One of the best loaves I ever made with my own sourdough.
The Indy came out with a bread issue today. I have a piece in the print edition about sourdough.
There’s a second piece online, about favorite breads and spreads.
I hope you enjoy them.
Different loaf, same sourdough.
Thanks for your time.
The kindergarten class of Lad-N-Lassie School in Mobile, Alabama went on a field trip to a local fire station. When we arrived, one of the fire fighters met us and showed us all around the inside of the station house.
Frankly, it was dull. We saw the kitchen, dormitory, offices, and a living/rec room where the firemen hung out between calls. We wanted to see the Dalmatian and a house fire. We wanted to go flying down the road hanging onto the truck wearing giant raincoats.
Finally, we were led into the engine bay. Our guide spread his arms wide and told us, “Go ahead, kids. Look around. Have some fun!”
Have you ever seen one of those videos where they drop Mentos into a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke? How it explodes, shoots out of the top, and then just keeps exploding ‘til the bottle’s about empty?
That was pretty much the entire kindergarten class of Lad-N-Lassie that day.
Except, shockingly, me.
Here’s the thing. My dad was in the Coast Guard. He flew; in either helicopters or very large airplanes. He welded them when something needed welding, navigated when they were flying, and jumped into the ocean to rescue folks when they got there.
I grew up visiting the base, running around giant hangers, and climbing in and around huge flying machines.
So, to me, a couple of fire trucks were not the fascinating novelty they may have been to other children. But I had spied something that did seize and hold my attention. It was all I could see, and all I could think about. It was that great, shining fireman’s pole. 
Next to it was a compact metal circular staircase. In caper movies, or films with a big escape scene they all have one thing on common. The need for a distraction. Something to draw the eye and engage the concentration.
If I had ordered a distraction out of the Sears Roebuck catalog, I don’t think it could have been any better.
Two classmates were stuck in one giant rubber boot having a slap fight. A couple of kids were doing what looked like swing dancing on the roof of a truck. One girl had found the horn and I think was attempting to play “The Girl from Ipanema” on it. One boy, named Prairie, had taken off his shirt and was sitting on the floor whacking two helmets like bongo drums. The teachers and chaperones were dividing their time between running after some children and begging others to get down.
The fireman/tour guide looked like he wanted to cry.
Keeping one eye on the chaos, I sidled over to the steps and started up, thinking as hard as I could, “I’m invisible, you can’t see me, I’m invisible…”
At the top, I wrapped my arms around the pole. I took a deep breath, leaned in, and gave a little hop into space. I slid down, my brand new field trip dress blown up around my shoulders, my underwear fluttering in the wind. It was the most exciting 1 & ½ seconds of my young life.
My feet hit the ground about the time the adults registered my trip. I was the first and last kid to make the journey that day. With the assistance of the rest of the fireman, us kindergarten cats were herded out and onto the bus for the drive back to school.
At dinner that night Mom and Dad asked how the trip went. My answer was a question.
“What are heathen savages?”
Thanks for your time.
This is us.
After putting a roof over our heads, feeding five mouths, and having a daughter with a serious Barbie habit (me), there wasn’t a ton of money in my family for sugary treats at the grocery store.
When I was a child, my dad was in the Coast Guard, risking his life so that others may live. This meant he was subject to the will of the US government. Recently, we’ve seen this fact driven home in a manner that illustrates it far better than I ever could. 
But, this meant there was one parent who could be called to the base in an emergency with no idea when he would return home. Because of this, my mother was a stay-at-home mom.
What we lacked in cash, mom made up in time. My mom likes to have, what she calls, “a little sweet around the house”. We rarely had store-bought confections though; instead, she baked. /easy-chocolate-oatmeal-no-bake-cookies-3058522-hero-01-5c19116e46e0fb000129552f.jpg)
Simple, cheap, tasty things from stuff we usually had in the house, like bread pudding, popsicles from Jell-O, preacher cookies, and cream puffs. One of our favorites was her wacky cake that she topped with fudge frosting.
When The Kid was in elementary school, learning about the WWII Homefront, we discovered that the cake, with its lack of eggs, and dairy, had been a “Victory” recipe that rationing made popular.
One awesome thing about my mom: she believes it’s perfectly acceptable to have pie, cake, or even rice crispy treats for breakfast (See? Awesome.). Occasionally Mom would splurge on a specific store-bought treat for weekend breakfast.
It was orange rolls in a can. Bake, and when still warm, frost with this drippy, drizzly orange icing. I love those darned things. Just the smell of them make me feel like a little kid eating breakfast at the kitchen table in my flannel nightgown.
