• Great cooking

    I made grape kuchen and I’m so puffed up with pride that I nearly floated off over the ridge behind our house.


    The recipe involved eggs, sour cream, lemon, and grapes. I measured and mixed next to a large pile of daffodils that Sweetsie had deposited on my red concrete counter top. (She said she was going to set them afloat again, but I think she forgot.)


    The bright colors and tangy-tart smells made my heart race. Forget lovin’ on me, babe. Just give me some deep purple and sunny yellow against a backdrop of red. Mm, mm, mm. Does me in every single time.


    This is the first time I’ve made kuchen (pronounced “kü-ken”—see, it really was my first time—I didn’t even know how to pronounce it!) and I’m completely enamored. There’s something deeply satisfying about the rich yeasty bread dimpled with fruity sauce and a tangy-sweet glaze drizzled over all.


    I’ve been searching for a way to use up some of my frozen grape preserves. Last summer when I was processing grapes (pinching off the skins, cooking and straining the seedy innards, adding the peels back in and cooking the whole thing up into a royal purple pulp fit for the Queen herself), I set aside some of the precious filling to freeze instead of can. My canned grapes have a tendency to unseal and send me plummeting to the depths of despair, so I needed to try something different. It was a wise move on my part. The frozen grape puree tastes cleaner and brighter and it’s a snap to turn it into pie filling—simply thicken with sugar and flour (or cornstarch or Therm Flow) and it’s ready to go.

    But still, I wanted a new way to serve my grapes besides in a pie, so I scoured the web. This grape kuchen was my reward.


    This morning I told the kids they could have some grape kuchen after they finished their granola, and clueless Miss Beccaboo, bless her ditzy heart, said, “Huh? Great cooking?”

    She said it, not me!


    I need to know two things please. They’re very important. First, have you made kuchen before, and if so, how do you make it? And second, do you have any other suggestions for how to use up my frozen grape preserves?

    Thank you, m’darlings. I’m much obliged.


    Grape Kuchen with Lemon Glaze
    Adapted from a recipe I found on ifood

    Don’t be put off by the different stages and steps. This kuchen is really quite simple to make.

    I imagine the variations are endless:
    *Instead of a grape sauce, try blueberry, apricot, sour cherry, or rhubarb. Oo000!—what about red raspberry-rhubarb!
    *Add some lemon or orange zest to the dough (I’m definitely doing this next time).
    *Add nuts to the streusel.
    *Use a plain vanilla glaze, or flavor it with almond extract or orange juice. Maybe add some cream cheese, too?
    *There’s also the option of using a sourdough base instead of the commercial yeast. I want to look into this next.

    About the grape puree: I won’t lie to you. Processing grapes is a time-consuming affair. It goes something like this:
    1. Pick the grapes.
    2. Pick the grapes off the stems.
    3. Wash the grapes.
    4. Squeeze out the grape innards (clear, seedy, eyeball-like blobs).
    5. Put the eyeballs in a kettle and reserve the grape skins.
    6. Cook the eyeballs till they melt.
    7. Smoosh the melted eyeballs through a sieve, thus removing the seeds.
    8. Put the melted, seedless eyeball mush back in the kettle and add the grape skins.
    9. Cook till heated through.
    10. Can (hot pack them), or cool and freeze.

    I will understand if you’d rather use blueberries.

    For the grape filling:
    2 cups grape puree (see headnote)
    1/3 cup sugar
    1 ½ tablespoon flour
    1 teaspoon lemon juice

    Put the grape puree in a heavy bottomed saucepan. Stir together the sugar and flour and add it to the grapes. Cook the grapes over medium-high heat till bubbly and slightly thickened (though they will still be saucy). Stir in the lemon juice and set aside.

    For the dough:
    2 teaspoons yeast
    ½ cup warm water
    ½ cup butter
    ½ cup sugar
    ½ cup milk
    3 cups all-purpose flour
    1 teaspoon salt
    2 eggs, beaten
    ½ cup sour cream

    Dissolve the yeast in the warm water.

    Scald the milk and add the butter.

    Stir together the flour, salt, and sugar in a large mixing bowl. Add the milk (once the butter has melted) and stir well. Check with your finger to make sure the mixture isn’t too hot, and then add the dissolved yeast. Stir in the beaten eggs and sour cream. Spread the mixture in a greased 9 x 13 inch pan, cover, and let rise for twenty minutes.

