Southern Apple Cake from Michigan

It is my pleasure this week to present you with a guest post from Meg, who has apparently bestowed upon me much undue praise. This cake is absolutely delicious and takes surprisingly little effort, though I wouldn't recommend skimping on any of the butter! I can understand the desire to make a seemingly overwhelming number of apple dishes in Michigan, since apples seem to constitute about half of the available produce this time of year. At any rate, here's Meg!

Chez Ham sounds kind of like Sheahan, or at least the version of my last name most strangers use before I correct their pronunciation. So, by my poor sense of logic, it was only a matter of time before I started vandalizing Graham's blog. But, be warned, just like Sheahan doesn't sound quite as nice as Chez Ham, my ramblings won't compare with Graham's witty asides and calculated prose. Similarly, Graham is a better cook. It's true. His onions are always perfectly chopped and his béchamel comes out every time. It took me a while to get over it, but I've finally accepted my inferiority in the kitchen ... and now have a good excuse why he should chop the vegetables when we cook together.

But, I do have something that Graham no longer has: fall. When he moved to the west coast, he left all connection to the seasonality of food behind. For those of us elsewhere in the states (and beyond), it undoubtedly will be annoying when Graham continues cooking with tomatoes well into the winter. On his recent trip to Michigan, I reminded him what fall feels and looks like — from the chilly mornings, to apple cider, to the farmers markets full of pumpkins and other beautiful squash. We cooked most of our fall favorites, and I even sent him back to California with some leftovers to remind him of what the rest of us are experiencing.

So, today, I bring you fall. I am convinced it is most people's favorite season because it is here so briefly; it's the buffer between repressively humid summers and winters that never end. We soak up all of the sensory details before our canvases turn white and our farms similarly blank. I find myself coming home from the farmers market with far more squash and root vegetables than I could possibly consume in one week — I blame the constant reminder that the scarcity of winter is upon us, particularly in the frozen tundra I am currently inhabiting.

I am normally not one for baking, particularly desserts, but this apple cake has resonated with my love for autumn, cinnamon, and soggy things. Many thanks to my new friend Miriam for the lovely introduction. She shared her labor with a lucky group of us at one of our first study sessions of the semester. For some reason, we continue to invite her back — I'm not sure if it's the hope that another apple cake will accompany her, or if its her impressive grasp of math.

Apple Cake

Adapted From Edna Lewis'
"The Gift of Southern Cooking"

For the Cake

• 1 Cup Brown sugar
• 1 Cup Granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 Cups vegetable oil
• 3 Eggs
• 3 Cups All-purpose flour
• 1 Tsp Baking soda
• 2 Tsp Cinnamon
• 1/2 Tsp Nutmeg
• 1/2 Tsp Salt
• 5 Fresh, tart apples, peeled, cored, and diced into 1/2 inch pieces
• 2 1/4 Tsp vanilla extract

For the Glaze

• 4 Tbs (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
• 1/4 Cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 Cup brown sugar
• Pinch of salt
• 1/2 Cup heavy cream

1. Preheat oven to 325F
2. Butter and flour 9"x13" baking pan
3. Put sugars and vegetable oil in a mixing bowl, and beat until very well blended. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Sift together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt, and gradually add to the sugar and eggs, mixing just until well blended. Stir in the apples and vanilla, and pour into the prepared pan.
4. Bake in the preheated oven until a skewer or toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean, about 1 1/4 hrs (begin checking after 50 minutes). Remove from the oven, and allow to cool in the pan while you prepare the glaze.
5. To make the glaze, melt the butter in a saucepan, and add both the sugars and the salt. Stir until blended, a cook over medium-low heat for 2 minutes. Stir in the heavy cream, and boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.
6. Use a skewer or toothpick to poke holes all over the top of the cake,and pour the warm glaze over the surface. Serve warm, at room temperature, or the next day (if you like soggy as much as me).

NB: The actual recipe also recommends stirring in 1 1/4 cups chopped pecans with the apple. Also, I added some allspice with the nutmeg and cinnamon to make it that much more delicious. When Graham made this, he didn't have vegetable oil, but substituted in a similar amount of butter. As with all cooking, add and subtract as you please.