Recently I stumbled upon a vanilla version of my mother’s wacky cake. Adding cinnamon makes it more similar to those orange rolls. Last fall I went to Fearrington Village farmer’s market and met Nathan Simons, who with his wife Audrey, creates silky, flavored nut butters. My favorite is their hazelnut/orange. Which reminds me of those canned orange rolls, but in the very best, most delicious way.
Find Simons Says Nut Butters at www.simonssaysspreadthis.com.
Vanilla-Cinnamon Kooky Cake with Hazelnut-Orange Fudge Frosting
1 & 1/2 cups + 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon white vinegar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup water
Preheat oven to 350.
Grease 8-inch square baking pan. Mix dry ingredients in pan. Then make three depressions in them. Pour vinegar in one, vanilla in another and vegetable oil in third. Then pour water over top and mix until smooth.
Bake 35 minutes. Cool completely and then top with frosting.
Fudge Frosting:
1 & 1/2 cups sugar
7 tablespoons milk
2 tablespoons shortening
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ cup Simons Says hazelnut orange butter
Once cake is cool, combine sugar, milk, shortening, butter, and salt in heavy saucepan. Bring to rolling boil while stirring constantly.
Once it boils, stop stirring and let boil for two minutes or until soft ball stage (235 degrees F.).
Remove from heat and add vanilla and hazelnut butter. Beat by hand until smooth and quickly spread over cake.
The Kid will tell anybody who asks, Grampa’s a superhero. The Kid’s not far off. If you know someone who served their country in the Coast Guard or another branch, say thanks. Or better yet, give them a piece of this cake.
Thanks for your time.
You know, when it came to spouses, I think I got pretty lucky.
If I had to put up with me, I would either run for the hills, or drop a piano on my head (although where I’d get a piano, or get it airborne, is a puzzler).
Billie Holiday, and her puppy, Mister(!).
My capacity for self-knowledge is on a similar level of my ability to sing like Billie Holiday or sit through more than five minutes of the Bachelor. But I do know this much. My last nerve can get strummed at the drop of a fedora. But, my ire disappears just as quickly. And, I have enough self-control that when I do pop off it’s directed only at the offending situation, not innocent bystanders.
I am not one to ‘take it out’ on people or animals who are at hand, but in no way responsible for my pique. I only hurl my stinging invectives toward the situational catalyst.
So, furiosity comes easy, goes quick, and I rarely lash out at the people around me. The main reason is I know what a giant pain in the keister I am at my default setting. I’m not going to go out of my way to be extra-double-secret-vexatious and alienate friends and family.
But Petey and I are around each other most of the time, so he gets the most exposure to my displeasure, despite the fact that the true object of my ire is in the TV box, or the telephone, or doesn’t even actually exist, and I’m just bellowing into the void. My vociferous proclamations still roll over him and then recede, like some cranky ocean tide.
But, the things that provoke me are truly infuriating; they are things that should anger any right-thinking human.
The government announced the other day that the progress they’d made to keep kids nicotine-free has completely been erased—by vaping.
Vaping!
The manufacturers claim that they have no desire for children to use these products. But they sell flavors like fruity pebbles, coco pops, bubblegum, and unicorn poop (yup—unicorn poop).
And now they’re airing commercials in which adult smokers talk about how they switched from cigarettes to vaping, and ain’t life grand? I guess it’s better because…they can do it at church or sitting on the nice sofa?
Here’s the deal. There are hundreds of chemicals in each pod. But nobody’s sure exactly which because individual shops can mix up their own cartridges. Nine of the known chemicals in these things are either on lists of carcinogens or documented as dangerous to reproductive systems.
Like something you might use on a summer evening…and the bag it came in.
Plus, vaping makes you look like the kind of person who’d wear sunglasses at night or stiff a waiter and laugh about it.
Memo to Duke Energy: it is in no way “convenient” to charge me an extra $1.50 to pay my light bill online or over the phone.
Martha Stewart is a new celebrity judge on Food Network’s Chopped. There are three segments in which dishes created by participants are eaten and evaluated. No matter what the food is, no matter what course, Martha eat with chopsticks. And now, another judge, Iron Chef Jeffrey Zakarian has joined her in this straight-up affectation.
I’m sure they feel they have a perfectly rational reason. Maybe they’re trying to limit calories. Maybe it’s their way to pick through the dish and taste separate components. Don’t care.
It’s not a good look, guys. 
