Nostalgia from a crunchy baguette

When I was 18, I lived on my own in Europe.  I rode a subway system that was in a foreign language.  I shaved the sides of my head and wore a rabbits foot around my neck, a gift from a fling I had in the summer with a boy who's now a model.  I lived the life I thought I deserved, the life I thought I wanted.  I lost a friend of eight years that year.  I lost my uncle, too.  I never made it to France during my time abroad, I ran out of money and there was a terrorist threat on the train I was going to take when I could buy the ticket.

I lived in Italy, but never really saw the world for what it was.  Instead, I was born into a secular understanding of cause-and-effect.  The bookends of hard work and the inevitable payoff stood in my mind.  They call that a Protestant work ethic.  I lived this fantasy of being a poet.  I lived the fantasy that being in Italy would make me more lovable.  I came back with bags of chocolates for my family, grey and chalky farewell presents from a bartender in Belgium.  My family saw it as ostentatious.  I came back with a resolute longing to be not only a different person, but a better person.  A person who tries new things, a person who changes with the seasonality of produce and temperament.  

I've kept that promise.  I call my parents and beg for the same gratitude in others that I wish to give them myself.  I was going to be a lawyer and profit off the misfortunes of others.  I took up cooking and raised three dogs instead, acting on the impulses of creation rather than the slow and steady toxins of tit-for-tat successes.  I took up baking and paint my palette in floral hues, clipping roses that grew wild in the Texas humidity and sprinkling them on a finished cake.  I surprise myself every week by baking something I've never made before--beet pasta, an almond cake, a rosemary soda--and I do it to remind myself that the takeaway from my time abroad wasn't that I was in any way better off than those I left behind, but I need to constantly evolve, change, develop into the person I want to become.

And this week, I wanted to be a bread baker.  To be the kind of person who can create a baguette in triplicate.  I found the recipe on food52 and paired it with the Lee brother's radish butter.  I sat with this delicate snack on the chaise lounge, in the sunset where Murphy sleeps, and I thought about how the last time I ate a radish, it was at the housewarming party of an aunt who now lives in Indiana.  How the sun melted the sherbet and my sister and I played badminton while the sun settled in for the night.  I thought about all the delicate memories that hang by a thread and how easily we can forget them.   I wonder what will trigger my memory of this morning, stretched out with mint tea and a baguette smeared with radish butter, and if I'll remember it fondly or with the sudden urge of nostalgia, like the kind that still grips me when I think of all the missed opportunities I spent hating my family for never just taking those damn chocolates and appreciating that the effort was there all along. 

Bringing in Summer

I speak about memory, but how cruel it is to be reminded of my mother in every season.  She's stitched herself into every element, it's hard to lose sight of her in my periphery.  Autumn trips in Greyhounds and train stations, holding hands and taking naps on our way to New York City.  I'd go for my birthdays--13, 15, 16.  In Winter, I'd lick the spoon she'd used to make icing for the gingerbread men.  One big, one small.  They'd hold hands, too.  April was the cruelest month, it's the month my mother was born.

But in the summer, I remember my mother most vividly.  She takes the whole summer off sometimes, to take care of us or of our dogs.  She raised chickens one summer.  She'd sit out at the pool for hours, she'd forget to eat sometimes.  She liked the sun and never had a wrinkle.  She doesn't burn that easy.  There's Shawnee in her, close in the roots.  You see it in the undertones, you see it in the cheeks.

My parents come to visit three days before their 25th anniversary.  A handful of days after the Fourth of July.  My mom said she cut her hair short for summer.  My dad said he worked sixteen hours in one day and drove home with his eyes shut.  On the day my mother got her hair cut and the day my father worked so many hours, I bought strawberries by the bag full at the stand on the road.  Plump, their juices broke in the bag.  They greeted me with memories of the macerated strawberries I'd pick out of the tupperware bowl with my fingers.  We'd have shortcake for dessert and ice cream by the pool. When my parents come out, I'll make them this sundae and see if they remember those days the way I do:  perfect, simple, and gone forever.

