Today, I became surely the only Jew in the whole entire world to simultaneously fast for religious reasons and bake a kugel.  Would this feast of contradiction succeed in helping me get my name written into the Book of Life under any other circumstances?  Probably not.  Did I earn myself any points by turning on the lights, carrying my notebook the five blocks to this coffee shop, or even putting pen to paper, all activities very much forbidden today, the holiest and least fun day of the Jewish year, Yom Kippur?  No, no I did not.  And yet, this is still the most observant Yom Kippur I’ve ever had.

Sleep the morning away to ignore the hunger, then awake suddenly at noon with the overwhelming desire for noodle kugel, a sweet noodle pudding dish that’s a mixture of eggs, noodles, cottage cheese, and brown sugar.

Yom Kippur, for those of you of the non-Chosen persuasion (“My, she gets haughty when she gets hungry,” you hear yourself thinking), is the Day of Atonement, on which Jews from all over the world turn off their cell phones and laptops, refrain from eating, and flock to temple.  It’s a day on which Jews, normally the world’s largest consumers of the natural resource we like to call guilt, outdo themselves altogether and feel bad about every wrong they’ve committed over the last 12 months.

Put off the desire for kugel as long as you can, ultimately reason that you won’t want to make it after 25 hours of fasting, and head to the grocery store.

It is forbidden to eat on this day: all sects of Judaism can agree on this.  It is also universally agreed that Jews should go to temple, whether it’s to pray penitently or simply to catch up on a year’s worth of gossip.  As you “level-up” between sects the keys to unlocking the Book of Life become progressively harder: if you’re reform, you hang out at temple with your friends for a few hours.  If you’re conservative, you are required to make an appearance at synagogue and sit quietly through the dull service.  You may drive your car to get there, but so help you if you use your GPS to find the synagogue or check your email on your iPhone between prayers.  On the other hand, if you’re Orthodox, you are only required to attend synagogue if you can walk there, and are expressly forbidden from attending if you can’t.  Forget your laptop: you can’t even sign your name.  Better you should sleep and read at home.

Wander the colorful aisles of PCC, your neighborhood co-op, past hard-boiled eggs and turkey sandwiches and peaches threatening to slip out of season at any moment until you find the egg noodles and cottage cheese you need.  Check out as quickly as you can to return to the comfort of home, where the food is at least out of sight.

Why go through all this, which can only be described as rigamarole, on even the most lax level?  What is the Book of Life, anyway, and what makes you so sure you want your John Hancock in it?  Some people observe Yom Kippur to ascribe to the Jewish tradition once a year.  Others do it to use a food-less, distraction-less day to honestly reflect on the sins and successes of the past year.  Some do it because they think they’re supposed to.  The Book of Life, by the way, was rarely mentioned in the reform prayer services of my youth, or at least not in the few moments I was actually paying attention in temple between trips to the bathroom to gossip with my friends and whispered fights with my mother about said trips.  And lo and behold, I can’t Wikipedia the definition because, for possibly the first time in recorded history, I am without a laptop or phone.  Or food.  Or electrical appliances.  Or a car.  Or even a service to go to, because there aren’t any within walking distance.

Parboil the egg noodles, guessing when they’re almost al dente.  Realize you’ve set yourself up for an afternoon of cooking without tasting and pause, knowing you’ve never tried anything quite like this before.

Has the world turned upside-down?  Blair, who can at very best be described as “Jew-lite” the other 364 days of the year, is acting unbelievably Orthodox for Yom Kippur?  I know.  It’s weirding me out too. I can’t quite explain what changed this year, especially since I wasn’t even sure I was going to observe the holiday on Friday.  Being steeped in Judaism at the Jewish Federation for 40 hours a week for the last year and a half might have something to do with it.  Tradition has always been somewhat of a motivator for me.  But what I actually think did me in was hearing yesterday that non-Jews fast with Jews as a sign of solidarity in Israel.  I knew the entire country shut down for the holiday, but this show of harmony in a country so ridden with cultural strife really resonated with me.  So I decided to go ahead and fast for the day, and with this decision came a completely nonsensical series of observed and unobserved traditions.