To Bridget, Carmen, and any other robo-calling wenches who want to help lower my credit card interest rates; I will find you. When you least expect me, and are feeling quite proud of your scamming, computer-generated selves, I will find you.
Thanks for your time.
My mother would be convinced that the veggies were burnt and should be discarded. This would result in my father running over to Food Lion to acquire more microwavable veggies as the family sits around the dinner table and Mom frets about everything getting cold and dried out.
It’s because she has the lowest of thresholds of what burned is.
If her baked macaroni and cheese has brown spots on the top, it’s burned. If rolls go beyond the lightest of caramel-color, they’re burned. And if veggies get a barely perceptible touch of char, they’re burned and ruined.
Except.
Except, as Chef Ann Burrell delights in proclaiming in a fake, growly, bear-like voice, “Brown food tastes good!”.
The Maillard (my-yard) reaction is when amino acids and sugars mix with heat and to a certain extent, pressure, making those delicious, delicious brown markings on food.
If you want to know how important and tasty the Maillard reaction is, think about a hot, melty grilled cheese, on limp blond, not browned, but crispy bread. Or, flaccid bacon. Enjoy grill marks? Maillard reaction.
Due to exposure to my mom’s brown food aversion, and my own, near-certifiable level of impatience, I came exceedingly late to the brown food fan club.
But I’m now recording secretary.
It’s easy to get a nice brown crust on meat, no matter how long it needs to cook, the recipe you’re using, or the method of preparation.
All you need is a metal pan (a cast iron is best here) that’s screaming hot and a little oil. Dry both sides of the meat, put the thinnest coats of oil on it, then season both sides. Place the pieces in the pan without crowding them, which will steam them, rather than sear. They should be no closer than ½ inch. And the more contact meat makes to hot surface, the more of it will be brown.
Then cook the meat on each side until there’s a beautiful, deeply caramel-colored crust. Flip, and cook the other side. Finish cooking according to directions. 
Brown veggies though, are my newest obsession.
It all started with some frozen, multi-colored Trader Joe’s cauliflower.
The directions said to put a bit of vegetable oil in the pan to cook them. But, we really love cauliflower with brown butter, so I put a few tablespoons in the pan and let it brown. Then I put in the still frozen cauliflower, turned it down to about 4, and covered it.
When the cauliflower was heated through, I uncovered the pan and turned it up to about 6. There was a little water in the skillet from the veg which I wanted to cook off. This is where I had the happy accident.
I was preoccupied with getting the rest of dinner put together, so I neglected the cauliflower, and it cooked longer than normal (for me).
When I got back to it, it had developed beautiful browning. In the past, I never cooked vegetables until they picked up color. But, instead of deciding it was burned and discarding it, I just flipped it to expose another part to the pan.
The result was a side dish that Petey is still talking about.
You can do this with both frozen and fresh. But it must be a harder veg, like broccoli, cauliflower, or carrots. A more tender veggie like peas, will turn gray. So cook them gently, then roll them in brown butter. They’ll pick up the maillard flavor without going all elementary school cafeteria food on you.
Chef Ann Burrell and chocolate can’t both be wrong. Brown is good.
And, not burnt.
Thanks for your time.
John Mayer, serial dater and troubadour for romantically challenged thirty-somethings sang, “Your body is a wonderland”.
But for many women, our bodies can be more of a creepy abandoned seaside amusement park; the kind Scooby and the gang would pull up to in the Mystery Machine.
It starts at puberty.
Most girls in middle school are desperate for the commencement of their monthly visitor. They think about it, talk about it, and read about it. 
When I was in junior high, they’d separate the class by sex, then show the girls films and pass out pamphlets about “Becoming A Woman”. According to them, once mature there are lots of flowers, swelling violin music, and for some reason, horseback riding.
Even Walt Disney Studios got in on it with the Citizen Kane of female reproduction, “The Story of Menstruation”. Sadly, it didn’t include a scene of Minnie sending Mickey out to the Walgreens for supplies, chocolate, and Midol.
But, once Aunt Flo actually showed up, we realized what a messy, bloated, crampy pig in a poke we’d yearned for. And as a bonus, we’d get to experience it twelve times a year for the next forty years.
There’s a break when pregnant, but a whole new garden of earthly delights awaits; from head to toe.
Pregnancy brain is really a thing. I once left my car running and in gear when I got out at the dry cleaners. How I didn’t run myself over and make the business a drive-through is anybody’s guess./cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/61401577/The_Predator_Movie_5K_q2.0.jpg)
Then, there was the clicking. For weeks, I heard an odd sound coming from my belly, like the monster from the movie, “Predator”, but slower and muffled. I just assumed auditory hallucinations were another part of the gestational swag bag.
