walnut, gorgonzola and caramelized onion pizza

I tried to come up with a more clever name for this amazing Monday night surprise, but knowing that few could resist such an alluring combination, decided to tempt away. I came home at 8 p.m.  to the fruits of Mark’s unlikely domestic day: fresh pizza dough and israeli couscous salad for tomorrow’s lunch. Not to mention the new 15$ box of wine sitting in my cupboard, happily plump.

Even when it comes to life’s finer things, sometimes I’m not afraid to admit to a cheap streak. Drinking wine with pizza on a cold and rainy Monday night would otherwise seem too indulgent. That’s the short story of how boxed wine became my best friend.

Let me walk you through this creation we’re just on the brink of perfecting. The first time we made it we used too few onions, and our blue cheese wasn’t blue enough. Add our too-toasty walnuts to the mix and we had ourselves a disappointment. But I wasn’t prepared to give up on such robust ingredients, waiting there as if to beg me to bring them to justice.

This time we ramped up the caramelized onions, spreading them thick and sweetly gooey over olive-oil brushed dough rounds. (Next time I’d do even more than the picture shows!)

Then we added the walnuts, in chunks big enough to be surprising but small enough to blend in. If you’ve never had nuts on a pizza, you’re in for a treat. Pine nuts could work well here, too.

After about 7 minutes in a firey hot oven, we dotted them with cubes of perfect gorgonzola, and placed them back in the oven 5 more minutes.

The result? A crisp, yet chewy pizza dough (we used this month’s Bon Appetit recipe because of its large, freezeable yield), teeming with flavors that almost seem to good to be hanging out together on a pizza. I almost felt guilty finishing mine, but then I remembered how stressed I am, and how food tends to make medium-sized sorrows turn to extra-large joys.

Even if for only 30 sweet, candle-lit minutes.

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Journey through the Book of Bread: II

Back in May I started a series to track my journey through The Bread Bible by Rose Levy Berenbaum. In that first post, I shared about this wonderful find and how I hoped it would be the end to a streak of bread failures. Now that I think about it they weren’t even all that terrible. But her loaves, goodness. Her loaves are worth whole afternoons. Her loaves will surely summon my heirloom tomatoes to finally redden and come home to their destiny in the revered TTS. (Toasted Tomato Sandwich, for those of you unfamiliar with my family’s tendency to abbreviate everything.)

The revelation that this book brought faded quickly with the arrival of summer, whose heat promptly bowled over all my wheaty aspirations. The flash of June left me running from an apartment that made me feel like a bun in the oven. Rose’s book went back to the library and onto my Amazon wishlist. All those bookmarked recipes gave way to store bought bread (gasp!) and meals where cooking either took place outside or not at all. In moments of extreme weakness there was always bread from the farmer’s market, but as good as it was, it just wasn’t. I hadn’t watched it grow up, you know?

Last week a serendipitous email brought me back to bread. It was from Rose herself, successful cookbook author, patron saint of Cake and Bread. It read simply “have I thanked you yet for your great posting about bread and my book and work? this was so special I was waiting ’til I had time to do it full justice.” I had emailed her my post and then forgotten all about it.

Her email, along with the news that freshcrackedpepper was being added to a famous person’s list of links have sent me running back to my oven begging for forgiveness. The cool evenings beginning to entice Syracuse into late summer might help with that too.

This can be mine again, adorned with pithy tomatoes, buttery home-grown lettuce, and sprouts born not of soil but of water in a jar in my cupboard.

This Tyrolean Ten-Grain Torpedo that was my third Bread Bible Bread was an absolute treat. Notes accompanying my pictures include: Might’ve let rise a tad too long (was working in the garden), it browned really really fast. Covered with foil and finished the latter half of baking right on the baking stone. Very crusty and the grains on top were a rustic addition. Has that almost metallic, iron-y taste I like in bread. Vital wheat gluten makes it almost impossibly soft for a baguette-style loaf.

Not my most poetic writing, but enough to take me back to that May day that passed pleasantly in my garden while my poor dough puffed its way just past perfection.

Months later I can’t remember why Rose called it Tyrolean. My guess is that it has something to do with Tyrol, the region of Europe that bridges part of Austria and Northern Italy. Beyond that it’s escaped me. I’m assuming the torpedo part comes from its shape and the ten grains from its crunchy composition.

Now that I occupy my own eighth of an inch a famous bread baker’s website, I’ll have to get back to work ploughing through her mammoth collection. As long as these late August nights keep wrapping themselves around the day like a cool cloth on a fevered forehead, I can be found crouched before my 400 degree oven wishing it had a window. Inside, great bread will be happening. Bread so good that just knowing about it will be enough.

obama pizza

According to the right-wing news media, a person’s taste says a lot about them — including whether they would make a suitable US president. Last week, as if grasping for things to criticize the Democratic candidate for, another political pundit called attention to Obama’s noshing habits. His crime this time around was his supposed penchant for arugula.

Those little leaves say communist all over ’em, don’ they?

This came to my knowledge (as do so many other insipid media blunders) via John Stewart, whose show included a clip of ABC’s Jake Trapper calling Obama “an arrogant, arugula-eating, fancy berry tea drinking celebrity.” Now if that’s not reason enough to vote for a man who shares a last name with a brand of frozen french fries, I don’t know what is. Opps, now I’m just playing their game. Ahem, back to tonight’s pizza.

I know I just blogged about arugula, but this is totally different. I promise.

