Luisa Weiss's Blog, page 27

Catherine Newman's Donut Cake

This all started when I read Joanna's post about a book she'd read that she'd loved during her pregnancy (this one). In that post, she asked her readers if they had any other books to recommend for pregnant ladies, which was like Christmas morning for me and soon I was clicking and bookmarking away, leading me further and further into an Internet wormhole. I came up for air at Catherine Newman's blog, the author of Waiting for Birdy (ordered, shipped), and soon found myself reading about a cake that tastes like doughnuts, which is a riff on Edna Lewis' Busy-Day Cake, which I'd only wanted to make since, oh, forever and so I decided to take that serendipitous find as a sign from the gods that I should waste not a single moment longer before making it.

So I made it. And, lo, it made my house smell of doughnuts, nutmeggy and sweet.

(Let's not discuss the fact that I was far more inclined to make something called Donut Cake than I was to make something called Busy-Day Cake. I am, in culinary terms at least, apparently something of a magpie.)

It really is the loveliest thing. Buttermilk makes it tender and gives it the faintest, barest tang. A few spoonfuls of cornmeal give it a little crunch. And the intersection of vanilla and nutmeg make your house smell like a old-fashioned doughnut shop, MINUS the stench of boiling oil and the slickness of greasy fingers. It's intensely wholesome and lovely, this cake. If it was a person, it'd have perfectly creamy skin and a natural glow all the time, no makeup or raw spinach smoothies required.

It's the archetypal afternoon cake or breakfast cake, to be dunked in hot chocolate or coffee, and I'd gladly serve it to children, too. You could, I suppose, gussy it up with whipped cream and fruit. But I like how stark and plain it is all by itself. In fact, in the terms of auld, I'd say this is one for the lamination files.

Which reminds me that I actually meant to tell you guys about a different cake entirely before I got completely sidetracked by this one. But that will have to wait until next week.

Catherine Newman's Donut Cake
Makes one 9-inch cake
Catherine says that the cake is destined to sink once it cools, but I had no such problem.

1 stick butter, room temperature
1 1/3 cups sugar
3 large eggs, room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
2 tablespoons cornmeal
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 cup buttermilk, room temperature

1. Heat the oven to 375°F. Butter and flour a 9-inch springform pan, and set it aside.

2. Beat the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy, about two minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating to incorporate after each addition, then add in the vanilla. Scrape down sides of bowl with a rubber spatula. Set aside.

3. Whisk together the flour, cornmeal, salt, baking powder, and nutmeg. Add the flour mixture to the batter in 3 parts, alternating with the buttermilk, starting and ending with flour. Make sure each addition is incorporated before adding the next, but don't over-beat it at the end. Spread the batter in the prepared pan and smooth the top.

4. Bake until the top is puffed and golden brown and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes. Cool on a rack before serving warm or room temperature.

Diane Kochilas' Tomato, Oregano and Feta Risotto

I've been feeling a bit like a wrung-out dishrag lately, creatively speaking, I mean. A reader very kindly pointed out the other day that you all would be a lot happier if I posted more often, to which I could only bleat "I'm so sorry, I know!" at the screen and sink my head in defeat. I mean, I'm the first to feel bereft when my favorite blogs go silent for more than a few days.

I guess I poured so much energy and heart into finishing the book that now that it's over, instead of feeling full of inspiration and moxie, I'm feeling a little empty when it comes to cooking and writing about it. For a few weeks after I finished work on the manuscript (and the final testing of the recipes), I could not turn on the stove to save my life. I just couldn't. I couldn't stand the sight of the measuring cups, the mixing bowls, the sink waiting to be filled with dirty dishes. I had to stop seeing it as the final frontier, the final battle zone between me and the finished manuscript before I could enter it again with hunger and a lust for cooking.

Add that to the fact that I am now single-digit weeks (eeep!) away from giving birth and you'll understand why sometimes I sit here in front of the computer trying to think of things to tell you, but coming up empty. I mean, I can spend hours thinking about organic baby mattresses, what on earth - WHAT - we should name our baby and, uh, trying to wrap my head around labor, but then dinnertime rolls around and I'm eating a handful of sliced cucumber and a peanut butter sandwich. You know?

But enough about that.

Remember Elaine Louie's wonderful The Temporary Vegetarian column in the New York Times? The source of such delicious things as Heather Carlucci-Rodriguez's Chana Punjabi, Aytekin Yar's Zucchini Pancakes and Julie Sahni's Green Beans Bihari? I loved that column so much. (It no longer exists, but you can buy the book it was turned into right here.) Slowly but surely, I'm hoping to cook my way through most of the recipes she published (Cabbage Strudel, anyone? I'm still kicking myself for having lived mere minutes away from the strudel shop on Queens Boulevard for almost three years and never having made it there.).

The recipe with which Louie retired the column was from Diane Kochilas, Greek food writer and consulting chef at Pylos: a Greek riff on the classic Italian risotto, using ouzo instead of white wine and feta cheese instead of Parmesan and butter. I made it for dinner last night and the one thing I kept thinking as I ate it was, forgive my ineloquence, woah.

The risotto looks like it will just be a sweet little tomato-ey thing, flecked with some well-meaning oregano, but it turns out to be a flavor bomb, an umami explosion, if you will, almost too intense to actually eat. The convergence of the feta and the anise liqueur and the fresh tomato and the lemon zest is sort of epic, really. I practically had to wipe my brow as I worked my way through the bowl. (And this was without adding any salt besides what was already in the broth, people.)