Whip the eggs and add the brown sugar, stopping to wonder whether it will be sweet enough with a cup and a half of sugar or whether you should go for two.  Know that your desire to taste the mixture comes from a quest for culinary accuracy and excellence instead of honest hunger, and marvel for a moment at that temporary transition.

I felt strongly about fasting, but that was only going to begin after I’d finished my meal of Puetro Rican food followed by gelato (sundown: 7:15.  Actual beginning of fasting: 9ish).  I wanted to spend the day truly reflecting on the last year, which meant distractions were out.  No iPhone, no laptop, no movies, no music.  This included no driving, even to go to synagogue, which I think equals out on the penitent scale.  Turning on the lights, showering, carrying a purse to and from the grocery store, making a kugel and writing were all inexplicably allowed on my moronic morality scale.  Cooking was excused only because I decided around noon that I needed to eat kugel to break my fast, and there isn’t a lot of kugel to be found around these parts.

Add the cottage cheese and wish you could lick the spatula, reconciling your desire not to waste food against religious observance.

I excused writing because I honestly felt that it remained in the spirit of reflection.  I thought that, if nothing else, spending the day hungry and bored would create a good space for thinking, and I was right.  I should’ve expected that it was going to be a day devoted to thinking about food.

Pour the custard over the noodles and add them all to your biggest casserole dish.  Try not to scoop up what’s left in the bowl with your finger.

It’s been a big year for me and food.  Bryce and I started this food blog, and with it I began to formalize my relationship with food.  Caring about something enough to ruminate on it and write those thoughts down is an important demonstration of a relationship: my posts on this blog represent love letters as much as anything else, even in my culinary mishaps.  Through this formalization has also come a redefinition of its terms: to love food isn’t just to eat it, but to eat it respectfully, thoughtfully, and specifically.  I’ve learned, indeed taught myself, how to eat only until I’m full, and how not to waste calories on food I won’t enjoy.  This has resulted in a girl who has lost more than 10% of her starting weight, thereby achieving the goal set out on this blog: I am PCOS symptom-free and well-within the weight percentile for my height and age.  That feels pretty damn great, and feels so good, in fact, that I wouldn’t be willing to trade it for a life of eating whatever I want.  If I haven’t accomplished a single other thing this year, it would be enough.

Instead, do the dishes, and watch all the leftover bits and pieces swirl down the drain.

But it’s not the only thing I’ve accomplished!  Writing consistently about food has made me realize how much I like, well, consistently writing about food.  To be a food writer wouldn’t be such a bad thing, and I guess I am, even if it’s only my mother reading this thing.  I’m open to book contracts whenever.

Sit and read for an hour while the kugel’s sweet smell steals its way into your kitchen, your clothes, and your thoughts.

On smaller level, today has been about exploring what it feels like to be consistently and sustainably hungry.  In a life punctuated by food, whether it’s from taking a break from work to eat lunch or rewarding myself after a long day with a mouthwatering food book, my days contain an awful lot of food.  To go without all that on purpose is interesting, as will the sensation of eating to honestly assuage hunger, as I’m about to do in an hour or two.  When’s the last time I really did that?  Probably the last time I fasted for Yom Kippur.  The idea that an entire religion’s worth of people is consciously experiencing hunger simultaneously is significant, and almost more than hunger advocates across the world could hope for.  It’s no accident that this is the time of year for Jewish food drives to crop up all over the world, and indeed the experience has motivated me to sort through my cupboards and pull some canned food to donate.  I encourage you all to do the same.

Pull the kugel from the oven after it bakes for an hour: it’s set up perfectly.  Grab your notebook and run out the door before the urge to eat it overwhelms your piety and don’t return for any reason whatsoever until after sundown.

Does any of the above reflection fall into the categories of sin or absolution?  Maybe not.  But viewing my life over the last year through the lens of food has been really important to me.  Perhaps not important enough to be written into the Book of Life, who knows?

Noodle Kugel

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

1 pound wide egg noodles

8 eggs

1 1/2 cups brown sugar

2 pounds full-fat cottage cheese, creamed or large curd

1 1/2 sticks melted butter

2 teaspoons vanilla

Dash of salt

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Parboil your egg noodles until almost cooked, about 5-7 minutes depending on your brand.