Balsamic-Pickled Strawberry Sundae

A complicated, interesting take on a childhood classic.  Have some fun with this picking brine, add flavored liquors, more peppercorns for some spice, or even some citrus peel or ginger.

For the pickled strawberries: one quart mason jar of pickled berries and brining liquor

Ingredients:

  • 3/4 cup balsamic vinegar (I cannot stress enough how much a "good" balsamic makes a difference when its flavor is the key here)
  • 2/3 cup water
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 15-20 medium-sized strawberries (1.5 pints)
  • 1/2 tablespoon of freshly cracked peppercorns (black)
  • 2 teaspoons salt
  • 6-10 green cardamom pods, cracked
  • 2 sprigs mint, slightly muddled
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • pinch of cayenne pepper

 

Directions:

  1. In a small saucepan, combine vinegar, water and sugar together.  Stir and allow to come to a boil and reduce by 1/4 to become slightly thickened (it won't be by much, but it will constitute better as a brining liquid this way).  Allow to cool
  2. While vinegar mixture is cooling, hull and slice strawberries lengthwise.  Add to a mason jar (Note: follow proper canning techniques, if desired, but I was using them the next day and did not). 
  3. Add remaining ingredients, use a long spoon to mix gently to ensure some incorporation. 
  4. Once vinegar mixture is cool to the touch, pour into mason jar.  Put lid on and refrigerate for at least 12 hours, preferably 36.

For the Ice Cream (this one is kind of a "cheat recipe", as I like to go towards technique and not convenience.  So, if you're up for it, make some Chantilly Meringuée as I did here)

Ingredients:

  • 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk
  • 2 cups heavy whipping cream, chilled
  • 1 1/2 tablespoon vanilla
  • 1/2 teaspoon flaked sea salt
  • (Add anything else you want to it!  Crushed black peppercorns would be great!  Or swirl in some melted duck fat caramels for an even sweeter kick)

 

 

 

 

Directions:

  1. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, whip heavy cream on high until stiff peaks form, 3-5 minutes
  2. In a separate large mixing bowl, whisk condensed milk, vanilla, and salt together
  3. Fold whipped cream into condensed milk mixture with a rubber spatula
  4. Pour into a loaf pan or other pan of your liking and freeze 6+ hours

Assemble by putting a few pickled strawberries on a scoop of ice cream, add a sprig of mint.  What might be interesting would be taking some of the brining liquor and concentrating it into a syrup by boiling it down.  

Duck Fat Caramels with Smoked Salt

I was an alchemist this week, I created gold from sugar and cream.  I left the pot boiling and filled the dogs' water bowl while it simmered in sticky excess of itself.  A wooden spoon sat sideways off a plate, dripping liquid sugar, hardening in stalactites of golden-browns.  

Duck Fat Caramels with Smoked Salt

Candy making is a simple pleasure.  It brings joy; so I make it.  I whisk things into an emulsive state, I tuck them away in boxes and blankets of tissue paper.  I do it for the pleasure of family practice, to keep the heartbeat strong between my mother's craft and my hobbies.  I do it to feel her pulse on every countertop surface.  She showed me at Christmas how to temper chocolate and three months later I began a candy business.  She showed me at Christmas how to make caramel and I haven't stopped trying to perfect the recipe.  

I make candy to remember my past.  To remember my mother, to remember my high school friends who passed around bags of Werther's Originals in AP Chemistry.  The nostalgia I feel is simple, heartbreakingly simple.  

I make candy so I don't forget those feelings, those memories.  I can create magic through baking, I'm able to revive the dead.  Necromancy vis-à-vis the Maillard Reaction.  I created these caramels with this intention.  To layer all my old selves into one complicated morsel, to embrace those resurrected memories and wrap them in wax paper, tuck them away in a small and pretty box, and pull them out when I start forgetting where I came from.

Duck Fat Caramels with Smoked Salt

Savory and sweet caramels topped with a curious salt.  Makes 81 pieces. 

