11 June 2011
victorious
Remember that sourdough loaf I made a few weeks ago? The one that was a rock?
This past Sunday, I backtracked a little.
Sourdough is complicated. The instructions alone can span a 24 hour period, with multiple risings, strange containers made of muslin needed to make the crust parfait, and a baking stone, for crying out loud. I'm not buying a baking stone! (yet)
The resulting bread, from the starter I had so thoughtfully nurtured for two weeks, was tolerable, but it wasn't bread. It was a hard rock. It reminded me that dense German bread you once could buy at Trader Joes. Sliced super thin and jeweled with seeds, it was not something with which you would make a sandwich. Except mine was just hard bread. I'm trying to make my sourdough failure sting a little less here.
So the day after I returned from New York, I had a Sunday to myself, and needed to prepare for the week. I forgot to buy bread at the store (and I'm ambivalent about store-bought sandwich bread anyway), so I glanced at the active dry yeast packets on my spice shelf - the same ones so denigrated by sourdough snobs - and thought, WTF. Let's make some regular bread.
I was smart enough to think to use this awesome tin my Mom gave me from her kitchen when I moved to Los Angeles. It is composed of two pieces that fit together and slide, so you can adjust the length of whatever you're making. At its shortest, it's great for a loaf of pumpkin bread. At it's longest, you've got a freakin' long loaf of bread.
I used one of Orangette's whole wheat recipes, one that required only one rising and was in the oven an hour and a half after I pulled out the mixing bowl. And no bread stone necessary, thank you. It just takes a few heretical ingredients (a little oil, a little honey) to make a soft, edible piece of bread.
That's what I'm talking about!
06 June 2011
new york, i love you
So, I went to New York!
(All photos taken with my iPhone.)
First to Ithaca, land of lush green trees and Ivy Leagues.
This is the bed-and-breakfast we stayed in, built in 1815.
6,000 odd students graduating from Cornell with Bachelors, Masters and Doctorates.
Congrats to the brother!
Then to "the city" (aka NYC)...
Catherine's beautiful little studio on the Upper West Side, where I was lucky enough to stay the whole week.
The Met, and the Alexander McQueen exhibit.
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The Cloisters, a wonderful medieval art museum on the northern tip of Manhattan.
Lincoln Center at dusk, where we saw War Horse.
The High Line, in Chelsea.
Central Park.
A quote on the wall of the Museum of Sex.
The lovely Hudson River.
I caught up with old friends, ate delicious food, drank delicious wine, hung out with my parents quite a bit, attended two smashing Broadway plays (Wicked and War Horse), went to the Met, the Cloisters, and the Museum of Sex, walked along the High Line and peered into art galleries in Chelsea, meandered through Central Park and stumbled upon a small wedding ceremony taking place on a gazebo, navigated the subway system like a pro (or, at the very least, a French couple thought I was a native), sweltered in the humidity on Tuesday and Wednesday and then marveled at the perfection on Thursday and Friday... and a million other little things.
It was the best trip I've taken in a long, long time.