    For the streusel:
    ½ cup flour
    1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
    1/4 cup brown sugar
    4 tablespoons butter

    Combine all the ingredients in a bowl and mix with your fingers till crumbly.

    For the lemon glaze:
    2 cups confectioner’s sugar, sifted
    juice of one lemon (about 2-3 tablespoons)
    a little milk, if needed

    Combine the sugar and lemon juice, adding milk as necessary to make a drizzle-able glaze.

    To assemble:
    Once the twenty minute rise is finished, sprinkle half of the streusel over the dough. Pour the grape puree over top, using the back of a spoon to spread it out evenly-ish. Top with the rest of the streusel.

    Using a skewer (or a knife) poke holes—eight to twelve, perhaps—in the batter to allow the grape filling to seep down through and infiltrate the whole cake with its fruity richness. (It won’t look like any infiltrating is happening, but it is.)

    Cover the kuchen with plastic wrap and allow it to rise for another 45 minutes.

    Bake the kuchen at 375 degrees for 30-40 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean and the cake is pulling away from the edges. Don’t over bake—dry kuchen isn’t so hotsy-totsy.

    Allow the kuchen to cool for at least 30 minutes before glazing and serving. It’s best served warm, but the cake is still mighty tasty the following day.

    About one year ago: Flaunting My Ignorance.

  • I meant it

    Some weighty matters are clogging up my brain, slowing it down till it can barely function.* Therefore, I was not able to fully maximize The Baby Nickel’s three-hour nap, Miss Beccaboo’s fever-induced extended rest time, and Yo-Yo’s complete absorption in a new novel. Instead of producing something (i.e. writing), I spent the afternoon finishing up Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (a pretty good second option, all things considered) and surprised myself by liking it so very much. (Some industrious seminary student ought to do a study of the varied Mennonite responses to the book. It might be enlightening to find out what sorts of Mennonites like it and which ones don’t. Tied in with theological stances and cultural upbringings, and you’d have the materials for mighty interesting paper.)


    I then forced myself into the kitchen to jive with The Chieftains and make a quadruple batch of French chocolate granola. Sweetsie accompanied me. She danced around in a pink leotard, played with her little plastic horses, and harvested a bouquet of daffodils which she then de-stalked and set to floating in a bowl of water. (Later, when I thought she was done with them, I disposed of the cumbersome arrangement, much to her dismay and subsequent teary rage.)


    Just as I was beginning to chop an onion for supper’s barbequed chicken pizza, my sister-in-law stopped by with a pan of still warm chocolate-oatmeal cookies-turned-bars, some empty egg cartons (for the glut of eggs we’ve been struggling with), and two (2) (TWO!) bags of tortilla chips.

    Which brings me to my next point. I nearly lost the bet. If it weren’t for the grace of Mr. Handsome, we would’ve feasted on hamburgers and french fries tonight. But Mr. Handsome, in all his vast generosity, hath bestowed favor upon my undeserving head and granted me absolution. I’m free to continue hoarding my nickels and scrutinizing him for one false move. And when I see him trip, stumble, and fall, I will POUNCE. (I’m not nearly as nice as he is.)

    (We even brought the matter before a few of our fellow Mennonite congregants, and after reading scripture and praying over it [I’M KIDDING!] [about the scriptural/prayer component], they were evenly divided. Some, including a trusted friend [!], declared me a definite loser; others pointed to my innocence and naivete [tax? there’s such a thing as food tax?] and stated I was fully innocent and still a viable contestant that needed to be reckoned with. The game goes on.)

    (Honestly though, I feel like throwing in the towel. I need a can of coconut milk for a peanut soup I’m hankering to make. The recipe calls for five [5] [FIVE!] cups of peanuts, which would help considerably in my efforts to empty my freezers [I have about 15 pounds of the nuts squirreled away]. Wouldn’t the utilization of the nuts negate the coconut milk expenditure? But no, don’t worry, I’m going to stick this out. The peanuts aren’t going anywhere. Mr. Handsome is going to rue the day, just you watch.)


    Anyway, changing the subject. I made crackers. (Did I give you literary whiplash? Sorry.)


    When I told you I was going to work on my cracker repertoire , I meant it.


    These crackers, first time around, made me happy, oh so happy. I have ideas for how to tweak them, but there is no rush. It’s more a maybe-if-I-feel-like-it-later attitude.


    For now, I’m plenty contented. They are mildly sweet, gently crunchy, excellent with peanut butter, and Mr. Handsome praises them effusively.


