Apple Crumb Bars

This summer, I stumbled upon a recipe for blueberry crumb bars. Little did I know, they would become a problem. A problem as in, I felt the need to make a double batch the second time I made them, because I knew that I was probably going to eat all of one batch by myself.

The blueberry bars were so good that they became known by the code name 'crack.' As in, "Hey, I'm making some crack. I'll bring some over." And then blueberry season was a thing of the past, and I had frozen no berries; blueberry bars would have to wait until next June.

However, inspiration struck during a standard 5 a.m. bout of insomnia--how about some apple crumb bars?

The resulting bars are delicious and seasonally satisfying, but as a friend said, they're 'crack-like,' as in not-quite-crack. I think they're worth making, though, and it may even be a good thing that they're just super-delicious, as opposed to insanely delicious.

Apple Crumb Bars

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes
• 1 cup (packed) light brown sugar
• 1 cup old-fashioned oats
• 1/2 cup sliced or chopped almonds
• 3 Granny Smith apples
• 1 Fuji apple
• Juice of 1/2 lemon
• Zest of 1/2 lemon
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
• 1/4 teaspoon allspice
• Pinch ground ginger
• 1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons apple butter (made with no added sugar)

Preheat oven to 375°F. Line a 13x9x2-inch metal baking pan with foil, and spray the foil with non-stick cooking spray.

Add flour, sugar, salt, and cinnamon to the bowl of a food processor and process until combined, about 3 seconds. Add the butter and pulse (about 5 times) until pea-size lumps are all that remain of the butter. Transfer to a large bowl and add the oats, stir to combine.

Transfer 2 cups of this mixture to another bowl, and stir in the almonds. Set aside.

Press the almond-less crumb mixture evenly onto bottom of prepared pan. Bake crust until golden and just firm to touch, about 20 minutes. Cool 10 minutes.

While the crust cooks and cools, peel and core the apples. Cut them into thin slices, about 1/8 inch thick. Place the slices in a large bowl and toss them with the lemon juice, lemon zest, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and ginger.

When the crust has cooled a bit, spread the apple butter over the top; it will be a rather thin coating. Fan the apple slices out in an overlapping pattern along one long side of the pan. Lay out another line of slices next to the first one, and continue to do this until the pan is full. You're basically laying out the slices the way you would lay out potato slices for a potato gratin, but working in the other direction. It may seem a bit fussy to do it this way, but if the apples are just dumped into the pan, they will not cook properly.

Spread the almond crumb topping over the apples. Cover with foil and cook 55 minutes in the center of the oven. Remove the foil and cook 10 more minutes, or until the topping is golden brown and the apples are very tender and just starting to bubble.

Allow to cool, and cut into bar shapes to serve. This dessert is generally better the day after it's made, and keeps well for about 3 days.

Winter Salad, Casserole-Roasted Chicken with Peas and Bacon, Clarified Butter

I made another winter salad before dinner tonight. I had previously mentioned that Molly of Orangette discussed her version of a winter salad in this month's Bon Appetite. I was curious, and I had some celery root left over. Therefore, it was time to give celery root another chance. As I've mentioned, I like to try things a few times before deciding that I don't like them. It's a lot like getting kids to eat like real people--you apparently sometimes have to make them try a food up to twelve times.

Anyway, this salad was again composed of celery root, fennel, and apples that had been made into matchsticks with the scary, scary mandolin. Okay, so what's the deal with the mandolin, right? Well, have you ever cut yourself on one of those things? First of all, it's pretty easy to do. And because the blade is very sharp and it slices off a good portion of the tip of your finger or knuckle, the resulting cut bleeds forever. Ask Hunter--he once bled profusely all the way through dinner. It doesn't help that alcohol is an anti-coagulant, either.

I used to think that I was too cool for the hand guard, but after the fourth or fifth time that I had to quickly grab a paper towel in order to staunch the large amounts of blood oozing from my hand before everything around me was ruined, I decided that I'm not too cool at all. (I've also finally learned that I'm not too cool for the oven timer.)

Hunter will no longer use the mandolin, and Nick finds the mandolin so scary that he can't even watch me use it. He can't even watch the Iron Chefs use it, and they kick ass. Yesterday, I hadn't yet put the mandolin back in its box after washing it, and Nick asked in a very anxious manner what it was doing out, because he doesn't like to be in its presence, and you better believe he's not going to attempt to wrestle that thing back into its home.

Tonight the matchsticks of fruits and vegetables were tossed with a dressing that contained mustard, salt, pepper, lemon juice, and walnut oil. It was supposed to be hazelnut oil, but Whole Foods didn't have any.

The verdict? It was pretty good, but I'm still not liking the raw celery root. I'm tempted to try it as a gratin, but is that cheating? Anything is good with lots of cream, butter and cheese, right?