I left out the garlic that was in the original recipe, because I think garlic in risotto should be against the law, and I used Pernod instead of ouzo because that's what I had in the house and if I made this again, I would use water instead of broth, probably, and also a bit less feta, because I actually don't really like to feel like I'm fighting my way through dinner, even if it does taste very good. But eating it in the soft dusk light that came in from the balcony and being reminded of our trip to Greece last September was lovely, really, and just the kind of thing that makes me want to cook again and again and again.

Diane Kochilas' Tomato, Oregano and Feta Risotto
Serves 4
Note: To grate a tomato, halve crosswise and grate the cut side with a coarse grater over a lipped cutting board or bowl. Grate as close to the skin as possible, then discard the skin.

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
4 to 5 cups vegetable broth
1 cup Carnaroli or Arborio rice
1/3 cup Pernod
1 1/3 cups grated ripe tomato (about 3 or 4 large plum tomatoes)
2/3 cup crumbled feta
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano leaves
Finely grated zest of a lemon
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, optional

1. In a large, deep skillet over medium-low heat, heat olive oil until shimmering. Add onion and stir until soft, about 6 minutes. Place broth in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer.

2. Raise heat to medium, and add rice to skillet. Stir until well-coated with olive oil and starting to soften slightly, 2-3 minutes. Add 1 cup of the simmering broth. Keep stirring gently until the rice absorbs all the broth. Add Pernod and stir until absorbed.

3. Add grated tomato and stir gently until the mixture is dense. Add remaining broth, 1 cup at a time, stirring until each addition is absorbed, until the rice is creamy but al dente, 25 to 30 minutes.

4. Add feta and stir until melted and risotto is creamy and thick. Stir in oregano and lemon zest, and season to taste, if needed, with salt and pepper. Remove from heat and serve immediately.

Friday Morning Link Love

Here in Berlin, today and Monday are holidays, so the city gets all quiet and serene. Shops close, streets empty and peacefulness descends onto our red-roofed buildings. It's lovely. On Sunday, I'll be having a bit of that magnificent, sweet, yeasted rooster for breakfast, moist and tender and studded with marzipan eggs. We'll be over at my friend Joanie's that morning, though "friend" is hardly a good word for everything that this woman is to me - but you'll read more about her in the book when the time comes. (The book that now has a cover!) What you need to know for now is that Joanie is the queen, the empress, of sweet yeasted doughs scented with cinnamon, lemon peel and fairy dust. What starts out as a pallid lump in a ceramic mixing bowl gets transformed into sweet little rabbits, great roosters, feathered and wattled, and more. This particular rooster was last year's Easter breakfast and while it almost pained me to watch her slice into it to serve us all, it was even more delicious than it was beautiful, if you can imagine that.

Elsewhere:

This corn bread (not cornbread, mind you) is haunting my nights. It's on the to-do list for the weekend.

The cutest grocery tote I've seen in a long time.

I had lunch at ABC Kitchen in New York with Deb last week and this deceptively simple appetizer served in a pretty bowl (no spoon, though) stayed in my thoughts all week: Roasted Beets with Yogurt.

Are you brave enough to eat wildflowers?

I love reading about what other people eat, even more than I love looking into people's shopping baskets at the grocery store, so I got a kick out of Phoebe Cates's diet.

I've always wanted to make sushi at home, but I never actually do it. These rice balls (a rounder version of onigiri) somehow seem more approachable. Also, mouthwatering.

I've become anemic during pregnancy and a month of iron supplements hasn't made much of a difference. My doctor says to eat more millet and this spiced millet breakfast bowl sounds like the best way to start.

Yet another reason I can't wait to be in L.A. for the book tour this fall. (Yes, Los Angeles is on the list!)

Have any of you read Bringing Up Bébé (UK folks: French Children Don't Throw Food)? I had no intention to, but then I was given a copy by my publisher and my best friend couldn't stop raving about it and I had nothing else to do on the airplane back home (besides bemoan the hideousness that are well-fittting compression stockings), so I read the whole thing in one swoop...and liked it. Can we discuss?

Happy Easter, happy Passover, happy weekend, folks!

The Cover of My Berlin Kitchen!

Okay, folks, picture a drumroll, if you will. (Or imagine a drumroll? Conjure a drumroll? Whatever, a drumroll. Let's just pretend you're hearing one right now, okay?)

Ta-da!!!

Do you like it? I so hope you like it.

Let me tell you a little how it came about. Back in January, during a Very Cold Snap, I was asked by the art director at Viking to send over a few photos of me that could be used for the cover of the book. Now I don't know about those of you who are the designated photographers in your social circle, but I actually have very few photos of myself - after all, I'm always the one with the camera. So I called my very talented friend Jördis Anderson and asked her if she wouldn't mind meeting up early one Saturday morning to take some pictures of me. Despite the freezing cold, Jördis was game, quickly organizing childcare and clearing her schedule. We agreed to go to my favorite green market first thing in the morning, before it got too crowded, and then on a little stroll around my neighborhood.