    Really, what more could I ask for from a cracker? That Mr. Handsome would sing my praises profusely? No, that’s going a bit too far. I’m a reasonable woman, after all.


    Oatmeal Crackers
    Adapted from Bernard Clayton’s Complete Book of Small Breads

    Now, if I were to play around with these, I would add more whole wheat, sub several tablespoons of lard for coconut oil (to increase the crunch factor), change the sugar from white to brown and increase it a tad, and add a healthy dose of cinnamon. The end result would be called Oatmeal Graham Crackers. Can I get an “amen?”

    4 tablespoons butter
    ½ cup lard (or vegetable shortening)
    3 tablespoons sugar
    2 cups rolled oats, plus extra for sprinkling
    2 cups white flour
    1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
    1 teaspoon baking soda
    2 teaspoons salt
    1 ½ cups buttermilk (or thick sour milk, or 1 part plain yogurt and 2 parts milk)

    Cream together the butter, lard, and sugar. Stir together the dry ingredients and alternately add them to the butter-sugar mixture with the buttermilk. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill in the fridge for at least one hour or overnight.

    To bake:
    Divide the dough into four parts, and roll out one of the parts on a greased cookie sheet that has been generously sprinkled with rolled oats. The dough should be about 1/8th inch thick. Use a fork to poke holes in the dough every half inch or so, and then cut the dough into squares (or whatever shape is desired) using a pizza cutter or knife.

    Bake the crackers at 350 degrees for 10 to 20 minutes, or as long as possible without them burning. Remove the crackers along the edge as they begin to brown.

    Transfer the crackers to a rack and cool completely before storing in an airtight container. (I suspect they freeze well, too.)

    Yield: about a gallon

    *I’m not saying what the weighty matter pertains to. My lips are sealed; my fingers are crossed. If it amounts to anything, I’ll tell you later. But rest assured, nobody is in trouble.

    And no, I’m not pregnant.

    About one year ago: Coconut Brownies.

  • My brother’s weirdnesses

    It’s common knowledge that my tiny-little brother is weird.


    Let’s chronicle the evidence, shall we?

    *He likes math, and not only that, but he reads entire books filled with nothing more than mathematical equations.
    *He used to bolt up and down the wooded hill behind our WV house to get in shape for soccer.
    *He likes to dig holes for fun.
    *He wipes out a la Napoleon Dynamite and then writes about it for the university paper.

    Let me stop right there and quote from that story.

    It was a pretty, almost-fall day and I had just finished chorus class. Happily I pranced down the sidewalks leading from Martin Chapel to Elmwood where my bags were packed and ready—I was about to go home for the first time since coming to school. As I passed the Commons, I broke into a sprint like an Olympian on the hundred meter dash. You know how they lean way front at the beginning, when they’re trying to speed up really fast? Well, I guess I must have leaned front just a little too far. I desperately strode ahead, tying to regain balance, moving my legs as fast as I could to bring my rear end back underneath my front end, but it was too late. My heavily laden backpack slid forward over my shoulders and I had no choice but to dive onto the mercilessly abrasive concrete.

    As I slid to a halt, my first thought was, “Am I okay?” I had to be okay. I didn’t want to have to explain to people that my injuries were a result of my clumsiness. It would not have felt so bad if I had been run over by a crazy driver or something like that; then I would have been only a victim of someone else’s stupidity. But I had no excuse, not a single one. I don’t even remember tripping on anything. Still hoping that I wasn’t really hurt, I jumped to my feet and assumed the prettiest smile I could muster for my friend Derrick, who was running to the rescue. By this time, I was no longer deceiving myself about my pitiful state, but I still tried to make up for my clumsiness with wit. “I don’t think I have dain bramage,” I said.

    See what I mean? He’s a goon. Pressing onward…


    *He chops veggies with a cleaver.
    *He rides his bike in snowstorms.


    *He makes enormous fire mushroom clouds with wax and water.


    *He bungee-jumped from the Bloukrans Bridge in South Africa. (When I look at this picture, I have to remind myself to breathe.)
    *He recently used a pair of needle nosed pliers to remove a wart on his hand. (Dumbbell.)