Boring Soup Revisited

If ever there were star-crossed ingredients in the culinary landscape, potatoes and leeks would fill the role. I'm not sure if I've ever cooked them separately except in cases where I bought unmatched portions for a tandem dish. Perhaps it is this seemingly forced union that results in a boring soup. Many recipes call for boiling the two in water to cover, then adding salt and maybe even a bouquet garni if one is so lucky. Heavy doses of cream and milk serve to dull any flavor that might otherwise prove noticeable. The first time I made this dish everyone involved was sorely disappointed that they had to finish the bowl. I think Es and Josh can attest here.

Sautéing and sweating the leeks until they are soft and more flavorful seems the only reasonable course of action. Vichyssoise, with its innumerable idiosyncrasies, also calls for white pepper. I'm not sure who first decided that a monochrome, homogeneous glop of liquid held any aesthetic appeal, but I'm firm in my belief that retaining some textural elements and colors other than beige will drastically improve the dish's appeal. I've used a recipe from Alton Brown here, largely because of its call for the addition of buttermilk: a decidedly welcome tang in the face of potential blandness.

I made the stock from scratch in order to probe the impact of the soup's liquid base, and can say confidently that it doesn't seem to matter much given the strong presence of ingredients present in the final product. The stock proportions came from Cooks Illustrated. For a quart and change of stock let four parts be one pound.

Potato and Leek Soup

For the Stock

• 4 Parts Dark Greens (e.g. Collard)
• 4 Parts Leek, 4 Parts Onion-Like Veggies, 2 Parts Shallots
• 3 Parts Cauliflower
• 3 Bunches Scallions, Sliced Thin
• Many Cloves of crushed garlic
• A few carrots, a stalk or two of celery
• Bottom of a stalk of lemongrass, bruised by whatever means necessary
• A few pinches of salt and pepper
• About a bunch of parsley, few sprigs thyme, some bay leaves
• 2 Cups water per part dark greens

For the Soup

• 1 Lb. Leeks (4 Mid-Sized), White and Light Green Parts Chopped
• 3/4 Lb. Potatoes (3 Medium-Small), Peeled and Chopped Fine
• 1 Qt. Above Stock, or store bought
• Less than 1 C. Heavy Cream
• Less than 1 C. Buttermilk
• Chives to garnish
• 3 Tbs. Unsalted butter

For the Stock

1. Sweat onion-like vegetables, garlic, celery, and carrots until very soft and beginning to caramelize --- 20-30 minutes. Add leeks and cook until also soft, another 10 minutes perhaps. Add a cup or so of water and continue to cook until the liquid has reduced to almost nothing.
2. Add seasoning, spices, and water and bring to a boil before backing off to a simmer and cooking for another 15 minutes or so.
3. Add any remaining and cooking for yet another 15 minutes.
4. Strain the stock through a sieve and keep around for the soup, or store in the fridge/freezer as desired.

For the Soup

1. Sweat the leeks in butter over medium heat for a few minutes before turning heat down to low. Cook for another 25 minutes until the leeks are very tender.
2. Add potatoes and stock and cook until potatoes are tender, probably a bit more than half an hour.
3. Stir in cream and buttermilk, season, and add chives for garnish if desired. Mash or puree the soup to the desired consistency.

NB: Skimping on the sweating time for the leeks will result in a much different final texture. Bruising lemongrass can be accomplished slowly by using the back of a chef's knife, but a meat tenderizer proves to be both more efficient and more fun.

Though I wouldn't exactly call this soup a flavor explosion, it does satisfy a cold weather craving for something hot (not to say I have such cravings given my surroundings.) Hopefully I can one day think of an added twist to make this more exciting.

You say Moussaka, I say Musakka

I thought I knew what Moussaka was, but there is apparently no cross-cultural consensus on the contents of this dish. An email from Megan luckily contained citations, though I likely wouldn't have been too far off the trail left to my own devices. Apparently what we are gunning for here is a meatless, Turkish version of the dish, and with any luck one may have most of the ingredients lying around the kitchen.