I was a little nervous that morning. I don't find myself particularly photogenic and I was dreading stiffening up in front of the camera. We only had that one weekend to shoot and the pressure to get the right image felt, well, intense. I was also just emerging from the "I-hate-my-strange-new-body-shape" phase of pregnancy, a little unsure of how well I'd be able to hide The Bump. (After all, this book is called My Berlin Kitchen, not Bringing Up Kindchen.) Luckily, the market was relatively empty and only a few people stared at us as Jördis quickly took a few snaps of me plucking potatoes out of a bin, holding a bundle of carrots, selecting a bouquet of hot pink ranunculus. Still, when we looked at the photos on the display of her camera, we both agreed that what we wanted to capture simply wasn't there. Growing colder by the minute, we hopped in the car and drove to one of my favorite streets in Berlin, Friedbergstraße.

Friedbergstraße is one of the only streets in Berlin that suffered absolutely no damage in World War II - all of its turn-of-the-century buildings are intact and pristinely cared for. It's a gorgeous sight, especially when compared to almost every other street in Berlin that is peppered with squat little buildings from the 1950s and 1960s, a sure sign that an Allied bomb destroyed what once stood there. Trying not to shiver and buoyed by Jördis's good spirits, I walked up and down that street as she snapped away, passing typically Berlin doorways, clacking over the tiny cobblestones, trying to be both as dynamic and slow as possible so that Jördis's images would have energy and focus at once.

By lunchtime, Jördis thought she had shot enough and we were both so cold and tired (and hungry) that it sort of made sense to call it a day. We went back to my apartment and I cooked us lunch while she snapped away. You can see some of those shots in my kitchen and living room here, mismatched plates and all. Then Jördis fiddled with her computer for a while, uploading the photos and selecting the ones she liked best before sending off the files to the art director. And then we crossed our fingers and waited.

Now, you all remember that I used to be a cookbook editor before I said goodbye to New York and followed my heart to Berlin, yes? Well, one of the many things I used to do in my old role was deal with jacket images and cover design, corralling the author's input and the designer's needs and everyone else's requirements into one final image that would, oh, also actually sell. Folks, this was never an easy thing, to choose the right photo, to nail the design, to make the author and the designer and the publisher and the publicist and the marketing folks and the sales department happy. In fact, we used to go through rounds and rounds of cover designs (different photographs, fonts, title placements, subtitle placements, burst placements, for Pete's sake) before finally settling on just the right one. So I was bracing myself for just that: a lot of rounds and negotiations and compromise. I knew it was just part of the process.

But then, just a few days after we sent in the photos, my editor sent me the image of that jacket up there, created by the art director, Roseanne Serra. I'll admit, opening the file was a little scary. What would I see? Which photo would she have picked? (We'd sent her 19 to choose from.) When the image opened up and I saw it with all its charming details, its simplicity, its total "Berlin-ness", for lack of a better word, all I could think was: Roseanne, lady: You. Nailed. It.

The craziest thing was that everyone else agreed. And that was that. Easy-peasy. Done. (And now, to my neverending delight, the cover image also graces the Viking Fall 2012 catalogue!)

As the process of publishing this book goes forward, I'll be sure to keep you all updated on things that I think you might find interesting about the journey. But I'd love to know: is there anything in particular you'd like me to write about on this subject? Any topic related to the book writing or the publication that you'd like explained? Please let me know. And thanks, as always, for being such lovely readers and supporters. I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you.

Judy Rodgers' Roasted Applesauce

Hello, folks. I was supposed to drop in here before I left for New York, but one thing led to another and suddenly I was on the airplane, belly a-bumping, aimed for that sunny, bloom-filled city. I got back to Berlin yesterday morning, which, in a cruel metereological twist, was cold and gray and wet when I arrived, mirroring how I felt after leaving New York.

It took me much longer to acclimate to New York than usual this time. The first two days, I was just overwhelmed by the colors, the people, the noise, the constant barrage of gorgeous sights. I didn't know how to process any of it. Someone told me recently that when you're pregnant, you're much more vulnerable than usual because you have to be open to this mind-bending experience taking place within your own body, to all the changes that are to come. So as a result, you're like an open wound, far more sensitive than usual to any kind of stimulation, good or bad. By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was in tears. I couldn't really explain them except for the fatigue, jet lag, dehydration. Luckily, my friends picked me up and brushed me off, like a sensible mother with an overstimulated toddler at the playground. And the next morning, I was on New York time.

The rest of the week sped by in warp speed, a blur of happy moments: my baby shower, takeout Momofuku with my friend Teri on her couch, burly firemen in a blaring truck grinning and waving at my friend Jenny's son as he waved at them, the cover of my book on my publisher's fall catalogue, sitting in Stuyvesant Square in the sun with my father and stepmother, walking the full length of Houston Street at nightfall like I used to, but this time feeling the baby wiggle.

Leaving gutted me. Sitting in the departure lounge at JFK on Wednesday was actually sort of physically painful. I just wanted to bolt, just wanted a few more days among my friends and all the friendly New York strangers who made me smile on the streets. I didn't want to go back to Berlin just yet, to the quiet apartment that feels like a treehouse sometimes, to the emptier streets, the solemn-faced people. Not quite yet. So, yes, last night, I found myself in tears again, set off as I unpacked the pale blue WubbaNub my friend Andrea had given me at the shower. Max listened and soothed me over the phone and then, in the gentlest tones possible, told me to get some sleep.

And today things are better.