The dressing was nice, but the nuttiness of my walnut oil did not shine through. Inspired by the lack of nuttiness, I threw some chopped pecans in there, and that was good. I may in fact make a salad consisting of fennel, apples, this dressing, and some pecans.

Or I might just eat the shaved fennel with lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and Parmesan, as I've previously mentioned. In fact, I've had this a couple times since making the celery root salad. Just so the apple doesn't feel neglected, though, it gets eaten with peanut butter as dessert.

Then it was time for the Casserole-Roasted Chicken with Peas and Prosciutto from Parisian Home Cooking. This recipe called for a 5 pound chicken, preferably with the feet still attached, to be placed in a Dutch oven with some melted butter.

I would just like to mention that I love love love my dutch oven.

A Le Cruset would be nice, but Cook's Illustrated says that the $40 version from Lodge is your next best option. Therefore, that's what I have, and it's just fine with me. This dutch oven transfers heat beautifully (almost too well sometimes), and you can make a delicious and easy meal by searing meat, adding some liquid directly to the vessel, and putting the whole thing in the oven to braise. The pot is pretty enough that the meal can be served in it, too.

Then when the meal is finished and you go to scrub the ominously cruddy bottom, it comes clean like magic, with a fraction of the expected scrubbing required. The dutch oven is also great for soups, mussels, and Jim Lahey's bread. That's another post, though.

So my 3 pound chicken Dutch oven "On one breast." What the hell does that mean, "On one breast?" Well, we kind of balanced it as well as we could, and into the oven it went.

A half hour later, we flipped it onto its other breast. Or what we thought was its other breast, as we had gotten kind if turned around while messing with it. A while after that, it was flipped over onto its back.


Once the chicken was overcooked, we took it out and allowed it to rest. At this point, the excess rendered fat was spooned out, and the shallots were sauteed. The recipe calls for four shallots, but what the heck does that mean? Do you know how much shallots vary in size? We erred on the side of abundance, as we like shallots.

Some creme fraiche and white wine went in there, as did some prosciutto. And no, that's not another one of my errors--the recipe really called for prosciutto. Why the title says bacon, I don't know. Perhaps prosciutto sounded too Italian, so they went with bacon.

I do have a confession to make. At this point, fresh sorrel was supposed to be added. Whole Foods didn't have it, and I'm not sure if I like it anyway. Not that I wouldn't have tried it, because you know how I harp on the subject of trying new or newish foods. If we make this again, I will certainly try to obtain some sorrel, mostly because Michael (the author) writes:

"What I like best about (this) improvisation is the sorrel, which tips the balance away from salty bacon and rich cream, cutting through and lightening the dish. Balance and subtlety is what French cuisine is all about."

The prosciutto cream sauce simmered for a while, the peas were added, and the chicken was carved and plated. Once the sauce was spooned over our legs and breasts, respectively, we pulled the baked potatoes out of the oven and dug in.

Wow, it was good. The cream sauce was tangy and satisfying without being too heavy, the prosciutto was wonderfully salty and flavorful, and the peas popped in the mouth while adding a pleasing freshness. Again--with cream and expensive cured pig product, how can you go wrong?

I mentioned that I overcooked the chicken, but it wasn't by much. And besides, since Nick prefers the white meat, only his was really overcooked, so whatever. I'm just kidding, Nick. 

This meal will definitely go on the repeat list, but if I'm feeling like a fatty, we'll stick with plain old roasted chicken. I used to think that I didn't really care for roasted chicken until I tried Thomas Keller's version. It's so simple, and so beautiful. All you do is dry it very thoroughly, truss it, and cook it at high heat "until it's done." I love that part--"until it's done." Thomas Keller doesn't need to be specific, because he's a mad genius. I also love his story of getting a knife thrown at him early in his career because he didn't know how to truss a chicken.

As Thomas Keller and numerous other people point out, one's ability to roast a chicken can serve as a true litmus test of their abilities as a cook. The same goes for cooking eggs, because the dishes that seem the easiest are often the ones that actually require the most practice, technique, and good judgement.

The butter that went into the dutch oven with the chicken was actually clarified butter. This was something that I had been meaning to make for a while, and I felt that this night would be a good night to do it. Not that it takes much effort or deserves any amount of procrastination. I had almost bought a jar of ghee (the clarified butter used in Indian cooking) at Whole Foods while buying the undersized chicken, but I convinced myself that I couldn't be that lazy.


The benefit of using clarified butter is its clean taste and its higher smoke point. With clarified butter, the milk solids have been removed. As these are what burn when you overheat butter, this allows the butter to be brought to a higher temperature. It is therefore better for pan-searing, and it lasts almost forever.


I followed Alice Waters' directions in order to make this culinary gold. The fact that they left me a bit confused from the beginning was probably a good indication that I should look elsewhere. Did I? No. I just overcooked my clarified butter.