The key, as in other eggplant dishes, is to get the dastardly things to release their moisture without absorbing gobs of fat. For this we saute them briefly and then move them to the oven to concentrate their flavors while the rest of the dish is finished. Cooking the onions over low heat for a long time most definitely changes the character of the dish, and adding honey seems to complement these flavors.

While sprinkling Feta cheese on our Turkish Musakka seems a faux pas, I must admit I didn't have anything aside from the usual Gouda floating around at the time. Reports, however, indicate that Feta works quite well in this context. Thanks to Meg for working out the kinks before sending this along to me.

Meatless Mediterranean Mussaka

For the Mussaka

• 1 Large Eggplant, Diced Coarsely (1"x1" pieces)
• 1 Onion, Chopped
• 1 Can Chickpeas, Drained and Rinsed
• 1 1/2 Lbs. Fresh Tomatoes (28 Oz. Can) Chopped
• 1 Cup Water
• Some Olive Oil
• 3 Cloves Garlic, Minced
• 1 Tbs. Honey
• 1 Tsp. Cinnamon
• 1/2 Tsp. Allspice
• Salt and Pepper
• Feta Cheese to Top

1. Saute eggplant in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil for five minutes or so, then transfer to an oven at 400F.
2. Add a few more glugs of oil and saute the onions on low heat until they become very soft. Add the chickpeas and cook for another few minutes.
3. Add tomatoes and eggplant from the oven, along with the remaining ingredients aside from Feta. Add water and cook for another half hour or so while covered. Remove the lid and continue to cook out liquid until the Musakka has reached a desired texture.
4. Adjust seasoning and add Feta if desired.

NB: A thicker texture is my preference. Serve over rice if desired.

As a side note: If my dishes always look strangely pale, it's because I have an unrelenting supply of orange tomatoes from the garden — they produce a rather eerie tomato sauce.

Nick-Inspired Hunk of Beef

The Tri-Tip. This one goes out to Nick, who started making this during undergrad on our improvised charcoal grill (this was somewhere near the chicken coop, I believe). The cooking method doesn't seem to matter so much — it need only provide something close to charring on the outside. If the interior fails to scare off squeamish friends it has probably been overcooked. I couldn't exactly remember what went in the marinade and hence decided that I should simply preserve the general theme.

This large hunk of meat was supposed to have come from the grass-fed beef guy at the farmers' market, but there was a slight mix-up with procurement. Being up until 2:00 the previous morning feverishly trying to brew an all-grain batch of IPA (subject of another post), I begged Gael to snatch the roast early on before they were all accounted for. Beef transfer failed to occur in time, so I ended up picking up a surrogate. Staging a comparison between the two seems almost required: I can't wait to see how the pretentious beef fares.

I've opted to roast to an internal temperature of 135F in the oven — this can obviously be adapted to personal preference. A good cut should be fairly tender even at this level of done-ness. Letting the roast rest for a good 10 minutes or more before cutting can help it hold onto some of the extra juices instead of spewing them all over the cutting surface. Grilling would be preferable, but it was unseasonably cold in Southern California this week (read: 63).

I served this with some roasted pepper and quinoa, just because I had both of them lying around in fairly large quantities.

Marinated Tri-Tip

For the Roast

• 2-3 Lb. Tri-Tip Roast
• 1/2 Cup Soy Sauce
• 1 Tbs Sesame Oil
• 3 Bunches Scallions, Sliced Thin
• 4 Cloves Garlic, Smashed
• Several Grinds Black Pepper
• 1 Tsp Chile Powder
• Water to Increase Marinade Volume

For the Roast Peppers

• Few Anaheim Peppers
• Few Bell Peppers

For the Quinoa

• 1 or So Cups Quinoa
• Twice as Much Water
• 1 Tbs-ish Butter
• 1/2 Tsp. Turmeric
• Seasoning