While I wait for the markets to flood with berries and pink stalks of rhubarb, I can't help still compulsively buying apples when I see them. But they're last fall's apples and no longer the crisp, juicy specimens they once were. One way to get around a mouthful of mealy apple after dinner (the worst, no?) is to turn those apples into applesauce. And better yet is to roast the apples into applesauce. The recipe comes from The Zuni Café Cookbook via Food52 and is a new favorite of mine.

All you do is roughly peel, core and quarter the apples and then stick them in a baking dish with a little sugar, a pinch of salt and the merest bit of butter (I use more sugar and less butter than the original recipe - it's up to you to calibrate that stuff.) Tightly covered with aluminum foil, the apples roast in the oven until they're tender and melting. Then you take off the aluminum foil and let them dry out and take on some color, giving them a deeper richness than a regular baked or stewed apple would get. All that's left, then, for you to do is to scrape them into a bowl and stir them into a loose purée with a fork.

You can, if you like, add a splash of cider vinegar at the end, just to sort of sharpen the flavors. I love this tip - it's like adding balsamic vinegar to strawberries - it just underlines what's already there in the subtlest way. There's no additional flavoring, no cinnamon, no lemon, just the pure, clear taste of cooked apples with a bit of caramelized depth. Something faintly toasted. Something good. I eat these apples with yogurt or on top of my morning oatmeal or just straight from the refrigerated container, so cold that my teeth ache, before bedtime. And just the other day, it occurred to me that they'd make perfect baby food.

While I get over my New York melancholia, I'm loving looking through these photographers' images:

Sandra Juto
Joseph O. Holmes

And this picture from my baby shower (that's me on the left):

Judy Rodgers' Roasted Applesauce
Makes about 3 cups
Find the original recipe here

3 1/2 to 4 pounds apples (Rodgers uses crisp eating apples, like Sierra Beauties, Braeburns, Pippins, Golden Delicious or Galas)
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
A splash of apple cider vinegar, as needed

1. Heat oven to 375 F.

2. Peel, core, and quarter the apples. Toss with the salt and sugar (more or less to taste). Spread the apples in a shallow baking dish in a single layer. Top with slivers of the butter, cover tightly with a lid or aluminum foil, and bake until the apples start to soften, 15 to 30 minutes, depending on your apples.

3. Uncover, raise the heat to 500 F, and return the pan to the oven. Leave the apples to dry out and color slightly, about 10 minutes. When the tips of the apples have become golden brown and the fruit is tender, scrape them into a bowl and stir into a chunky purée. Season with salt and sugar to taste, then add a splash of apple cider vinegar to brighten the flavor (don't overdo the vinegar). Keeps for a week in the fridge.

Wednesday Evening Link Love

(BOOM. I know. It's huge. Even my doctor said so after she pulled out a measuring tape and got to measuring my belly with what seemed like unabashed relish. The baby, however, is totally normal-sized, average, even, and yes, there is only one in there, but don't think I haven't been asked about a hundred times if I'm sure I'm not having twins. Yes. Sure. STOPITNOW. )

Hello, friends! I haven't done a linky post in a while and I've found a few things I think you should know about (if you don't already), plus I am feeling kind of skittish, or strange, or something, I don't really know, and so I thought I'd busy myself here instead of sitting in my office and staring blankly at my lap, wondering about what comes next and feeling sort of weirdly empty. Because, you see, about six hours ago, I sent the copy-edited manuscript back to my publisher for it to be transmitted to the design department and what this means is that I've finished testing every single last recipe, I've written my acknowledgments (which made me weep!), and I am now perilously, treacherously close to having the book out of my control entirely, when it's time for it to go to the printer. Which, honestly, is a bloody relief.

So, without further ado, let's get started:

You can now pre-order My Berlin Kitchen on amazon.com! (Pam, a reader, alerted me to this fact on Sunday and to say that you could have knocked me over with a feather after reading her email would be the understatement of the century.)

Testing recipes for the book while living alone during the week has meant a lot of strange meals for me lately (carrot sticks and yeasted plum cake, anyone?). So I'm craving lots of well-balanced, healthy meals now. These tips for making perfect quinoa come just at the right time.

This post about a father's food memories surrounding the birth of his first child killed me in the best way. Though I'm happy that our little guy still has three months to go before he gets here (my urge to nest just appeared the other day and hoo boy, do we have a lot ahead of us), reading Andy's post has me even more excited (also, craving chicken salad sandwiches).

Speaking of cooking and newborns, while I have the privilege of living in a country in which pre- and postnatal care, in all senses of the word, is amazing, what I do not have is a large freezer. In fact, I don't think more than two pairs of my ballet flats would fit into it. So much for cooking ahead for the time to come. Instead, this video is serving as inspiration for how to prepare staple foods on one day for the rest of the week. If it doesn't get your cooking juices flowing, I don't know what will.

And while I'm singing Tamar Adler's praises, since I think broccoli stems are the most delicious part of a broccolo, this piece on cabbage cores warms my cruciferous-vegetable-loving heart.

I've found "my" sushi joint, a favorite Korean spot, and even a Chinese restaurant that will feed my craving for gai lan and roast pork. But really good banh mi are still hard to find in Berlin. So these hoisin-glazed meatloaf sandwiches made my eyes grow wide when Jenny mentioned them the other day.

One of my favorite ways to dress pasta was featured on Joanna Goddard's brilliant blog, Cup of Jo, the other day - and it really is so easy. All you need is good canned tomatoes, a bit of basil, and some fresh ricotta... (Victoria, this one's for you!)