This is what Alice Waters writes:

Melt butter in a small heavy pan over medium heat. Cook the butter until it has separated and the milk solids are just turning a light golden brown, about 10 to 15 minutes. Pour it through a strainer to remove the solids, leaving clear golden clarified butter.

A couple days later, I read this from Thomas Keller:

Put the butter in a small sauce pan and melt it over low heat, without stirring (I stirred it because I hadn't read this, and it was making some freaky noises). Skim off the foamy layer that has risen to the top and discard (I didn't do that). Carefuly pour off the clear yellow liquid (as you know, mine was not clear yellow), the clarified butter, into a container, leaving the white milky layer behind.

Although they pretty much said the exact same thing, Thomas Keller's directions somehow made more sense to me. Next time, I'm definitely going with the Mad Genius, even though I probably shouldn't even need a recipe for something so simple.

As I mentioned, the butter is supposed to remain golden in color, and mine is more like browned butter. But that's okay, as brown butter is delicious, and I'm sure that it will get used. The little crunchy milk solids will also get used somehow, as they are like crunchy little kernels of brown butter goodness. Once I get through this overcooked batch of clarified butter, I will definitely make another attempt. Wish me luck.

Casserole Roasted Chicken with Peas and Bacon

(From Parisian Home Cooking)

• One 4 pound whole chicken
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 cups fresh or frozen peas
• 4 shallots, thinly sliced
• 1/4 cup dry vermouth or white wine
• 1/4 cup creme fraiche or heavy cream
• 1/4 pound prosciutto or bacon, thinly diced

Preheat the oven to 475 degrees.
Rinse the chicken and pat dry, Season the chicken inside and out with the salt and freshly ground pepper. Turn the wings under the bird and tie the legs together. Melt 1 tablespoon butter in the oil in a Dutch oven. Lay the bird on one breast, cover, and transfer to the oven. Roast for 30 minutes.


Carefully turn the chicken onto its other breast, cover, and roast another 20 minutes. Turn the bird on its back, cover, and roast another 20 to 30 minutes, or until the juices run clear when a thigh is pierced. Transfer the chicken to a platter, cover, and keep warm.


Skim the fat from the juices in the Dutch oven and return it to low heat. If using fresh peas, add them now. Add the shallots and cook until soft but not brown, about 4 minutes. Add the vermouth or wine, creme fraiche or cream, and prosciutto or bacon, and cook until the liquid is reduced by half, about 4 minutes.


Pour any juices that have collected around the bird into the pot. Add the frozen defrosted peas, which only need to warm through.


Remove from the heat, swirl in the remaining 2 tablespoons butter (we actually left this out), and pour the sauce into a sauce boat. Serve immediately with the chicken.

Winter Salad, Feta and Spinach Stuffed Salmon, Pesto-Tossed Orzo

I was once again feeling spacey and lazy after working a couple nights in a row. It was therefore time for my go-to lazy meal, aka The Salmon Thingy. I love this salmon thingy, and there are plenty of nights where I could certainly summon the energy to prepare a more involved meal, but all I want is my salmon thingy. Remember how I mentioned that I eat the same thing again and again? Yeah; this would be a good example.


What is the salmon thingy, you ask? Well, it's made by Whole Foods, and it involves spinach, feta and pine nuts, which are rolled into a side of fresh salmon and then sliced into individual servings. It is pure deliciousness, and all you have to do is sprinkle it with some salt and pepper, slide it into the toaster oven, and wait about 10 minutes. There's no mess to clean up, it's relatively healthy, and there's no need to prepare a vegetable side as the spinach is adequate.

As an accompaniment, I generally just make some long grain and wild rice, or, if I'm not feeling like too much of a fatty, I'll make some pesto-tossed orzo. Even the pesto orzo requires minimal effort, as I take a little baggy with an individual-sized portion of pesto out of the freezer and let it defrost on the toaster oven.

I would just like to mention that pesto in the depths of winter is a lovely, lovely thing. It can be used in comforting, hearty and warm applications, yet it still gives you a bit of the brightness of summer that you're craving by this time of year. Summer in a bowl. Mmmm.

Speaking of the orzo, do you ever find yourself doing something, and as you're doing it you're thinking to yourself, 'This is probably a really bad idea and I'm most likely going to regret this...?' Well, I do it all the time. Mixing semolina and whole wheat orzo is a case in point.
I only had a tiny bit of semolina orzo left, and while it wasn't enough for the meal, I didn't want it to go to waste. It therefore got cooked with some whole wheat orzo. This was a bad idea for several reasons, one of which is the potential suckiness of whole wheat orzo. As I was putting it in my cart a few hours earlier while in Whole Foods, I kept thinking, 'Why am I buying this? Whole wheat orzo tends to be awful.' And into the cart it went.

