Monthly Archives: March 2012

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Pecan Cookies

I don’t make nearly enough cookies – I tend to get distracted by fussier desserts like tartlets and cupcakes. I forget that the humble chocolate chip cookie can easily measure up against its fancier cousins, and sometimes even surpass them.

Okay, I’m lying. That’s not the real reason I don’t make cookies. The real reason is that I stink at cookies. Rather than acknowledge that and work to get better, I would prefer to just bury my weakness in the cookie arena in a dark corner of my mind and come up with a flip excuse when someone asks me to make them – “wouldn’t you rather have cupcakes?” “Oh, how about cookie dough ice cream instead?” The fact that even I can’t seem to screw these up speaks to how fail-safe these cookies are.

This is just the cookie recipe from the back of the Quaker Oats box, tweaked slightly and with extra ingredients. It’s endlessly adaptable – I call these “kitchen sink cookies” because you really can throw anything but the kitchen sink in them and they’ll still turn out perfect. This time I used chocolate chips and pecans because that’s what I had on hand, but walnuts, raisins, white chocolate chips, and toasted coconut (my mom’s brilliant addition) are all good additions, too.

Make these today. Have them before dinner (or for dinner). They’ll make you forget that you didn’t win the Mega Millions jackpot last night. Unless you won the Mega Millions jackpot, in which case I’m not sure what you’re doing reading this instead of immediately hiring me to make your cookies for you.

[click for recipe and more]

Meyer Lemon Basiltini

As much as I love basil vodka, it’s not something I’d ever want to take shots of, or even drink on the rocks. It’s too strong, and (perhaps more importantly) I am far past the age where I can do shots in any sort of dignified manner.

If, however, you wish to take shots of it, I certainly don’t begrudge you that. In fact, I salute you. But if you’re like me and you believe that a rainy Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to sip on a fancy, pretty cocktail while you bake/do laundry/train for a marathon, etc., then this is probably the drink for you. Also, call me, because I think we should probably be friends.

The musky, slightly sweet basil is perfect with tart Meyer lemon juice, and a hint of simple syrup rounds it out. This would be great at a dinner party as a pre-dinner drink, or for any cocktail hour. Or, as originally created, a “just because” drink, because you had a long week and you earned it, dammit.

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DIY Vodka Infusions, Part 2 – Basil

Basil vodka was my very first at-home liquor infusion (although I posted about my second first). You’ll know everything you need to about the results by the simple fact that I haven’t stopped since. I infuse everything now – vodka, oil, vinegar, shampoo…it’s become a bit of an obsession, all because this first infusion turned out so stinking good. This one will always be my favorite, because it’s so different. You can get vodka in almost any flavor these days, from marshmallow to pomegranate, but most of the off-the-shelf flavors lean toward the guaranteed-to-be-popular sweet or fruity types. The musky, earthy scent and flavor of basil isn’t for everyone, but for me it was a welcome change (especially after trying a cloyingly sweet whipped cream flavor a week earlier…ick!).

I made the first batch of this over the holidays, while in a DIY gifting frenzy. Tragically, I gave every last bit away, but after recalling how much I’d enjoyed my taste tests (a completely necessary and non-optional step in vodka infusing, of course), I mixed up another batch to welcome spring and the beginning of basil season. I still plan to give most of it away, but have set aside a small bottle to keep this time – lesson learned!

Basil vodka mixes beautifully with citrus or berry flavors – I’ll post a recipe later this week for the cocktail I enjoyed while on a baking bender this past rainy Saturday – but it’s also pretty much custom-made for a Bloody Mary. Whatever you do with it, be sure to give some away, because a) it’s dangerous to keep too much lying around, and b) it’s fun to let your friends think you’re some sort of mad scientist.

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Steamed Artichokes

Last week, I had dinner with my mom. We walked to the grocery store together, less to shop than to get out and enjoy the balmy March evening (ignoring the fact that March evenings aren’t supposed to be balmy). As background, my mom (and most of my family) lives just outside the third-rudest city in America - a dubious distinction at best, and one that often leaves Nor and I contemplating packing up to pursue a bucolic life somewhere else. Someplace where we might be able to let our future kids play outside safely, where we might push them out the door to join an impromptu game of baseball instead of shepherding them to a meticulously scheduled “playdate.” Someplace where people still hold doors for each other and make eye contact just to say hello, and where you can slow to let a pedestrian cross the road without being thanked by screeching brakes and one-fingered salutes.

There is still a hint of that idyllic existence in my mom’s neighborhood – it’s one of the few places in this area where I still see a sense of community, and I saw that as we walked home from the store that night. Passing a neighbor’s house, my mom glanced over and saw the couple sitting on their front porch, clearly in the middle of dinner. “Let’s go say hi,” she said. “They’d love to see you – it’s been years!” Thoroughly conditioned by life in this area to respect privacy and not intrude, I hesitated, thinking they’d think us rude for interrupting their dinner. But as we approached, they stood and happily greeted us with hugs, exclamations, and a glass of wine, not the least bit perturbed that we’d stormed their porch in the middle of dinner. As we chatted and caught up on the fifteen years since I’d last seen them, I quickly relaxed. They continued eating as we chatted – artichokes with mayonnaise, fruit salad on the side. The pile of discarded leaves continued to grow until our wine glasses were empty and my mom and I set off to fix our own dinner a few blocks away.

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Rustic Hand-chopped Pesto


Okay, I normally don’t use words like “rustic” to describe recipes. In my kitchen, it’s a running joke that if something turns out edible but supremely unattractive, it gets classified as “rustic.” The banana bread that overrose its pan and spilled over the sides? Rustic. Mushroom gravy that tasted divine but looked like something you’d scrape off your shoe? Rustic. See the pattern?

I may have to retire that joke in favor of the true definition of rustic – charmingly simple, unsophisticated. When I first tasted this pesto, my eyes opened wide, and I think I let out an audible gasp. I could taste every component in each bite – the basil, the garlic, the pine nuts, and the parmesan. It was as if each ingredient took a quick turn in a starring role before melding together into the most perfect blend of flavors I can imagine. It’s the simplest of dishes – five ingredients and no equipment required but a sharp knife, a cutting board, and some elbow grease (RUSTIC!). It’s that simplicity that makes this pesto special. Hand-chopping the ingredients a little bit at a time is what allows each flavor to both shine on its own and meld with the others, because it’s not ground into mushy paste in a blender (blenders aren’t rustic). The best part, aside from the taste, is the feeling of accomplishment after finishing all of that chopping (or maybe that’s just me. Frankly, it doesn’t take much to make me feel accomplished). Accomplishment, for the record, is also rustic.

[click for recipe and more]

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