In a large bowl beat eggs until fluffy (or for a while).  Add the sugar gradually and stir until incorporated, then add cottage cheese, then melted butter, then vanilla and salt.  Pour this mixture over drained, parboiled noodles and add the entire gooey mess to an unbuttered 9×13 baking dish.

Pop your kugel in the oven for anywhere between an hour and an hour and a half, until it no longer jiggles when you shake it.  Imprecise, I realize, but there you go.  If you hate crunchy noodles on top (like me), cover the kugel with foil before you put it in the oven.

I promise it’s not twice-baked potatoes.

However, lazy cook that I am, I also saved some chicken from the prep so that I can do less prep during the week. Nice.

• 2 lbs. chicken, prepped and shredded (I boiled frozen chicken breasts)
• 1 tsp. Oregano
• 1 tsp. cumin
• 1 tsp. black pepper
• 1 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
• 1 tsp. white pepper
• 1 tsp. dried parsley
• 2 tsp. salt
• 1 tsp. garlic powder
• 1 1/2 c. shredded cheese, divided (1 and 1/2) (sharp cheddar, pepper jack, etc.)
• 8 medium flour (or corn if you prefer) tortillas
• 2 medium cans store-bought enchilada sauce

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. In a medium bowl, toss together all of your chicken and spices until evenly coated. If you do this while the chicken is still warm, it coats easier.
3. Grab a 9×13 inch baking pan. Pour just enough enchilada sauce in the bottom of your pan to coat.
4. Take a tortilla. On the upper third, place a handful of your chicken. Layer with about half as much cheese. Roll. Repeat seven more times, lining up enchiladas in your pan.
5. Pour rest of your enchilada sauce over the top of the enchiladas evenly. Sprinkle remaining 1/2 c. cheese over that.
6. Bake 20-30 minutes, or until cheese is melted and sauce is bubbly.
7. Consume.

And then I had leftovers for dinner. But tonight, We have enchiladas on the menu. Stay tuned folks.

So I’m in the grocery store last night buying bacon and sour cream for my twice-bakers. I’m walking into the store, past the “buy me now!” displays they have set up to catch your attention. And out of the corner of my eye, I see these gorgeous twelve-ounce packages of raspberries. I look longingly. I tell myself, “Don’t look. They’re probably way too expensive, and you would need two of them to do anything significant anyway.” But when have I ever listened to myself whilst arguing about fiscal restraint? Especially when it comes to food? That’s right, never. So I look, and they’re $2.99!!! I got twenty-four ounces of raspberries for like six dollars.

And I don’t even feel guilty. As I was checking out, I was thinking, “sure, but I bet lots of them are rotten and I’ll have to throw out a bunch.” Nope. Two. TWO berries in twenty-four ounces were bad. Shazam!

So I get home, freshly victorious from my wise purchase, and I know exactly what I’m going to make. I had texted Blair about a strawberry italian ice recipe which requires no ice cream maker (and to be fair, is not ice cream—but close enough for me) during her summer meltdowns (get it?! melt, ice cream?! hah! sorry). So, adventurer that I am, I set out to replicate it, except to replace the strawberries with raspberries. Obviously there should be no problem whatsoever.

• 4 cups raspberries
• 1 orange
• 1 lemon
• 2 limes
• 1 c. sugar
• 3/4 c. water

1. Zest all of your citrus. (Again, my woefully impatient nature got the best of me in this. I got most of the zest. Sure. Why not.)
2. In a small saucepan, combine sugar, water, and zest. Bring to a boil.
3. Reduce heat; simmer for 5 minutes. (I should note at this point that you have a deliciously zesty simple syrup—something for which I will find a use in the future.)
4. Strain your syrup into the bowl of a food processor. (How do you know that Bryce will like a recipe? It includes a food processor to do the majority of his work for him.)
5. Juice your fruits. Strain to remove pulp and pips.
6. Add the raspberries and juice to the food processor bowl. Pulse several times to combine, leaving some small chunks of fruit.
7. Transfer to a freezable container. Put in the freezer. Hang out for three hours.
8. Stir. Put back in the freezer.
9. Freeze overnight (the original recipe says 6 hours, but I have since learned that if you take it out at 6 hours, you will have an incredibly vibrant, delicious slushy. Which is fine, again, but not what we’re going for here.)
10. Consume.