Next week, big belly and all, I fly to New York for a week to see my friends and meet with my publicist (!). Truth be told, I've been a little nervous about leaving my little nest here where I can collapse for a rest on the couch whenever I need to and where my hospital is just ten minutes away (you never know, just in case, etc, and so forth). But then I think about seeing my girls and the beautiful city and that crazy blue New York City sky and I get, as my girlfriend Betsy put it, total butterflies.

I'll be back with a recipe before I go.

Zingerman's Laugenbrezeln (Soft Pretzels)

Choosing recipes for My Berlin Kitchen wasn't always an easy process. Some things I was sure had to be in the book, like a sour cherry soufflé I once ate for lunch on a day trip to East Germany when I was nine or the stewed artichoke dish that my mother, not an enthusiastic cook, shall we say, learned from her equally bored-in-the-kitchen mother, but that is, nonetheless, a total delight. But I went back and forth on a lot of the other recipes for a long time, unsure whether it made sense to include them or not. In the end, the recipes that did make it into the manuscript are a motley jumble, sort of like me: Some Italian, some German, with a dose of American can-do spirit thrown in for good measure.

Sadly, not every recipe I loved made the cut, like Bienenstich, for example, or potato dumplings. As you can probably imagine, a book-in-process has a mind of its own and some of my favorite recipes, try as I might, just did not fit the way I wanted them to. Since My Berlin Kitchen is a narrative, a food memoir, I had to stick with the food that really inspired the stories.

One of the cast-offs were these pretzels: Yeasty, chewy, salty wonders that look far more complicated to make than they actually are. I loved finding that out. Here in Germany, good pretzels are everywhere (of course, the best ones are in the south of Germany - Berlin is not a pretzel region), but there is something so deeply satisfying about making these yourself. And fresh out of the oven, they are unbeatably delicious. (They do not, however, keep well. Eat them within a few hours of making them or don't bother at all - freezing doesn't help things either.) Besides, the recipe, which comes from Zingerman's Bakehouse, is so easy you will not believe it. You won't! But really, so easy.

The key is having instant yeast, one of my very favorite things in the kitchen (also known as bread-machine yeast and, importantly, not the same thing as active dry. With instant yeast, you just add it directly to the flour without proofing it in warm water first). Once you've got your instant yeast, you make a quick yeast dough that has a little sugar and a little butter in it and then, before it's even risen or anything, you divide and shape it - either into pretzel shapes or into little round balls for pretzel rolls (delicious when split, buttered and filled with smoked salmon, in case you're wondering). Only after the pretzels and rolls are shaped do you let the dough proof, at first on the counter and then in the fridge. I made this recipe several times and I found the pretzels tasted best after a refrigeration of just one hour.

The only other thing you have to do is hunt down some food-grade lye. Here in Germany, this means trekking to your closest Apotheke (pharmacy) and asking for Natriumhydroxid in pellet form. You'll get a little container with enough pellets (that you have to dissolve in water) for several batches of pretzels. But in the US, your best bet is to mail-order it on amazon.com. Do not, I repeat, do not bother with the baking soda bath replacement for lye. It isn't the same thing, not even close. Your pretzels will not have the same inimitable tang or color that the lye-dipped ones have and that make a pretzel intrinsically a pretzel.

Once your pretzels have spent the requisite time in the fridge and you've prepared your lye bath (carefully, with gloves on, and - for security's sake - with any small children at a safe distance), you just heat your oven, line a baking sheet with ungreased parchment paper, dip each pretzel into the lye bath, plop it on the sheet, sprinkle it with salt, and then stick the sheet in the oven until the house fills with the smell of real pretzels after about 15 minutes. It's amazing.

I love tearing into the pretzels when they're hot and pliable. If you've got a couple of mouths around, you'll find the pretzels disappear surprisingly quickly. The crumb is astoundingly white against the deep brown exterior and it has this wonderfully salty, complex flavor. In Bavaria, Laugenbrezeln are often served with a pungent mixture of softened Camembert, butter, raw onions, paprika and other spices called Obatzda - you tear off pieces of your pretzel and dip them into the cheese mixture - but all over the country you also often see Laugenbrezeln split horizontally and thickly buttered, then glued back together again. You know, just a light afternoon snack.

Either way, they are delicious and - in my very biased opinion - light years better than a New York City street cart pretzel festooned with mustard. Not even in the same league, actually. So go forth and buy yourself some lye and get cracking! These are the most fun things (yes, I did just use that as a adverb, forgive me) to come out of my kitchen in a long while.

Zingerman's Laugenbrezeln (Soft Pretzels)
Original recipe here
Makes 12 pretzels

1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
2 tablespoons instant yeast
6 cups (about 30 ounces) all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon plus 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Food-grade lye, for dipping (amazon.com)
Coarse sea salt or pretzel salt, for sprinkling (do not substitute kosher salt)

1. In a mixing bowl, stir together sugar, butter, yeast, 2 cups warm water and half the flour. Add kosher salt and remaining flour and stir just until mixture comes together in a shaggy mass.

2. Turn out onto counter and knead for 8 to 10 minutes, until smooth and supple. Cut into 12 pieces and let rest 5 minutes.