1. Add all of the ingredients but water to a large zip-top bag and insert the roast, work the marinade around and add enough water to ensure most of the meat is covered at all times. Massaging at this stage is suggested. Leave in fridge for at least an hour.
2. Broil peppers in oven, turning to all sides until skin is almost entirely blackened. Remove from oven and cover in a bowl to let steam for a few minutes. Skins and other undesirable parts should be easily removed. Slice for serving.
3. Set temp to 400F. Shake off excess marinade and place roast on rack in roasting pan to elevate. Cook for maybe 30-45 minutes, depending on desired done-ness. I chose 135F for the final internal temperature, ostensibly this is medium-rare.
4. Meanwhile, saute the quinoa in butter briefly until it gives off a faintly nutty smell. Add the water and season with turmeric, salt, and pepper. Cook for 15-20 minutes until water is gone.
5. Let the roast rest under foil tent for at least 10 or 15 minutes, then slice to serve.

NB: A digital thermometer is really indispensable here, especially one with a temperature alarm.

Tri-Tips come with a natural gradient in cross-sectional area, and as a result tend to range from medium-well to medium-rare as one progresses from the thinner to the thicker side. This is useful for the aforementioned skittish guest, though said guest should probably be kept away from the site of slicing just to be sure.

Thanks again to Nick for the inspiration — a good tri-tip can be found at Trader Joe's.

Non-Yuppy Hummus

Hummus is one of those foods I feel really silly buying, mostly since I typically finish a moderately sized container in less than a day. At the farmers market the going rate is 3 small tubs for $15, more if bought individually. This is truly yuppy hummus.

The constituent ingredients are relatively easy to find, and generally cheap. Production is an affair no longer than ten minutes. Rumor has it that one can simply use sesame seeds instead of store-bought tahini sauce. I will save this for another post, however.

Red Pepper Hummus

For the Hummus

• 1 Can Chick Peas, Drained and Washed
• 2 Heaping Spoons Tahini Sauce
• Half a Lemon's Juice
• Three Glugs Olive Oil
• One Glug Water
• One Red Pepper, Seeded and Chopped Roughly
• One Clove Garlic, Smashed
• Salt and Pepper

1. Place all items in a food processors and blend until a creamy texture is realized. Adjust seasoning and add more oil or water to adjust texture.
2. Chill in refrigerator until a desired temperature has been reached. I much prefer cold hummus. Serve with pita slices.

NB: Add anything that sounds like it would be good in hummus.

Some may find the amount of lemon juice I've suggested distracting, so scaling back in this regard may be necessary. Try roasted red peppers for a different flavor altogether.

Anatomically Altered Chicken

In another climate I would be far more inclined to roast things at this time of year, but alas the apartment is nigh unbearable with the oven at full blast. Given the ease of preparation, roasting a chicken is probably faster than dealing with any given hunk by itself. Very large birds are fairly inconvenient to roast given longer times — it seems one must resign one's vegetables to overdoneness if the chicken is to be fully sanitized.

Butterflying is the best way to ensure even cooking and a reasonable roasting time. As an added benefit, carving up the roasted product becomes an extremely simple task. Putting flavoring and butter under the skin is a good way to add some kick without having to marinate beforehand.

The typical bed of vegetables consists of celery, carrots, and onions. Celery bores me to death so I've opted to go for fennel instead, given that it tastes like something other than cardboard. Adding soy gives a little bit of a different flavor, the amount of salt used should be adjusted given its omission.

Mustard Roasted Chicken

For the Chicken

• 1 4-lb. Chicken
• 2-3 Tbs Unsalted Butter, Room Temperature
• Heaping Tbs. Grainy Mustard
• 1 Glug Soy Sauce (optional)
• 1/2 Tsp. Salt
• Few Grinds Pepper

For the Pan

• 1 Large Bulb Fennel, Leaf-Matter Removed
• 1 Large Red Onion
• 2 Medium Carrots
• Few Springs Fresh Time, or a couple shakes dried

1. Preheat oven to 425F
2. Remove tops of fennel and most of the root from onions, and cut into wedges. Slice carrots to 1/3" pieces. Combine in pile at the bottom of the roasting pan and add the springs of thyme.
3. Combine butter, mustard, and soy sauce with salt and pepper.
4. Butterfly the chicken, removing the keel bone. Pat dry with paper towels and season either side lightly with salt and pepper. Open up skin with fingers and spoon the mustard mixture around the breasts, thighs, and legs. Place the bird breast up on the pile.
5. Roast for 45 minutes, maybe, or until juices run clear and internal temperature reaches 165F. A thermometer is a real boon here, though premature butchering is sometimes necessary for a sound state of mind.