So. Yeah. I’ve got approximately 1.2 million potatoes left and I just made the one side dish. Nice. Which leaves me with a question: how the eff am I going to eat all of these potatoes? And the answer presents itself:

POTATOCON 2010: IT’S A POTATOPALOOZA! HOW MANY RECIPES FOR POTATOES CAN YOU DISCOVER??

So there you have it. Expect many, many potato recipes from me in the coming week. It will be fantastic. To kick off, I did some brainstorming which led me (as usual) to things that I have previously found delicious.

Every time we spend (insert family-gathering/holiday here) at my Aunt and Uncle’s, my Aunt Annette makes Twice-Baked Potatoes, which are essentially made from baked potatoes, baked potato fixins, and magic. I will be trying to get the recipe—rest assured, dear readers—but until I do, I went out into the wide world of the internets looking for a Twice Baked Potato recipe of my own. I found one that looked promising (“Daddy’s Ultimate Twice Baked Potatoes!!!!1!!one!!”) and I tried it.

The results were… well, not disappointing. No screw it, yeah they were disappointing. First of all, the texture was just slightly too soupy. It tasted less like mashed potatoes and more like thick potato soup (which, while fantastic, is not exactly what you want on a twice-baked potato). And they were the littlest bit bland. It was nothing I couldn’t fix with table salt and pepper, but still. It was not the glory that I had hoped for, especially since my version had been inspired by the holiday staple which is a twice-baked potato. Still, I have adjusted the recipe that you’ll find below, and I think that with these changes they’ll be good. Not the ULTIMATE that was advertised, perhaps—I reserve that title for my Aunt Annette’s—but very good nonetheless.

BRYCE’S SUB-ULTIMATE YET STILL PRETTY GOOD TWICE-BAKED POTATOES

• Four large bakers
• Olive oil
• 1/2 c. Sour Cream
• 1 c. Shredded extra-sharp cheddar, divided (1/2 and 1/2)
• 1/3 c. milk
• 4 T butter, softened.
• 8 strips bacon, fried, crumbled
• 4 scallions, chopped
• 1 tsp. salt
• 1 tsp. pepper

1. Bake your potatoes (there are rumors of super-human beings with the ability to bake potatoes in the microwave. Alas, I have no such skill. I coated my taters in olive oil, stabbed them each three or four times with a fork, and threw them in the oven at 375 for an hour.).
2. Halve your potatoes and scoop out the flesh with a spoon. Save the skins.
3. Place potato flesh (!) with 1/2 c. of the cheese, sour cream, scallions, milk, salt, and pepper. Whip them into submission with a hand-mixer (or, if you are a millionaire, with your standing mixer on high speed) until smooth and creamy.
4. Load your potato mixture back into the skins. Toss that puppy back into the oven at 375 for another 15-20 minutes.
5. Remove from the oven and immediately top with the remaining cheese to melt. Sprinkle bacon over the top.
6. Consume.

Curry made with carrot juice, and not coconut milk? Shazam!

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Summer-Vegetable-Ragout-with-Exotic-Curry-Sauce-360673

Thanks to Whitney.

Tonight for me, it’s leftover Chicken and Dumplings (Chicken & Gnocchi in Pesto Gravy is my snazzy title, in case you were wondering…), twice baked potatoes (!), and a special dessert… sneak peak:

Now, let’s put this in the tiniest bit of perspective. I’m from a farm. I’ve seen hogs and cattle butchered—I’ve seen deer hanging up from a forklift while they were systematically skinned, gutted, and dismantled. It’s not like I’m a slaughter novice.

Yet there is something fundamentally different about seeing someone thwack a rabbit on the back of the head to stun it (and, I’m told, prevent it from feeling or avoiding its imminent doom) before snapping its neck. Apparently, according to rabbit slaughter experts and the slaughterers themselves (whose expertise varied from “veteran rabbit killer” to “oh God, it’s so tiny and cute and I can’t do it!”), this is the most humane way to kill the little critters.