3. Roll out each piece into a rope about 22 inches long. (For the traditional shape, the ends should be thin and the center fat.) Lift both ends, twist them around each other once, then bring ends back and press them on either side of fat "belly," at about 4 o'clock and 8 o'clock. Then gently spread out "shoulders" of pretzel. Transfer shaped pretzels to an ungreased baking sheet. (Alternatively, form each piece into a round or oval to make Laugenbrötchen, or pretzel rolls.)

4. Let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes, then refrigerate at least one hour or up to overnight (not recommended).

5. Heat oven to 425 degrees. In a deep bowl, wearing rubber or latex gloves, make a solution of 1/2 cup lye and 10 cups water (or 1 part lye to 20 parts water); pour lye carefully into water to avoid splashing. Dip each pretzel in solution, turning it over for 10 to 15 seconds, and place back on baking sheet.

6. Sprinkle pretzels with salt. Bake about 15 minutes or until deep brown. Remove to a rack and serve warm.

Nancy Silverton's Graham Crackers

Last Thursday, at 23:37 Central European Time, I sent my editor my final manuscript, 852 days after the proposal was preempted all the way back in October 2009. Forgive me if this all sounds rather dramatic, but, oh my goodness: 852 days, a hundred sleepless nights, countless destroyed cuticles and a few gallons of tears are just a few of the metrics I can't help but list when I think about how on earth I got from there to here. When I was sure - convinced! - for so long that I couldn't do it.

But I did do it. You guys, I did!

[Insert "Rocky" theme song or the sound of an Olympic crowd cheering here. Or both!]

How on earth did I do it? That is not a rhetorical question: I have been asking it of myself a lot this week. (In my head and sotto voce, just to add to the slightly loony appearance my mother said I had towards the end of things last week, when I wasn't really showering or eating or doing much of anything besides staring at a computer screen and perfecting stuff.) I still don't really know. Bird by bird, yes. But with a lot of blood, sweat and tears, too, and a freaking village of people telling me I could do it (though I was convinced for about 838 of the past 852 days that they had absolutely no idea what they were talking about). It was the hardest work of my life.

Things aren't entirely finished just yet. The manuscript is currently in the hands of the copy editor, the person responsible for catching every last little typo that I didn't already, who makes sure all the punctuation is correct and who also is invaluable as a fresh set of eyes to look over everything and ask me the hard questions, namely to clarify stuff that my editor and I may have overseen. In the meantime, I am finishing up the testing of a few straggler recipes and periodically pinching myself black and blue, because I still cannot believe that I wrote a book. Me. A BOOK. A book with words and pages and a copyright page and a very pretty jacket (more on that as soon as I can share - wheee!).

Honestly, at times it is more than my feeble mind can process.

When the copy editor is done, the manuscript will come back to me for one final go-through. At some point after that, it will be released to the printer. The day that happens, I will most likely be prone and screaming silently in despair as I am sure I will suddenly have a million reasons why I am not yet ready to let go. Sadly, I will not be able to preemptively sedate myself with copious amounts of sparkling wine. My husband keeps saying something about perspective and a baby and yoga class, but I am not really sure what he is talking about.

So that is where we are at the moment. The book, called My Berlin Kitchen, will be published in September. Which is also when we will be going on book tour to eight cities (they are still being finalized, I'll have a final list in a month or so). Uh, yes, you read that right: We. We as in me, Max and the little dude in my belly, who should be about three months old by then. I'm coming to see all of you with mah baby!!

And, people, I cannot WAIT to see you. I am pretty sure that might be the very best thing about this whole thing anyway.

So in addition to, you know, finishing my book, I made graham crackers a few weeks ago and lo, they were good. I made them because a very nice young man named Darryl was coming over to interview me for his blog, Stil in Berlin. And also because I wanted to eat them. The recipe is Nancy Silverton's and just in case you were wondering, there is no graham flour in these graham crackers, just plain old white flour. Brown sugar, honey, butter and vanilla give the crackers their flavor and snappy texture.

Despite being delicious, they were a bit complicated to make. The dough, as seen above, is very soft and must not only be refrigerated for hours, but then also rolled out with copious amounts of flour, see below, and then the flour must be brushed off before the crackers are topped, decorated and baked and honestly, it is not that complicated, but clearly I had a lot of my plate around the time when I was making these and I kept thinking that if I lived in a country where graham crackers were readily available in any grocery store, I would never make homemade ones again.

Still, this did not exactly stop me from eating and enjoying them (dipped in milk, especially). Also, my mental state was delicate at the time, which is probably why a cookie recipe made me feel slightly, shall we say, pushed over the edge. You may feel differently.

And that is where things are at right now. Me, graham cracker stuck in my mouth at a jaunty angle, covered in pinch marks, feeling - slowly more and more so - like I have just climbed the biggest mountain in the world. It feels so good.

Nancy Silverton's Graham Crackers
Makes approximately 24 crackers

2 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons unbleached pastry flour or unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
7 tablespoons (3 1/2 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and frozen
1/3 cup mild-flavored honey, such as clover
5 tablespoons whole milk
2 tablespoons pure vanilla extract
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1. In the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt. Pulse or mix on low to incorporate. Add the butter and pulse on and off on and off, or mix on low, until the mixture is the consistency of a coarse meal.

2.In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, milk, and vanilla extract. Add to the flour mixture and pulse on and off a few times or mix on low until the dough barely comes together. It will be very soft and sticky.

3. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and pat the dough into a rectangle about 1 inch thick. Wrap in plastic and chill until firm, about 2 hours or overnight.

4. In a small bowl, combine the sugar and cinnamon, and set aside.

5. Divide the dough in half and return one half to the refrigerator. Sift an even layer of flour onto the work surface and roll the dough into a long rectangle about 1/8 inch thick. The dough will be sticky, so flour as necessary. Trim the edges of the rectangle to 4 inches wide. Working with the shorter side of the rectangle parallel to the work surface, cut the strip every 4 1/2 inches to make 4 crackers. Gather the scraps together and set aside. Place the crackers on one or two parchment-lined baking sheets and sprinkle with the topping. Chill until firm, about 30 to 45 minutes. Repeat with the second batch of dough.

6. Adjust the oven rack to the upper and lower positions and heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

7. Gather the scraps together into a ball, chill until firm, and reroll. Dust the surface with more flour and roll out the dough to get about two or three more crackers.

8. If you'd like to make the cookies look like "real" graham crackers: Mark a vertical line down the middle of each cracker, being careful not to cut through the dough. Using a toothpick or skewer, prick the dough to form two dotted rows about 1/2 inch for each side of the dividing line.

9- Bake for 15 minutes, until browned and slightly firm to the tough, rotating the sheets halfway through to ensure even baking.

Nigel Slater's Chicken Curry

My sweets, I have a confession to make. My name is Luisa and last weekend, I used commercial curry powder.

Yes. I know. I know that that stuff is to be shunned, that really we should all be making our own masala spice mixtures, that the whole concept of chicken curry is colonialistic and ignorant of a huge country's varied cuisines. I know. But.

Have you ever made Nigel Slater's "Chicken with Spices and Cream" from Real Fast Food? (Sneaky guy, see how he evades the whole concept of "chicken curry" entirely with that recipe title?)

Because I sort of semi-guarantee that if you do make it, you will find yourself looking at your abominable jar of curry powder with entirely different eyes. One of my dinner guests, a lady who is newly pregnant with twins and also an expert on Things That Taste Good, threatened to return to my house the next day to eat the remaining sauce (the recipe makes a lot of sauce, for which you will be very grateful).

(I didn't tell her that I would barricade the doors if she dared to do so, because I had a hot date with the leftover sauce myself that would and could not be missed.)

(I blame my greed entirely on the baby. Entirely.)

Perhaps you see where this is going: Authenticity be damned. (The horror!)

Now that we've gotten beyond the whole curry powder thing, let me tell you about this recipe. It's brilliant. First of all, it takes no time to make. And second of all, it is so good. (Are these two sentences the two most over-used sentences on this entire blog-thingy? My apologies. But at least my priorities are clear, yes?) Third of all, or second-of-all's addendum: Despite the curry powder and the recipe's simplicity, this chicken with spices and cream really does taste like Indian food which, for those of us stranded in this wonderful city that has so much to offer but is entirely bereft of good Indian food (ENTIRELY BEREFT AND I AM NOT EXAGGERATING, BEHOLD THE ALL CAPS), is a bleeding godsend.

I love making this recipe on weeknights, but also for dinner parties, because you can make it an hour or two in advance and then simply reheat the pan when your guests arrive, and also because it's the kind of thing that you can make almost with your eyes closed, which is my Dinner Party Modus Operandi.

You can tailor the recipe to your taste by adding a good shake or two of cayenne, for example, if you like things spicier (though the curry powder will probably have a bit of heat, too), dumping a few cupfuls of frozen peas into the mix shortly before the end of the cooking time or sprinkling chopped cilantro on top for a bit more authenticity.

As I said earlier, the recipe makes an enormous amount of sauce, but it is mind-bendingly delicious, all flecked with shreds of tomato and meltingly soft onions and it's silky with cream, but not heavy, if that's what you're wondering. Pregnant or not, it makes a rather wonderful lunch heated up and poured over leftover rice the next day.

Lest any of you get the wrong idea, let me just say that I own several Indian cookbooks, have a freezer stocked with curry leaves and ground cumin, that my father regularly offers to bring over dried mango powder and asafoetida when he comes to visit and that I normally would be the last person to recommend a recipe that to me, at least, seems like the Indian equivalent of using jarred tomato sauce in an Italian lasagne.

But this just tastes so good. Okay? It's my only defense.

Nigel Slater's Chicken Curry
Serves 4

4 chicken pieces, breast halves or thighs
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon peanut oil
2 medium onions, roughly chopped
3 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 tablespoons curry powder, from a recently opened jar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 medium tomatoes, seeded and chopped (I used canned tomatoes, seeds and all)
1 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup heavy cream
Juice of 1/2 lemon

1. Rub salt and pepper into chicken. Heat butter and oil in a shallow pan, add the chicken and cook until the skin is golden. Turn and add the onions and garlic and cook over medium heat until soft, about 7 to 8 minutes. Stir every once in a while.

2. Stir in the curry powder and cinnamon. Cook for 4 minutes, until the spices are cooked. Add tomatoes and stock, then simmer until the chicken is tender and cooked right through, about 15 minutes.

3. Stir in the cream and taste the sauce, adjusting salt and pepper, if needed. Add the lemon juice. Simmer for 1 minute, then serve hot with basmati rice.

