiling the shaped dough prior to baking, making pretzels takes a long time.  In my book though, it's totally worth it, because we now have a freezer full of pretzels for later consumption. Um, yum.

Let's pause for a moment of silence and bid farewell to our good technique of hand kneading bread dough.  It was good to us, but in the end, was too fickle a mistress for us to settle down and marry.    

*I just realized that I use "buttery" very frequently when describing the positive attributes of foods I enjoy. I am unsure what this says about me or the health of my heart.

I'll Be Baklava

Everything I have read about phyllo dough goes something like this:

"I was really scared, but this was easy!"

"I've heard it's hard to work with, but I didn't have a problem."

"The thought of using it filled my gut with dread and left me quivering in a corner for several hours before I mustered the courage to begin, but it wasn't too bad."

Phyllo dough, the bully, causes panic in the streets and strikes terror into kitchens across the world.  Shame on you phyllo!  These people just want to enjoy a nice slice of baklava. Yet, by all accounts, phyllo was all bark and no bite. I chose to journey on, deciding that phyllo just must be misunderstood.  If I gave phyllo a chance, we could develop a good working relationship!  Plus, I really wanted to enjoy a nice slice of baklava. 

Phyllo dough and I became such good friends that together we made baklava and spanakopita.  Working with it was part cookery and part paper mâché, part delicacy and part speed.  In short, I loved it.  It was easiest to move the sheets draped over the backs of my hands.  Then a quick brush with butter (or oil, for the spanakopita), and on to the next layer.  Repeat, repeat, repeat... When it tore, I kept going, because phyllo is good at keeping that sort of thing secret. Then the nut filling, then layers, then filling again, then layers. I cut a diamond shaped pattern just through the top layers, baked the baklava, and poured a sugar and honey sauce over immediately after it came out of the oven. 

It was sweet, savory, crispy, buttery, almost caramel-y, and generally delightful.  I am sorry, phyllo dough, for ever doubting you!

  

A Monthly Obsession

Can we talk for a sec about the magazine Bon Appétit? It is a monthly treat delivered to my house that I enjoy with great relish.


I am hooked by a mere glance at the cover. Questions and exclamations tear through my mind with ferocious speed, often unchecked by reason or logic. What is the $5 secret ingredient?!? - If we don't have it I will find it - Meatballs?!? I LOVE MEATBALLS! - What? No, I don't - A vegetarian feast? - Behold recipes for my friends! - What is goulash? - I NEED TO MAKE AN ALL-AMERICAN PIE IMMEDIATELY!

Every month.

I salivate as I turn the glossy pages with Steve, who enjoys browsing BA nearly as much as I do. It has been the source of a few decidedly epic recipes. This pizza dough, for example, and how did I live before I had tasted scalloped potatoes and fennel?

My very stylish aunt, who is an incredible chef, almost unknowingly bestowed this obsession when she gave me a cookbook along with with a year's subscription to the magazine.  Steve and I weren't trained chefs but, under the watchful eye of BA, we elevated our cooking to a new level of deliciousness.  We tried out more adventurous dishes.  We became fearless as we learned to view recipes as inspiration rather than verbatim. And though we were buying higher quality ingredients, we were saving money by not chronically dining out. 

So Bon Appétit has been, I daresay, life changing. From its pages I took on a completely new culinary attitude.  I have control over every element that goes into a dish. Incredible food can come from my kitchen. Culinary magic ensues.