Cooking for Men: Cinnamon Baked Apples

A good friend of mine called last night around 6PM. The conversation went like this:

Him: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Writing.”
Him: “Wanna get dinner”
Me: “I’m writing. I’m reheating something I made yesterday.”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Pulled pork.”

Pause, and then the question he was waiting for:

Me: “Do you want to come over? I can make you a plate. But you can’t talk to me, because I’m working.”
Him: “Can I watch the game?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “I’m at the door.”

He’s not the only man I’ve last-minute-cooked for this week; I’ve been testing a lot recipes, and inviting friends to partake. The friends are men, mostly, and I’ve noticed something remarkable that happens when I invite them for food.

They come to the door more tentatively, and they're usually carrying a gift. They've put on a better shirt, and they're more formal with me than usual, like when they politely for seconds. And boy are they helpful, as in: Can they take out the garbage? Walk the dog? Do the dishes? They insist on clearing the table.

They look in my eyes when they say “thank you”, and they say it more than once, as if they’re eleven years old, I’m their best friend’s mom, and their mom told them to mind their manners, be polite and mind their please-and-thank-yous.

We've been friends for a while, but when I play in the kitchen and share, these men go all sweet.

It’s not a boyfriend/girlfriend thing, it’s more of a gender thing. These days, many of the men I know have almost been conditioned out of thinking that a women might enjoy cooking for them. When we when do, they get woozy. They look at me with a cocked head, the way my dog does when she comes across something she didn't expect.

My friend was halfway through his pulled pork when he said, “Allison, today I walked around the neighborhood, calling the women I know, and telling them I was nearby. They each invited me over, gave me something to eat, and told me about their love lives. I think it was the best day of my life.”

A drizzly, rainy Brooklyn day. A day for baking pies, lazy reading and slow cooking. And for this guy, a day to go door-to-door with his empty stomach and friendship.

Cooking is much more fun when there’s an appreciative someone who enjoys what you’ve made. And when that guest is as unexpected as the cooking, it’s a happy coincidence.

Cinnamon Baked Apples
Serves 6

6 small (4- to 6-ounce) baking apples (such as Golden Delicious, Braeburn or Rome Beauty)
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/3 cup (packed) brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped pecans (optional)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup apple juice, plus ½ cup water
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Using melon baller, scoop out stem, core and seeds of apples, leaving bottom intact. Using vegetable peeler, peel skin off top half of each apple. Arrange apples, cavity side up, in 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish.
2. Stir raisins, sugar, pecans if desired and cinnamon in small bowl to blend. Pack about 2 tablespoons raisin mixture into cavity of each apple. Sprinkle any remaining raisin mixture into dish around apples. Pour juice over and around apples. Dot apples with butter.
3. Bake apples 15 minutes; baste with juices. Continue to bake until apples are slightly puffed and tender, basting every 10 minutes, about 40 minutes. Transfer baking dish to work surface; let apples stand 10 minutes, basting occasionally.
4. Transfer apples to bowls. Spoon pan juices over and serve warm.

Nutritional Info (without pecans):
Calories: 192 / Fat: 4g / Carb: 42g / Fiber: 3g / Protein: 1g

Crumble

I’ve begun writing a weekly ingredient column for Saveur.com. It’s a pleasure to be part of Saveur again; my very first job with the magazine was as a test kitchen intern ten years ago.

Time-wise, it’s replaced my blogging. Plus, I’ve begun taking grad journalism classes at the NYU’s Journalism School, and something about reporting rigor has made me less interested in spilling out my social life amongst the bits. Live and learn.

My last post was from the beach in North Carolina – was that just six weeks ago? And now, I'm surrounded by pears, plums and apples. I still haven’t mastered the pie crust (total mental block), but I’m happy with my easy crumbles. Who wants all those pie crust flour calories, anyway, when you can have butter and sugar calories?

Gingered Pear Crumble
Makes 6 to 8 servings

For the topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small bits and chilled
1/2 cup pecans

For the filling:
4 large or 6 medium pears, peeled and cut into thin slices
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons corn starch
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons minced crystallized ginger
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 375F. For the topping: In a food processor, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pulse to combine.

2. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times until mixture has pea-sized pieces of butter mixed in with the flour and oats. Add the pecans and pulse a few more times to coarsely chop the pecans and to mix them through the topping. Transfer the topping to a bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the pears, sugar, corn starch, lemon juice, ginger and salt. Gently fold all ingredients together. Transfer the filling into an 8 x 8-inch baking dish.

4. Once the topping is chilled, loosely scatter it over the top of the fruit in the baking dish. Bake for until fruit is bubbly and top is golden, 35 to 45 minutes. Cool for 15 minutes before serving.

Carolina Blue Crabs: Steam, Smash, Suck

As soon as I arrived at my parents house for a late August visit, the neighbor called. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse: a dozen live crabs.

"That is so sweet of you!" I told Judy.

"No, it really isn't," she said. "I'm sick of crabs, and I knew you'd deal with them." For folks who live on the Lockwood Folly River, the gift of crabs is a gift to the giver. It's almost too easy to catch them, and as everyone knows, an easy catch is often undervalued.

Plus, crabs -- some say -- are a pain to deal with. They are more complex than a fish out of water, floundering on the dock. Crabs attack with aggression of an animal fighting for it's life. Which is only fair, really, and I say, "Good for you, assertive crab!"

I have mad respect for crabs.



The other thing that makes folks not love crabs is the yield. You don't get a lot of meat for the amount of effort you put in. But I'm a quality over quantity kinda girl, so that works just fine for me. Plus, picking crabs is low-cal eating; I can't possibly suck down more calories than I burn while searching for crab meat.

Within moments I was holding a bucket of a dozen writhing crabs. Now what? Occam had it right -- the very best way to cook crabs is the simplest. I put them in a pot with an inch or two of water and steamed until they turned bright red.



I took the just-steamed crabs down to the dock, pulled out a mallet and got myself something sturdy to bang against; my parents dock. It's a perfect cycle; from the water to the pot and back to the water again. Talk about your eco-friendly eating.



I pulled down the apron, tore off the top shell, and threw it in the river. I looked for the backfin meat and was far less successful than I was hammering away at the claws. And last, I sucked every last leglet free of it's meat. It's like those little pixy stix I enjoyed in second grade, but now I really had to suck that meat out instead of just tossing back my head for a sugar high.

Good stuff. And as it is said, the meat closest to the bone (or in this case, the shell) really is the sweetest. Steamed crabs are worth every suck.

Brooklyn Basil and Persistent Pintos

I ran through the door and he slapped me in the face.

He was hurt by what I said, and I never saw it coming. He grew up tough, in Brooklyn, the kind that played on the roof for fun. He didn’t know from air conditioning and upscale grocery stores. Before I opened my eyes, I inhaled him. I had forgotten how good he smelled.

He whispered, “You underestimated me, didn’t you. You had no idea what I was capable of. Look at me now, here in this apartment. I’m in my prime. You want me again.”

And with that, he made clear: basil season was here. I no longer had to be sated with whatever I could find washed, boxed, transported and climate-controlled in my grocery store. This basil was planted just weeks ago – he lived his life on a Brooklyn fire escape and was now just minutes from the soil.

Tonight, he would be a scene-stealing supporting actor to a giant ball of burrata, that milky-soft mozzarella. She sat in the center of a platter, flat-round like an underfilled water balloon. Around her were sliced plum tomatoes, and the assertive basil, now torn. Everyone was glistening with salt and olive oil.

My friends and I took turns digging our way through the platter. The burrata tasted of virgin milk, which contrasted with her texture, which reminded me of the breasts an almost-forty woman; still supple, yet substantial in the hand -- becoming more yielding with every moment. She was a perfect foil for that basil, who was at his arrogant best, and the first of the summer tomatoes, quiet and smug.