But one night, Petey heard it, and I actually cried from relief. He rushed me out to Duke for answers. None of the OB staff had ever seen anything like it, so they did an ultrasound.
Not The Kid, but it looked just like this, and we saw the removal of the thumb, too.
Turns out, The Kid was sucking a tiny little thumb, and as the digit was removed from mouth, there was a pop, which translated to the outside world, as a “click”.
Funnily enough, after birth, The Kid was not a thumb sucker…
Morning sickness? I spent nine months constantly feeling like a drunken sorority girl ready to revisit meals from preschool. 
Early on, I experienced a sleepiness of an industrial-strength. I’d be reading or watching TV, when suddenly it would be 90 minutes later because I had fallen asleep as suddenly as a toddler passes out into their lunch.
Later on, I tried to sleep, but sometimes a solo soccer match would break out, and I’d be poked repeatedly from the inside by little knees and elbows. I very often felt compelled to walk, which would tire me out and rock my passenger to sleep. Unfortunately, when I then attempted slumber, the cessation of movement would wake The Kid, and induce a dance party.
There are random physical curveballs served up by growing a human, as well. I had a hair inside my nose grow backward. It eventually showed up on the outside. Then I couldn’t breathe through my schnoz, but I could smell anything anywhere that might turn my stomach—at one point I’m pretty sure I smelled a fish fry on Noah’s ark.
After the many splendored thing that is youth and fertility, at middle age a woman experiences the joy of menopause.
This is a voyage planned by a psychopathic travel agent from hell. Without my glasses, I can’t see myself in the mirror—which makes mascara a vision-risking adventure. A magnifying mirror works, but the suddenly enlarged, dilapidated visage staring back shocks and horrifies. My joints sound like I’m smuggling a box of broken glass. 
The mood swings and the hot flashes are a charming two-fer. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been buttered and set ablaze. If at that point, a human male informs me that it’s all in my head and I should ignore it, I suddenly experience strong desire. A desire to snap said human like a dry twig and use the resulting pieces to toast marshmallows and weenies on the raging camp fire that’s my left thigh. 
It’s not all tragedy and cold French fries, though. I’m anticipating the happy day I discard the last tattered fragment of restraint controlling my tongue.
That’s right, Gentle Reader. I shall be the brutally honest little old lady that reveals to mothers their babies look like Newt Gingrich. I’ll tell stupid people they’re stupid. And I’ll inform that guy with the particularly ridiculous comb-over that he ain’t fooling anybody.
Thanks for your time.
If you’ve ever wondered how long fudge can stay in the freezer, I have the answer.
Not sixteen months.
Have you ever seen those giant teeth at the dentist’s office? You know the ones that are about a foot tall, which open to a cross section of the different parts of a tooth? 
Well, it’s a life-size model of my sweet tooth.
When it comes to chocolate fudge, there are two different types. There’s creamy fudge; the kind with marshmallow cream—quick and easy.
Then there’s traditional, classic fudge cooked in a pot on the stove until it reaches a very specific temperature. Then it’s beaten vigorously. It can go wrong much easier than right. 
At the state fair, All-American Fudge makes a stellar example. It’s better than any old-school version I could make, so I let them do it. Every year I buy two pounds, bring it home, triple-wrap and freeze it. I then ration it like it’s the very last pizza at a Super Bowl party.
Well, last year I rationed it too well, and when the fair rolled around, I had about a pound left, so I didn’t buy any more. Thus, sixteen-month-old awful fudge that broke my heart and left me without fair fudge for Eight.More.Months.
But.
There are two fudges of the easy, marshmallow cream variety that are close to my heart.
The first is a PB&J fudge. I shared my recipe with Lisa Prince, who along with Brian Shrader does a segment every Friday on WRAL’s noon news, called Local Dish. This was last Friday’s dish.
Peanut Butter & Jelly Fudge
1 7-ounce jar marshmallow cream
1 11-ounce package white chocolate chips
¾ cup creamy peanut butter
¼ cup crunchy peanut butter
¾ cup butter
2 ½ cups granulated sugar
pinch of kosher salt
1 cup heavy whipping cream
¾ cup jelly, jam, or preserves of your choice
Line 8-inch square baking dish with parchment paper. Set aside.
In large mixing bowl, add marshmallow cream, white chocolate chips and peanut butters. Set aside.
In large saucepan, combine butter, sugar, salt, and whipping cream. Bring to boil over medium-high heat. Boil for 4 full minutes.