After the deed itself is done, the rabbits—legs kicking, twitching—are inverted, hung from a tree by their back legs, and their throats are slit with a boning knife. Eventually, one of the slaughterers decided to simplify things, and take the head off altogether at this step.

And next, the skinning begins. The active participant draws a knife around the little joints of the rabbit’s rear legs, and then makes peeling motions to pull down the pelt, until it comes off like a giant glove (or some such). The entrails come out at some point. I refused to check in with exactly when, since that part made me particularly nauseous.

The point is this: I am thankful that I can buy packaged meat in the grocery store without slaughtering and dressing it myself. Could I do it if I had to? Probably. From what I hear, it gets easier with time. Would it make me stop eating meat if I had to slaughter everything I ate?

Pause.

Probably not, but there is no way to tell. The only thing that’s for sure is this: I have more respect now for the chicken in my dinner than I did yesterday.

1. HOLY EFF. I live in a city. I can buy things like PACKAGED GNOCCHI NOW! Who knew? Seriously, who knew? Although, probably not many because under the gnocchi, it said “New Item!” so there you have it. Gnocchi has come to Madison Park. And we’re so glad it did.

2. PINE NUTS ARE RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE! $8.99 for a three-ounce box? Are you joking me? Is this some sort of joke? No, thank you.

3. Did people cook before food processors? That seems unwise.

And so we begin.

I haven’t written here for a while because—well, to be honest, I’m lazy. And I have a day job which is also writing, and it gets old after a little while. So there you have it.

This is a song about our sad friend, Comfort Food. You see, Comfort Food has been around the block a few times. He’s feeling a little down on his luck. I’ve been hanging out with Comfort Food a lot lately, and I love it. We have such a good time. We chill, relax, unwind from the day together.

But Comfort Food is restless. There’s a little nagging at the back of Comfort Food’s mind that it can be more. Better. Bigger. Flashier. Comfort-ier. And so, B&B COOK brings you:

EXTREME HOME MAKEOVER: COMFORT FOOD—FRIEND OR FOE? FEAST OR FAMINE? FIGHT OR FLIGHT?

The inspiration for this dish came from two sources: an article in the Washingtonian about Modern Twists on the Classic Dish; and my mother.

Let’s start with the former. Essentially, Todd Kliman is lining up restaurants in his area that serve some of your classic dishes—prime rib, burgers, wood-grilled lobster—and juxtaposing that against their modern, flashy counterparts: Grilled calotte of prime Midwestern beef, Kobe-beef tartare molded into a patty, and Maine lobster in a curried cream sauce crowned with zucchini curls. An interesting idea, no?

And then there’s my mother. And while almost everyone’s mother is their own personal epitome of comfort food cooking… well, mine is better. Armed with approximately 8.3 million cookbooks, an arsenal of cooking gadgetry developed by NASA and the quick wits that can only be honed by arguing with yours truly, she is a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen.

Growing up, every year on our birthday we got to choose what was for dinner. My brother varied his choice, but I only ever had one: Chicken and Dumplings. Now Chicken and Dumplings, though it sounds easy enough, is not so. It is nothing less than a three hour tour on the S.S. Minnow—rocky at best, destructive at worst. But the results are no less charming and delightful than my favorite TVLand offering.

And so, I began to form a plan. I had an idea and the good grace of my genetic makeup behind me, and I would triumph.

Chicken and Dumplings became… Italian… Chicken and Dumplings? Maybe? And instead of dumplings, it’s Gnocchi… and we’ll put pesto in the gravy! Yes! That’s IT! (also, I wanted to work my pre-packaged gnocchi into something delicious, and I had a lot of frozen chicken already.)

And there was one slight hitch in the process. I knew that vegetables would be involved. I’m great with onions. Celery is a little dicier, but I can dig it. It’s the carrots that get me every time.

Because I’m kind of a sloppy cook. I chop things different sizes and I move quickly and I leave a wake of destruction behind in the kitchen after I’m done. And there’s nothing worse than biting into a too-thick carrot with a snap of orange disgustingness. So I won’t have it. I shredded them. Which, as it turns out, is a breeze with my shredding attachment for the food processor. Who knew? Not this kid.