Well, I am delighted to tell you that it was delicious, and I may even do it on purpose next time. They cooked in the same amount of time (which is way longer than you think it would take for those tiny little buggers to reach al dente), and the whole wheat orzo added some heartiness to the pasta without contributing the unpleasant graininess that sometimes accompanies whole wheat orzo.

Not only did my pasta experiment not turn into Fail Dish, I didn't overcook my salmon. Yay me! You see, I tend to overcook the salmon, and I hate overcooked foods. Whether it's meat, eggs, fish, or vegetables, I'd rather eat it raw than overcooked. This particular salmon thingy was a perfect medium-rare to medium. The texture was silky-smooth and rich, to the point where it could almost be described as creamy.
Okay, enough of the salmon, because I'm in the Land of Junk Food (the hospital), and I'm starting to crave some more salmony goodness.

Before satisfying my salmon craving, however, I attempted to satisfy my fennel craving. Fennel is yet another food item that had Nick begging for mercy last year. "Umm...Can we maybe do something without fennel tonight?" Fine. But it's a new year, and poor Nick had bronchitis, so he wasn't eating anyway.

Last year the cooking method of choice for fennel was braising. First you caramelize the outside of fennel that's been cut into wedges. You then fill the skillet with equal amounts of white wine and chicken stock, so that the liquid comes about half way up the side of the fennel wedges. This goes into a 325 degree oven for about 40 minutes until it's meltingly tender.

The braising brings out all of the complexities and sweetness of fennel, while toning down the licorice notes that are one of the more prominent aspects of the vegetable. That's a good thing, because licorice and I do not get along. In fact, I just now went into the lounge here at work, saw a bag of black licorice sitting on the counter, and had to resist the urge to vomit. And when I waited tables, a snifter of Sambucca was carried at the full extent of my reach, especially if I was hungover. Braised fennel is obviously fabulous with pork or white fish, but my favorite way to eat it is on some grainy, hearty bread that's been smeared with goat cheese. Oohhhh...more food cravings.

This year, I've been enjoying raw fennel, especially as a light, pre-dinner salad. In this preparation, the scary, scary mandolin is used to very finely slice a fennel bulb.

It is then tossed with very good olive oil, drizzled with a bit of lemon juice, and sprinkled with coarse gray French sea salt. It's the sea salt that really makes it, as the occasional crunchy bits of pure saltiness are just perfect with the tangy fennel and the fruity olive oil. If you've never tried this kind of salt, I insist that you go to the store and get some. Right now.

It used to be that grey French sea salt could only be obtained from stores like Williams Sonoma, and it cost about $15 per pound. However, it can now be found at normal grocery stores like Super Stale, otherwise known by the misnomer Super Fresh. I haven't broken down the cost per pound, but a little tin of it is about $2. This salt has a cleaner, purer taste than regular sea salt, and it's just heavenly on things like baked potatoes, as it retains a satisfying crunch without being overly alkaline.

Back to tonight's salad--it was actually inspired by Ashley from Not Without Salt. She calls it a winter white salad, and it involves using the scary, scary mandolin to create matchsticks of apple, celery root, and fennel, and tossing them with thinly sliced leeks.


The vegetables are then tossed with a very simple creme fraiche vinaigrette, and finished with the aforementioned spectacular sea salt. If you would like to see a nicer picture than the one I have provided, see Ashley's blog.

(Nice presentation, eh?)

I was intrigued by this salad because it sounded delicious, I had some creme fraiche that I needed to use up, and I was curious about the celery root. Celery root is also known as Celeriac, and I have heard of it, but never tried it. It just so happens that Molly Wizenberg of Orangette has an article about celery root in this month's Bon Apetite. I didn't know this at the time, but it's a rather fortuitous coincidence, as she describes the vegetable better than I likely can, so you should see her article if you're interested.

As Molly says, it is an ugly, ugly vegetable.
Poor little guy.

Celery root is related to the celery found in bunches at the store, but it is not the same thing. However, it does taste a bit like celery. Its flavor is more complex and refined, though, and it has a lovely texture that's smooth and porous at the same time. It has none of that stringy ickiness that maligns the already unimpressive celery stalk.

Did I like it, though? Not especially. I'm not a fan of normal celery, and the celery root, while not overly celery-ish, did not do too much to place it in my favor. It was nice, though, with the apple and fennel.In her article, Molly Wizenberg wrote about a salad that combines apples, fennel and celery root, but she tosses them with a hazelnut vinaigrette made from hazelnut oil, lemon juice, vinegar, and Dijon mustard. I still have some leftover fennel and celery root, so perhaps I'll give this a try on my next night off.

Molly also mentioned that celery root makes a good gratin. This sounds lovely, so perhaps I'll try that, as well. I can already hear Nick saying, "Celery root? Again?"
But for now, I'll just eat an apple and pine for salmon, fennel, pesto, cheese, pasta....