Duck Fat Caramels with Smoked Salt

Directions:

  1. Heavily grease a 9x9 brownie pan and line bottom with parchment (use a lot of room temperature butter here and cover all surfaced).  Set aside
  2. In a 4 quart dutch oven, combine all ingredients except vanilla and salt
  3. Heat on medium-high and allow to simmer until butter is melted.  Stir occasionally to incorporate ingredients.
  4. Once butter is melted, bring to a boil on high heat. Boil for 5-7 minutes.
  5. Lower heat to medium and simmer for 27-35 minutes.  Bubbles will appear tight and sticky.  Do not stir once reached this stage, but allow mixture to continue to caramelize.  It will become slightly fragrant, smelling fatty and slightly nutty.
  6. Once temperature reaches 240-243 *F on a candy thermometer (or, if you're old-school and the caramel has reached the hard-ball stage), splash in vanilla and give a quick stir with a wooden spoon
  7. Pour into prepared pan (be EXTRA careful) and allow to cool for at least 6 hours, until slightly hardened but pliable.  Invert onto a cutting board.  Sprinkle generously with smoked flaked salt
  8. Using a ruler, mark and cut into inch pieces.  Cut using a sharp knife or bench knife.  
  9. Wrap in wax or parchment paper.

Ingredients:

  • 1 1/2 cup white sugar
  • 1 1/2 cup dark brown sugar, packed
  • 1/3 cup butter, cut into small cubes
  • 2/3 cup duck fat (pref. Rougie)
  • 1 cup light corn syrup
  • 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • Smoked sea salt
Duck Fat Caramels with Smoked Salt

Back Home.

In three days I packed up my life in San Antonio and moved back in with Nolan in California.  The West Coast has some magnetic pull on me, the way water always run down to the deepest crack in the tile.  The way the black mould builds around it, the deep doubts that went into my decision to ever leave my home in San Diego.  

In three days, we tore down the home I had built for myself, broke book shelves into splinters.  Unhooked pictures I had hung to hide holes I had punched into the wall.  I lost a set of keys and found them in an old shoe.  I tucked my passport in a folder with pictures of my mother.  Things I valued made their way into suit cases, things I could replace found their way into trash bags that were advertised to hold 40 gallons of dead grass, debris, springtime detritus.  Everything I owned could fit in my Nissan and we stopped by coffeeshops to say goodbye to the friends I had made.  We promised to be different in our return, I'm holding onto that promise.

I am iron-fisted and yellow-bellied.  I didn't want to make it on my own anymore.  I didn't want to have my pride in the way of a life shared with someone.  The bravest thing to do is to love someone, the hardest thing I've ever done was drop Nolan off at the airport and wave goodbye, smiling.  In three days, I quit my job and left the Hill Country I tried so hard to romanticize.  I'll miss the white-walled sanctuary of a creative space to call my own.  I'll miss the train that screamed its presence like a mockingbird.  I'll miss the way the asphalt smelled in the post-rain break in the humidity.  I'll miss a lot of things, but I'm a different person now.

I'm older now.  Six months can do that to a person.  

We left when we wanted to and hit El Paso by dusk.  We chased elements along the way.  We hit fog in some mountain range that I couldn't tell you the name of.  Everything I had and loved was in that car, I didn't want to lose it all to the fog and my lack of depth perception.  In the gossamer veil that covered the mountaintops.  Deadly, smokey.  Miscarried clouds that threatened me, I woke up Nolan from his nap and had him drive through it.  He was confident, comfortable.  I know I can't do some things on my own, and that solidified why I made the decision to go back.  His calming presence, his reliability.  His ability to save me when I'm white-knuckled and shaggy-breathed.

We chased the rain, too.  Big puddles.  Giant puddles.  We hit them on the way to his sister's house.  We saw Las Cruces in the distance and passed signs that advertised authentic Native American goods.  We saw Las Cruces in the distance, we took an exit that advertised a new Wendy's opening.