Maria Speck's Artichoke Tart with Polenta Crust

Thank you so much for all your cheers, congratulations and excitement! Sometime in the last few weeks, the little guy in my belly went from being a very abstract sort of thing to a real person who likes to wiggle around like clockwork at midnight (oh dear) and whose face I cannot wait to see. I was waiting for this to happen, for the pregnancy to morph from something I couldn't really wrap my head around to something that makes my heart leap. Now that that feeling is here, it's even better than I imagined. I'm so lucky that I get to share our happy news with all of you fantastic people. I'm so lucky, period.

A few months back, actually, more like last summer, when Max turned 35, we had a bunch of friends over for brunch before retiring to our local beer garden down the block and sitting outside under the leafy canopy while drinking beers until dinnertime. (If you are planning a trip to Berlin, ever, make it in summer. It's magic.) While we were still at home, Max made a big pitcher of Pimm's and I put out a coffee cake of some kind and frittata, too, if I remember correctly, but neither one was really more than picked at because I'd also made this artichoke tart with a polenta crust and it was inhaled in record speed. Gone in a flash. Zip, boom, bang.

I got the recipe from Maria Speck's fantastic book, Ancient Grains for Modern Meals, a pretty incredible collection of recipes featuring whole grains such as rye berries and cornmeal and rolled oats and wheat berries and spelt flour, not to mention amaranth, millet and quinoa. Just as with Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain, Maria's book is less focused on the health aspects of whole grains and more focused on the delicious flavor that these ingredients bring to the table (har). She uses cream and butter with aplomb and has a beautiful way with words - each of her headnotes makes me hungry all over again.

(Full disclosure: I learned about the book after meeting Maria at a conference a few years ago and later blurbed the book after I'd read the proofs, stomach a-growling.)

Raised in Germany with a Greek mother and a German father, Maria has fused the whole grains of her German childhood with the gutsy flavors of her Greek heritage into every recipe she put into the book (along with a wealth of knowledge on each whole grain she uses). This means you get things like farro cooked with cream and served with grapes roasted in honey for breakfast or bulgur cooked in Aleppo-pepper-spiced tomato sauce for dinner. There's Greek-style cornbread (layered with feta and thyme, served with salad for lunch, perhaps) and a brandy-soaked fruit bread made with rye flour, spices and nuts.

The artichoke tart is brilliant for the pastry-averse or just those looking for a more wholesome version of a quiche or vegetable tart. You make a pot of polenta, flavoring it with broth and cheese (an egg adds body) and then pat it out into a cake or tart pan. Then you defrost artichoke hearts (or open a can, which is what I did because I've yet to find frozen artichokes in Germany) and cut them into quarters, laying them down on the polenta base. On top goes crumbled goat cheese and then a scalliony-herby mixture of eggs and Greek yogurt and a generous sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. And that's it.

After 45 minutes in the oven, what emerges is bound to make everything else on your brunch table pale in comparison. It did on mine. What I like especially about it is that it's hearty and savory, full of wonderful flavors (the artichokes really do shine through, as does the rosemary and creamy-sourness of the yogurt and goat cheese), yet it still feels relatively light. A big wedge of this won't weigh you down the way a piece of quiche, full of cream and sporting a butter crust, would. Also, I like the fact that the polenta crust makes people first do a double-take and then ask for a second helping.

I would have given you a photo of a slice of the tart, too, just for some cross-section action, but, uh, it happened again this weekend - the tart was gone too fast for me to react (or eat a piece!). Next time, I thought, I'm making one all for myself.

Maria Speck's Artichoke Tart with Polenta Crust
Make one 10-inch tart
Recipe from Ancient Grains for Modern Meals

Crust:
1 1/2 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
1 1/4 cups water
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 1/4 cups polenta
1/2 cup (about 2.5 ounces) grated Parmesan cheese
1 large egg, room temperature
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1. Bring the broth and water to a boil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the salt. Slowly add the polenta in a thin stream, whisking constantly, and continue whisking for 30 seconds. Decrease the heat to low and cover. Cook for 10 minutes, stirring with a wooden spoon every few minutes to keep the polenta from sticking to the bottom of the pot. Remove the saucepan from the heat and let sit, covered, for 10 minutes, stirring a few times. Stir in the cheese, egg and pepper.

2. Grease a 10-inch tart pan or cake pan with olive oil. Have a glass of cold water ready. Spoon the polenta into the pan and press it out, pushing it up the sides. Dip a wooden spoon or your hands in the cold water to help the polenta along. Set aside for 15 minutes and then form an even rim about 3/4 of an inch thick with moist fingers, pressing firmly. Don't worry if the crust looks rustic.

3. Put a rack in the center of the oven and heat to 375 F.

Artichoke filling:
1 cup plain Greek yogurt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup finely chopped scallions
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
12 ounces artichoke hearts, canned or frozen
1/2 cup (2 ounces) crumbled goat cheese
1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese

1. Whisk the yogurt, eggs, scallions, parsley, rosemary, salt and pepper together until well-combined. Cut the artichoke hearts into quarters and distribute them evenly over the polenta crust. Sprinkle the goat cheese on top of the artichokes and pour the yogurt filling evenly over the artichokes. Sprinkle with the Parmesan cheese.

2. Bake the tart until the top turns golden brown and the filling is set, about 45 minutes. Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let cool for at least 20 minutes, though 40 is better. The tart can be prepared up to one day ahead.