NB: Soy substantially alters the texture of the butter mixture, making it flow more freely once the skin is punctured. Cutting to check for done-ness will probably result in a draining of flavor.

Let rest for a few minutes under foil, then carve into quarters — an easy task with no keel bone! Thanks to the guy at the market with a cooler full of dead chickens...

The Fridge-Cleaning Souffle

It's habitually been the job of a stir-fry or pasta sauce to make something out of the vegetables I tend to ignore in the back of the refrigerator. Recently I've felt compelled to seek more interesting avenues for the consumption of random produce. Salads are out — squash salad will never sound appetizing to me. For one reason or another I find omelets too strange for dinner, even though they share most of their qualities with what I've ultimately arrived at as a solution.

I've found souffles surprisingly forgiving despite the overwhelming, and I'm guessing uncorroborated, evidence that claims otherwise. They can be constructed out of almost anything that lies in the fridge, even a lone piece of ham that narrowly avoided yesterday's sandwich. I happened to go for spinach and asparagus for this attempt, which I cooked the most reasonable way possible. The only requirement is that the pieces don't end up being too large.

On the topic of meat: I have apparently become a weekday vegetarian simply because buying meat is a huge hassle for me. Probably this is better for me and the average ruminant, though I have no qualms suspending this behavior when the opportunity presents itself. I think being mostly vegetarian is reasonable, and I'm annoyed by the oft-touted idea that it's a binary issue.

The following is enough for four people if accompanied by other dishes — note that it's one egg per person, at least for my abnormally large eggs.

Asparagus and Spinach Souffle

For the Bechamel

• 2 1/2 Tbs. Butter
• 3 Tbs All Purpose Flour
• 1 Cup Hot Milk
• 1/2 Tsp. Salt
• 1/2 Tsp. Paprika
• Few Grinds Pepper
• 4 Eggs, separated
• 1/4 Cup Grated Cheese (Swiss/Gouda/Parmesan)

For the Random Filling

• 1 Bunch Spinach, Reduced to Smaller Pieces
• 1 Bunch Asparagus, Similarly Mangled
• 1 Shallot, Minced
• 3 Cloves Garlic, Minced
• 2 Glugs Olive Oil

1. Combine flour and butter in medium saucepan on medium-low heat and stir frequently until a light-brown hue becomes apparent.
2. Briskly whisk in cup of hot milk, making sure to work out all lumps. Take off-heat if feeling rushed. Stir until a very thick consistency is reached, something along the lines of soft-serve ice-cream. Kill heat and whisk in salt, paprika, and pepper. Let cool until it won't burn you.
3. Preheat oven to 400F
4. Saute shallot and asparagus in an olive-oiled large pan until tender. Add garlic and a tablespoon or two of water before adding spinach. Cover to steam spinach, stir if necessary. Remove from heat once everything is soft.
5. Incorporate egg yolks and cheese into milk concoction, followed by the vegetable matter.
6. Beat egg whites to soft peaks and fold gently into the the milk mixture.
7. Butter souffle ramekins, Pyrex measuring cups (it works, I tried it), or similar vessels and pour mixture to rim. Depending on the size of the containers used a different number will be required — I used 3 ramekins and one Pyrex measuring cup. Pop into oven and turn down to 375F after a few minutes. Cook until tops are golden-brown and the mixture has set (won't jiggle when shaken gently), maybe 25 minutes.

NB: For added height the adventurous can put the oven on broil to start and blast the souffles for a very short length of time — just enough to caramelize the tops a bit. Turn heat down to 375F and continue to cook as usual. Nominally the moisture is locked in and helps push up the souffle.

May leftovers impress your friends.