The two days' drive out to California was punctuated like that.  Element diverting.  Pointing to distant towns, they had words like Halcyon and Sunshine in their names.  They promised things, artifacts of the manifest destiny that led the founders on their journey.  They had probably never felt a sun so hot.  It all felt like hell sooner or later and a lot less like paradise.  And up close in those small roadside towns, we saw boarded up windows, dogs on chains, billboards to buy 2,000 acres of land for $13,000.  We stopped at a gas station where the coffee pot had been on so long the remaining brew was scorched and sticking to the pot.  We stopped at another where the bathroom was to the side of the building and didn't have any soap.  We got some spiced gum drops, the kind our grandmothers used to eat, and some cold ginger ale and left soon after in a dust cloud.  We continued on out west and never shook anyone's hand along the way.

The car rides were silent sometimes, we held hands sometimes.  Milo came along, too.  We took turns holding him, we took turns napping.  We took turns paying for gas or food or the odd scratch-off to break up the monotony of one road and a thousand miles ahead of us.  We didn't eat well those few days, we slept even less.  We never talked about the future, because the future was right in front of us on the I-10, merged with us onto the I-8.  And when I could taste salt in my mouth, I didn't know if it was from tears, sweat, or my imagination running wild at the thought of the ocean.  

The desert can play tricks on you sometimes like that, but I beat the coyote at his own game.  I left Texas, left the desert, left the southwest altogether.  You can find me in San Diego now, at coffeeshops and Chinese restaurants, having the life I was supposed to when I moved into this house for the first time a year ago.

Homemade Ginger Ale and Spiced Orange Peel Candies

Inspired by our road trip snack choices, a refreshing ginger ale and spiced orange peels.  Pair with a scratch-off and you're all set for your next road trip.

For the Ginger Ale

Ingredients: 

  • 1 piece ginger, 6-8 inches by 2-4 inches (hard t gauge, but the more you put in, the more gingery it will taste), peeled* and cut into small rounds a quarter-inch thick
  • 3 1/2 cups water
  • 2 cups sugar
  • Pinch of salt
  • Squeeze of orange slice
  • 1 liter tonic water (pref. Schweppes) 

 

Directions:

  1. In a medium saucepan, combine water and sugar.  Over medium-high heat stir until sugar is dissolved. 
  2. Add ginger slices and bring mixture to a boil
  3. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 5-7 minutes.  Watch so sugar does not caramelize.
  4. Turn heat off.  Mixture should be syrupy and fragrant.  Add a pinch of salt squirt of orange juice.
  5. Put lid on saucepan and allow to steep for 30 minutes to 1 hour
  6. To assemble drink:  
    1. For an individual drink:  Pour ginger syrup in a glass about a quarter way full, top with tonic water, then with ice
    2. For a whole bottle:  Use a decanter (for immediate use) or a hermetic bottle for later use (recommend within half an hour).  Add all of the syrup and top with tonic water slowly with a funnel. Chill in refrigerator. Enjoy with the spiced orange peels.

Spiced Orange Peels

Ingredients:

  • Peel of one orange, cut into strips
  • 2 cups water
  • 2 cups sugar
  • 1/4 cup sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1/4 teaspoon ginger powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon chili powder
  • 1/8 teaspoon cumin
  • pinch of black pepper

 

Directions:

  1. In a pot of boiling water, simmer orange peel strips for 15 minutes.  Drain water and rinse with cold water.  Rinse again. Set aside.
  2. In a medium saucepan, combine water and sugar and heat on medium-high until sugar is dissolved and begins to boil (watch again carefully for caramelization).
  3. Lower heat to medium-low and add peels and simmer for 15-20 minutes until tender and gummy.
  4. Put on a baking sheet with a paper towel underneath to drain some of excess syrup off.
  5. While peels drain, mix remaining ingredients on a shallow plate with a fork.  Lay down parchment paper.
  6. Dip peels in sugar mixture with fork or fingers and dip on both sides.  Lay on parchment paper to dry 8-12 hours or until dried.