A Park Slope friend had invited me over for a pot-luckish dinner, alleging, “it’ll be a bunch of salads”. Always happy to taste and share, I offered, “I just rehydrated some beans -- they’re totally delicious. I’ll bring them!” I could hear disappointment in his silence. Beans are not the dish anyone clamors for.

And yet, I persisted. I tossed the pintos with avocado, chopped tomatoes, lime juice and baby arugula. The dish was pretty and tasty (there were some “mmmm”’s, and “how did you make that?”’s, but in the end I knew the beans remained the bastard dish.

And I was once again reminded that no matter how much I study my craft, and try to elevate the humble, Mother Nature will always kick my ass.


Pinto Beans
They’re sexier than you think.

1 1-pound bag pinto beans
1 bay leaf
an old onion you were thinking about throwing out, peeled and cut in half
a few cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed (ditto above)
½ teaspoon dried oregano
way more kosher salt than you think
cider vinegar or lime juice

1. Put pintos in a pot and cover with water by one inch. Bring to a boil; drain. Doesn’t the water seem extra-clear for some reason? I have no idea why, but I’ve always thought I was interesting.
2. Put the beans pack in the pot, rinse a few times. Cover again, now with about 2 inches of water. Add the bay leaf, onion, and garlic. Bring to a simmer, and simmer very gently, uncovered, until they are soft-firm, about 45 minutes to an hour.
3. Now here’s the key: Salt the beans from the very beginning. Add about a tablespoon to start, then taste the water after about 20 minutes of cooking. Is it bland? Add another teaspoon, then add pinches, every 5 minutes or so until that water is tasty. Remember – the water should be salty like the sea, and taste good. By the end, the water and beans will taste the same.
4. When done, add a couple teaspoons of cider vinegar, or the juice of a generous lime. Use that to balance the flavors; beans can be a bit flabby and improve with a little sour perk-up.

You Can Order Anything at the Butcher: Stuffed Peppers

The terrific folks over at Hyperion have given me a box of Cook Yourself Thin books to distribute to industry friends. That's good, because I've spent at least a couple episodes' of revenue buying books and giving them away.

I decided that it would be classier to wrap said books than not, and wouldn't it be cute to wrap them in butcher paper and butcher string? Where does one go to get said "wrap"? To the butcher, I went!

I've got 20 books, so that's a heck of a lot of paper, more than I would feel comfortable asking for on the side. So I went to my guy, and asked if I could order some some butcher paper.

"Whaddya mean, 'butcher paper'?"

"I mean, the paper that you, the butcher, use to pack things up?"

"You mean this?" He holds up the white glossy paper that's thicker than parchment, and usually touches the meat.

"No, that's not it. The brown paper. There it is -- on the roll!"

"Ah, you mean peach paper."

I guess I did. And so I ordered a $40 roll -- enough to last me through a decade of baby gifts, showers, and Chanukah presents.

Butchers always seem like a rough-and-tumble lot to me. You know, carving up carcasses, handling meat. And yet, he called the stuff peach paper; not pink, not brown, not 'meat wrap'. It seemed so delicate; so precise.

And what was I expecting, exactly? After all, you don't go to China asking for Chinese food, now do you?



Antipasti Platter in Providence's Little Italy. The Stuffed Peppers are at 12 o'clock and 4 o'clock:

Stuffed Peppers
I suppose you could make them, but I don't, especially when trading favors with my butcher. These perky little peppers are stuffed with prosciutto and provolone, which both accentuate, enhance, and then relieve the fire in your mouth. They also come stuffed with breadcrumbs, but I like the low-carb version myself.

The Rhoda Moment: Chicken Fingers and Mint Chocolate Chip Muffins

As part of the promotional effort for the Cook Yourself Thin TV show and cookbook, I found myself on the CBS morning show yesterday morning.

In effort to distract myself from the hoopla (as well as my goosebumps, and clattering teeth), I looked left right and center to get my bearings. Across Fifth Avenue was The Plaza, to the left was Bergdorff's and Central Park was to the right. If I looked up towards the sun, there were the building tops of midtown.