So here’s the ingredients:

• 1 onion, diced
• 3 carrots, shredded (booyahkasha!)
• 4 celery stalks, halved and sliced
• olive oil (lots)
• 4 tablespoons butter, divided (2 and 2)
• salt and pepper (lots)
• 3 tablespoons flour
• 2 1/2 cups chicken stock, divided (2 and 1/2)
• 2 lbs. chicken (I boiled frozen, then diced it up; you can also dice up raw and cook it for a little longer on its first browning)
• 16-20 ounces gnocchi (pre-packaged; I used one 17.5 package)
• 5 large basil leaves
• a handful parsley leaves
• a handful of pine nuts**
• 1 c. shredded asiago or parmesan cheese

Go shopping. Pretend you don’t realize how expensive it is (a tactic which, frankly, has always served me well).

1. Put on a pot of water to boil.
2. In a very, very large skillet (seriously kids, go big or go home) over medium-high heat, dump around a tablespoon of olive oil. Brown off your chicken on all sides, seasoning to taste with salt and pepper. Set aside.
3. In the same humungo skillet, add another tablespoon of oil (less if it still looks pretty slick) and two tablespoons of butter. Melt. Throw in all your veggies, and saute until tender with translucent onions. Season, again, with salt and pepper. Reduce heat to medium or medium-low. Add in your flour to form your roux. Stir to combine altogether.
4. SLOWLY (My patience, much like my mother’s, is woefully inadequate, but I soldiered on) add in 2 cups of chicken stock, stirring after each small addition until combined and gravylicious.
5. Taste. Season with salt and pepper. Add in your chicken. Stir, reduce heat to simmer while you do the rest of your business.
6. In your food processor (!), blend together the parsley, basil, pine nuts**, grated cheese, the remaining 1/2 cup of stock, and some salt and pepper.
7. Stir your pesto into the skillet. Taste. Yes, that’s right, you did that. Pride isn’t such a bad sin after all. Adjust seasonings if necessary (it probably isn’t). Bring up the heat to a boil, then reduce to simmer again.
8. Your water should be boiling; salt the water generously, then add the gnocchi. Watch it very carefully. I’ve made gnocchi from scratch once and from a package once and I still haven’t quite gotten the knack of the exactly correct boiling time. And it’s tricky because the window of perfection is very small and I’ve just barely missed it twice now. It should be between two and four minutes, when the gnocchi floats (I’ve taken to scooping out floating gnocchi while waiting for the late bloomers to do their own thang). Drain it, and let the gnocchi rest very briefly.
9. In a separate, smaller skillet, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Drop the gnocchi in and brown off the edges just until golden. This is just the tiniest bit of crunch to the pasta.
10. Stir the Gnocchi (I said, “what the hell,” and dumped the butter in as well) into the larger skillet. Allow everything to marry for just a couple minutes, and then serve with glory—but remember, pretend to be humble. People will like you more.

I added a side of The All-Purpose Rosemary Potatoes (TM) and paired it with my favorite (non-alcoholic) comfort food beverage: Diet Coke.

**This blog does not endorse including pine nuts in pesto unless you are a millionaire.

These are the best potatoes in the world, and my mother taught me how to make them. When I’m looking for a side dish for something, this is my default. They are easy. They are good. They are righteous. Much like myself.

• 4 Potatoes (These are good with pretty much any type. My mama prefers new reds; I like Yukon golds. It really doesn’t matter.)
• 3-5 sprigs of fresh rosemary (to taste; I do 5)
• a palmful of sea salt
• Olive oil (2 T or so)

1. Heat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Scrub your potatoes. (if you hate health benefits, peel them instead.) Slice thinly (around 1/8 inch if you can manage it).
3. Strip the rosemary from its stems (including the littler, more annoying stems). Give it a rough chop. (image shows you how I do it; some people complain about rough-chopped rosemary as being like “chewing on pine needles,” before segueing into how they weren’t loved enough as a child.)
4. Toss the potato slices in the olive oil. Sprinkle sea salt and rosemary over the top; toss again. Bake at 350 for 15-25 minutes or until tender, browned, and delicious. Pair with any entrée in the universe.