    In case that isn’t enough to convince you, let’s move along to the food weirdnesses. Consider the following:

    *He lives off of pumpkin pie, cereal, pancakes, pasta, and enormous hunks of beef.
    *He refuses to measure when he cooks. It takes too much time, he says, or some such stuff-and-nonsense. (Regardless, he makes a kick-butt pumpkin pie in his gigantic cast iron skillet.)
    *When he’s doing lots of physical labor (like digging holes) in hot weather, he ensures that he gets enough salt by sprinkling some in his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. On nice, thoughtfully prepared homemade bread and strawberry jam! What is the point? I ask you. Why bother making good food if it’s going to be so royally blasphemed?
    *He packs his whole lunch in one big plastic container, everything all mounded together. For example: a sandwich topped by a carrot, a wedge of skillet-baked pumpkin pie, a cucumber, and a cold baked potato. And perhaps a couple shakes of salt.
    *He adds orange juice to his milk.
    *When he was little and he didn’t know any better, he killed and ate a mockingbird.
    *In college, he dumpster dived like it was an Olympic sport.
    *He once fried up a pan of locust and served them with a choice of honey, ketchup or Ranch dressing. He got Miss Beccaboo to eat one.
    *He also caught a live locust and ate it raw, just to see what it tasted like. Or maybe because he was practicing to be a prophet.
    *He chews up chicken bones.

    Keeping all that in mind, the other week I got an email from him: “I had some exceptional chickpeas at a gathering Saturday. The link to the recipe is below, because I had asked to pass it on to you.

    My brother never sends me recipes. Perhaps because he doesn’t use recipes, or perhaps because it takes away from valuable time otherwise spent bicycling, fiddling, or computating. In any case, I took heed.


    The recipe was for an appetizer, smoky fried chickpeas. It called for lemon zest, thyme, garlic, and smoked paprika. I had a one-pound bag of dried garbanzos lounging on my still-overfull pantry shelves, so I ripped into the plastic and set the legumes to soaking.

    Even though this recipe came to me via my brother, these chickpeas are not weird. Or maybe if they are weird (the rest of my family thinks so), at least they’re also delicious.


    Perhaps they’re simply deliciously weird.

    Or weirdly delicious.

    In any case, they’re crispy, nutty, crunchy, sometimes tender-creamy, smokey, garlicky. I had to set the plate up on top the fridge to put an end (kind of) to my first-rate binge snacking.


    Smoky Fried Chickpeas

    The original recipe calls for frying the sliced garlic after frying the chickpeas, but I think it would make more sense to first fry the garlic and then proceed with the rest of the frying—that way the garlic-scented olive oil would have a chance to flavor the peas as they take their hot oil bath.

    As you can see from the proportions, there is a good bit of flexibility. I used two cups of cooked chickpeas, but the recipe called for two cans which equals 3 cups, I think. I dialed back the seasonings accordingly, but I don’t think it was necessary to reduce the lemon. You can never have too much lemon, right?

    If you have fresh thyme on hand, eliminate the dried and add a sprig of fresh to the hot oil at the same time as the lemon.

    One note about smoked paprika. If you don’t have any, for heaven’s sake go out and buy some! This spice is new to me, but it’s fast becoming one of my favorites. I use it in everything from cream of tomato soup to baked corn to sauteed Swiss chard.

    ½ – 1 cup olive oil
    2 – 3 cups cooked chickpeas, drained
    2 – 3 teaspoons lemon peel, in ribbons
    1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
    2 – 3 teaspoons smoked paprika
    ½ – 1 teaspoon coarse salt
    3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

    Spread the drained chickpeas on a towel and gently pat them till fairly dry.

    Heat the oil in a heavy bottomed, high-sided pot. When it’s hot (I didn’t measure, but if you’re inclined to use thermometers, aim for about 355 degrees), add the garlic and fry till golden brown. Keep a close watch—it cooks quickly. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels, a couple coffee filters, or a torn open brown paper bag.

    Add half the chickpeas, along with half of the lemon and thyme, to the hot oil and fry for about five minutes, stirring frequently. When they are crispy brown, transfer them to a paper-towel lined plate to drain. Sprinkle with half the salt and paprika.

    Repeat with the remaining chickpeas. Add the toasted garlic slices and toss to blend. Taste to correct seasonings. (Hot pepper might be a nice addition.)

    Store any leftovers in an airtight container. Because they soften over time, they are best eaten the same day (though I still thought them plenty delicious the second day).

    Serving recommendations: make these for an afternoon snack or for an appetizer for a schmultzy party. (I imagine they’d pair nicely with fried locusts.)

    About one year ago: Brandied-Bacony Roast Chicken.