Thankfully, Candice Kumai was beside me, a partner in promotion, so I took a moment to distract us from out talking points and the public application of double stick tape to various parts of our bodies, and pointed some local points of interest. When I feel like a tourist in my own reality, nothing grounds me quite like the living history of New York City.

Here's a clip of the CBS Early Show appearance for Cook Yourself Thin.

And here's recipes for some of our recipes. I dig the Chicken Fingers -- and Harry, our CBS host was right; that Cole Slaw is tasty. Try the Mint Chocolate Chip Cupcakes.

Attentive Asparagus and Melting Strawberries: Asparagus Pesto

I was at a roadside farmstand in the Hamptons this week when I asked a particularly daft question. When I arrived, the farmer told me that the only items that were local right now were the strawberries and the asparagus. She sighed, and seemed disappointed.

The strawberries looked good to me. Pretty, teeny and perky. The Lolitas of the farm.

I asked my farmette how long the strawberry growing season was. She looked at me quizzically and somewhat irritated. “Well that’s the $64 dollar question, ain’t it,” she said.

“???” I responded. Ears open, mouth shut.

“You see, we don’t know what the season is gonna be like, now do we. If we get sun, we get sweet berries. If we get rain, the berries melt in the field.”

“Melt?” I asked.

“Sure. Whaddya think happens to ‘em?” she smiled a scold, and walked away to unload a truck of fuschias.

Oof. I mean, I can appreciate hard labor, but I also like a sure thing, especially when it comes to earning a living. Farmers do their best with their land and technology, but in the end…as it has been said by many a Yiddish speaker before me: Man plans. God laughs.

And speaking of man, how ‘bout that asparagus? In New York City these erect little soldiers are just everywhere. Quite an eager suitor for that tart little strawberry, come to think of it. Yet I've never seen them in a dish together. Mutual availability doesn't always make a match.

I couldn't resist the temptation of the young asparagus; I had to have some. And when I arrived home carrying bunches of the stuff, I found their Jersey brothers already lining my vegetable bins. I had an asparagus harem. Oh what, oh what to do?

Nearly every farm stand in the Hamptons was selling asparagus pesto, and as everyone in the food business knows, pesto is a variation on the we-have-too-much-of-this-and-need-to-find-a-way-to-use-it-before-it-goes-bad theme. Jams, jellies, even ravioli and dumplings are all just a way to give food one last shot before it hits the bin. A culinary rope-a-dope, if you will.

So I tossed my bunch of Jersey asparagus with a little oil, salt and pepper, and charred it under the broiler. Then I threw it in the food processor with the tiniest clove or raw garlic, a generous shaving of parmesan, some just-toasted sliced almonds, and a little olive oil. Voila! Asparagus Pesto.

I spread the pesto on a cracker and dropped to my knees. This was the stuff! I could toss the pesto with pasta or garbanzos, or I could thin it with a little chicken stock to make a puree to put under striped bass or somesuch. I could served the dish with grilled lemons; my favorite.

And as for those strawberries? They were so sublime that I couldn't control myself; I ate them raw in the car. This season, it was the strawberries turn to make me melt.


Asparagus Pesto
Toss with spaghetti and some bay scallops, or spread on crackers and enjoy. Less aggressive than basil pesto, it's an incredibly satisfying way to get rid of the old and make room for the new.

1 bunch asparagus
1 tiny garlic clove
1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted until golden
¼ cup Parmesan cheese (shaved on a Microplane grater)
olive oil, salt, pepper
verjus, sherry vinegar, champagne vinegar or lemon juice

1. Toss asparagus with a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper. Place on a baking sheet under the broiler. Babysit it until it sizzles, and gets a little color – 5 to 10 minutes depending on the aggressiveness of your broiler.
2. Place asparagus in a food processor with the garlic, almonds, parmesan, and another tablespoon or two of the olive oil. Pulse until chunky-pureed.
3. Taste. Good, right? Adjust for acidity with a tablespoon of verjus, or a teaspoon or 2 of vinegar or lemon juice