So I still have that abundance of arugula on hand, bored through with tiny bug holes that don’t bother me one bit when washed vigorously. I’m just glad they enjoyed it as much as I did, though I doubt they had a half glass of pinot to compliment the mild pepper nuances. Poor little pinot-less weevils.

I’ve been wanting to try an arugula pizza, after seeing it pop up on blogs and in foodie magazines as of late: Arugula-fig. Arugula-prosciutto. Arugula-walnut. Characters like these haunted my dreams.

After a few minutes of research I discovered that handfuls of the rinsed and chopped weed (’cause it sure grows like one!) can be thrown onto any old fresh-from-the-oven pizza. The residual heat from the pie will wilt the greens and two minutes later your pepperoni and mushroom expectations will be blown away. Just like Obama will explode your iceberg lettuce and bacon expectations, America! If you only let him, maybe he’ll get Eleanor Roosevelt’s veggies growing again on the White House lawn.

Arugula might just be the tastiest leaf you could throw at a pizza pie, next to basil. The two can duke it out in my kitchen any day.

 

So not only did I eat arugula for dinner, I also went GOLFING this afternoon with my hubby. Now THAT’S a yuppie afternoon if there ever was one. I wonder what the FOX and ABC anchors would say about poor Obama if he were to engage in such an elitist, liberal, yuppie afternoon as I had. We can only speculate, and try to protect him by eating all the world’s arugula ourselves. Yes, that’s definitely the only solution for our poor Barack.

To fuel all your energy-draining worrying about our dear Democratic presidential nominee, I want you to go make this pizza. Consider it my gift to all you Americans with tension building in your souls for the future of your country’s leadership. I bring you Barack Obama pizza: some nutty, zesty, liberal, well-educated, eloquent, DIY grassroots hippie flatbread with flax in the dough to boot.

Take that McCain spicy fries and deep n’ delicious. You’ve got nothing on this one.

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Journey through the Book of Bread: I

We all have them, those kitchen dreams and gastronomic aspirations of greatness. Most everyone who’s ever made a meal, and actually enjoyed it, has at least one creation that taunts them: Try me. Perfect me.

The second one is where it starts to hurt.

so close it's crusty

Don’t label me a perfectionist too quickly though. I love experimenting in the kitchen even when the results are far less than perfect. Chalk it all up to experience, to I’ll never do THAT again. Throwing last night’s leftovers together with some pasta, marrying unlikely combinations up in a whole wheat wrap for a quick lunch, laying the contents of the crisper to rest in an impromptu omelette. But perfection, ah, that is an entirely different story.

It’s probably because of the simple fact that a person’s standards will rise proportionately to their experience. Climb a couple mountains and soon you’ll want Everest (or at least Temple.) Start drinking fresher coffee and soon you’ll want to roast your own. Run a few miles here and there and soon you’ll be signed up for a 10k. It seems this progression is part of human nature. It’s great to be an amateur climber, coffee drinker, runner, cook. In fact the word amateur is from the French for “lover of.” But I also think the desire for excellence lies dormant in all of us.

Bread has become my terminus ad quem, the Mecca to which all my baked things march. Over the last year or so, bread has risen to the top of my list of things I want to be really good at. The more loaves I attempt the better my ideal loaf gets. With mediocre and failed loaves jousting for rule of my counter, this process has paved the road to greatness with frustration. I tried a bread maker and hand-kneading. I tried recipes from Betty Crocker herself. I copied down meticulous steps from internet bread sites and researched yeast brands. My loafs ranged from sticky-gluey to coarse to bland. Maybe they weren’t all that bad, but through it all, something just didn’t seem right.

That was before I discovered Rose Levy Beranbaum, who has since become my personal bread guru. Since picking up her 2003 The Bread Bible at our local library, my bread joy has risen proportionately to the number of her loaves I’ve tried. I’ve never been so at peace with my Kitchen Aid mixer.

My first loaf was her Basic Hearth Bread, a simple, artisan-style loaf which came in rather handy for some impromptu vegan brunch company. The rustic dough was springy and supple and so tasty it disappeared before I could photograph it.

The second was a billowy sandwich bread entitled Cracked Wheat Loaf. With the addition of lecithin, it stayed tender for days. It was great for sandwiches and even better toasted. The only change I would make would be to soak the bulghur in less water next time to yield more crunch.

Because Rose’s recipe style is so well-researched and technical, I chose not to recopy her recipes here. Instead, this series of posts is going to serve more as a journal of my walk through the Bread Bible. It just wouldn’t seem right to try to represent her massive work here: her breadth of scientific and artistic knowledge, evidenced through meticulous instruction on pre-fermenting, mixing, dividing, shaping, slashing, glazing, cooling, slicing and storing, is just better done on the pages of a book.

Opening with the invitation, “this is my bread biography,” Rose chronicles her love of something so simple, something that most of us take for granted, packaged and neatly sliced on the shelves of the superstores. Any cookbook author who writes “Could it be that I’m only completely happy now when a bread is happening somewhere nearby?” deserves my allegiance, if not for her techniques alone, at least for her sense of the life of food. Her invitation to find a favorite recipe, vary it a little, re-type it in your own words, and share with others as “your bread” made me feel an instant kinship with her. She notes that bakers say “the sound of the crust crackling as it cools is the bread’s song.” When I heard this sound coming from my first loaf of Basic Hearth Bread like a cozy campfire (see below) I was surprised. I was delighted to find out later that it’s a sign of a bread well done.

If you are interested in not just baking but truly understanding bread, I highly recommend her book. Look for it at your local library (a great place to help break a cooking rut without breaking your wallet) or bookstore. You won’t be disappointed.

listening to the bread's song