Pour boiling mixture over ingredients in mixing bowl. Using electric mixer, beat for 1-2 minutes, until completely smooth and creamy.
Pour half of mixture into baking dish. Drop spoonsful of jam. Using a knife, lightly swirl into the fudge. Top with remaining fudge and dollops of the rest of the preserves. Gently swirl again with knife, just until marbled.
Refrigerate 4 hours, or overnight, until set. Cut into bites. Store in airtight container in refrigerator up to a week.
The other fudge is a long-time favorite; chocolate peanut butter. It’s easy and tastes so darn good.
Chocolate Peanut Butter Fudge
3 cups sugar
4 tablespoons cocoa
1 tablespoon butter
¾ cup milk
1 cup peanut butter
1 cup marshmallow crème
*When measuring peanut butter and marshmallow cream, spray measuring cup and spatula with cooking spray to facilitate removal from cup.
Mix together first 4 ingredients in saucepan. Bring to rolling boil. Boil exactly 3 minutes. Remove from heat and add marshmallow creme and peanut butter. Stir until melted then pour into buttered 8X8 pan. Let cool.
The secret to this is to boil exactly 3 minutes. Use a timer. I’m not joking.
I’m sad and disappointed about my fair fudge.
But.
When I get my next fudge stash, I can’t bear to get less than two pounds, and I know it doesn’t last forever in the freezer. So, like it or not, to avoid wasting food, I’ll be forced to eat more fudge more often. 
What a bummer.
Thanks for your time.
Dining on unseasoned food is like eating with a condom on your tongue.
Um, this tiny little man did. And, he doesn’t even realize it.
She drank his milkshake.
I am a woman of great enthusiasm, slightly above-normal persuasive powers, but minimal forethought.The wearing of post earrings means being continuously poked in the neck. Every time you hold a phone to your ear, every time you lay on your side, that insidious little metal shiv shanks you.
My delicate, sensitive nature precludes me from wearing such jab-happy jewelry. I now only wear the tiniest hoops they make; literally, they’re made for babies. 
A normal human might ponder such pain-inducing side effects well before the piercing and rethink the whole enterprise.
But as I said, thinking before doing is neither skill nor talent that I possess.
Pestering however, so is.
When I graduated from kindergarten, I also received a doctorate—in beleaguering. Give me a cause, and I could nag all four guys at Mount Rushmore into submission.
In the first grade, I was obsessed with getting holes poked through my tender little earlobes into which I planned to hang sparkly bits of metal and/or stone. My poor mother bore the brunt of this unbridled obsession. I brought it up and argued in its favor multiple times a day.
Finally, on the very last day of school that year, Mom said yes. A man was coming from away to our local Belk Tyler’s for ear piercing.
Even though my mother said she’d take me, I knew I had to be on best behavior until those holes were actually in my ears or the opportunity could be snatched away. So, all day, I did my very best imitation of a meek, obedient child.
When we got to Belk’s, there was the piercer, a dapper, charming man in the fanciest suit I’d ever seen in Elizabeth City.
Mom had told me they would probably spray my ears with something that would numb them, and then slip the earrings in—it would be quick and painless.
So, imagine my surprise when he wiped my lobe with some alcohol, put an actual cork, like from a Gunsmoke whiskey bottle, behind my ear, and stabbed me with the sharpened post of an earring.
My eyes and mouth were three perfect O’s in my face. I wanted to cry and run away, but I also wanted both of my ears pierced, so I remained silent.
My mother, however, did not.
The first ear was assaulted so quickly she hadn’t registered what happened until afterward. Completely out of character and against everything I’d been taught by her since birth, my mother proceeded to make a scene in Belk Tyler’s.
“What is wrong with you? How could you do that? Take your hands off my daughter and get away from her!”
Meanwhile, I was paralyzed from pain and the shock of my mother raising her voice in public.
The swank disappeared from the man as he spun around to face her and growled, “So, whaddya want lady? You want the kid to walk around with one ear pierced? ‘Cause I don’t care, you already paid.”
At that point, Mom was shocked into silence along with me. Taking her stillness for acquiescence, he finished the job. Struck dumb, we left Belk’s and went home without a word.
When you get your ears pierced, you must leave the original earrings in for six weeks. Wearing those sharpened golden daggers and being continuously stabbed by them bred a loathing for post earrings deep inside my soul.
Hence, the baby hoops.
My mom?
It was like a logjam broke that day. My mother was never again hesitant to speak her mind in public. Which is very honest and extremely healthy. But sometimes, for her daughter, a bit less than comfortable.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 