Jumping Off the High Dive

Remember when you were a kid, and during miserably hot summers you went to your local junior high swimming pool and paddled amongst the mothers, their floating toddlers, screaming kids, and sometimes, you got up the gumption to climb up to the diving boards?



There was the “regular” diving board which was bouncy and intimidating enough for any normal person. And then, there was the high dive. It towered. It mocked from on high. It waited. It absolutely, positively, created huge pits of fear that were lodged somewhere between my throat and my intestines, and that fear pounded. In my ears, in my neck, in my heart. Regardless, I’d climb that high-dive every so often. Then I’d dawdle, toeing the edge. I’d look down at all the impatient kids waiting for me. Finally I’d jump off, cannon ball-propelled, and emerge from the diving pool dripping, smarting from the great slap of water on my butt, and bouncing around from the adrenaline rush.

There’s nothing like grabbing that high dive for all its menacing worth and emerge triumphant.

I think there are high-dives in everything. In your career. In your family. In your relationship to your body, your health, your mind, your emotions, your relationships. And, of course, in food. I’ve since overcome my first major high-dive fear of food (Yeast Beasties! Here and Here and Here.) But it was time to take on a new challenge. One I’d been gearing up for all summer. Of course, now that it’s not summer anymore, and I’d toed the edge long enough, I leapt. And, well, making ice cream just isn’t as hard as I thought. Go fig.

From The Vagabond Table

I was lucky enough to steal, er…gift myself…with my mom’s Cuisinart ice cream maker from the garage this past July. Let me tell you, carrying an ice cream maker through airport security in a banana-shaped bag raises a lot of eyebrows and questions, but mostly I got a lot of smiles when I told them what I was hauling around. I mean...everyone loves ice cream.

After searching the internet for the perfect ice cream recipe for some dear friends who came to visit, Annie and Liz (fellow volunteers when we were in Chile about 5 years ago), we found David Lebovitz’s recipe for Salted Butter Caramel Ice Cream. Uh. You might have just zoned out for a hot second after I wrote that. Totally understandable. I did too. Salted? Butter? Caramel? Swoon.

From The Vagabond Table

This was definitely a task that required an extra hand or two to help scrape down bowls and whisk and the like, but it was a fun group project. Also, it turns out my ice cream maker isn’t hard to use at all, so Pumpkin Ice Cream…I’m lookin’ at you this Fall. Also, this caramel ice cream was a dream. That perfect balance of rich, caramel sweetness with the tang of some salt thrown in here and there. It doesn’t hurt that this recipe calls for milk, egg yolks AND heavy cream. Yeah. When I finally approach the high dive, I don’t half-ass anything. I cannonball it for full effect, and this ice cream was the mother of rich, velvety awesomeness.

If you have an ice cream maker gathering dust in your garage… make this ice cream. If you have a friend who has an ice cream maker…do a group thing and make this ice cream. Whatever you do, please: make this ice cream.

Say Hello To Your New Breakfast

Ya’ll. I hate to break it to you summer-lovers out there, but Fall, indeed, is nearly upon us.

There’s a chilly breeze (7 nights in a row!) and sunny-cloudy days. I dream about drinking coffee, wrapped in a scarf, sitting on a park bench somewhere reading Jane Eyre. Yep. Definitely Fall. Or, at least, the whispers of the beginning of it.

I’ve also discovered, with no small amount of surprise, that while I really really like cooking (and I do!) I looove baking. There’s just something so satisfying about putting some kind of concoction in the oven and having something entirely different come out. Usually something delicious and warm and toasty. It’s kind of like a chemistry experiment, except that you get to eat the results, usually with a coffee in hand, instead of wearing dorky plastic glasses and stupid rubber gloves. I like Baking Science...I just wish they offered that class in high school.

My friends, I have discovered possibly the best bread you could ever bake by yourself. Just to make sure my yeast-prowess wasn’t a fluke the first time around, this past week I baked it for a second time, but this go-round I threw in some wheat flour for good measure. And boy, was it a good measure.

From The Vagabond Table

Originally the recipe was called “Maple White Bread” but since I added wheat, I guess I’ll just be calling it Maple Bread from now on. But don’t be fooled. It isn’t sweet so much as a memory of sweet. It has the essence of maple, the warmth of maple, but not the nearly-over-sweetness of syrup. Does any of this even make sense? All I know, is that for two weeks in a row, I have baked my own loaf of bread. I might even have the recipe memorized at this point. I've shared this toasty goodness with the roomie and with colleagues, and, all around, it was a number one prize winner of a solid loaf of bread.

From The Vagabond Table

The thing is… it’s a GREAT slicing bread. Nice, thick, gorgeous slices of bread, toasted up for breakfast with a slather of butter is perfection. Jam is nice too, but I must say, even after trying this bread with homemade jam and apple butter, I'd take regular ole' butter with this bread any day. Ohhhh good heavens.

From The Vagabond Table

As I contemplate my baker-tendencies, I’ll comfort myself with awesome toasty breakfasts as I watch autumn start to creep in and surprise me with yellow leaves and chilly nights. I hope by now you've conquered your yeast-based fears (like I have!) and can do the same.

For Your Birthday

I have a birthday cake for you.

From The Vagabond Table

Full warning: it is not a frosting cake (thank god!) It is not a cheesecake. It is not made of carrots or chocolate or strawberries or coconut. Instead, it is made of plums.

From The Vagabond Table

Simply dimpled, lovely, and jewel-toned, it is a cake for any-day or birth-days. It is, ideally, made with end-of-summer plums from the farmer’s market, and is made all the more interesting with a whisper of lemon zest and sour cream in the vanilla batter. It sounds strange, but is quite the find. It is, indeed, quite a cake. And, as my birthday gift to you, I present you the best cake I’ve had all summer, one I’ll probably make again before plum season ends, and one I promise you’ll thank me for, for being both simple and gorgeous at the same time.

From The Vagabond Table

I have some ruminations on my entrance into the grand year known as 28. So I’ll make this simple and sweet, (similar to this cake.)

From The Vagabond Table

We grow older, and, we hope, wiser. I don’t know if I’d ever consider myself wise, except that I have learned a few things during these past 28 years, most of which center around the themes of listening to myself, and being myself, no matter who thinks I’m crazy, or who thinks I’m a nerd and a half.

I’ve learned that risks are best taken with a family to hug you and send you bags of granola, and friends who cheer you along the way. And some killer mixed CD’s that become the soundtrack of it all.

I’ve learned that meals are best shared with a side of jokes and a dessert of thanks.

I’ve learned that a well-made bed is the best kind of bed to crawl into at night.

I’ve learned that there is absolutely nothing more important in this world than surrounding yourself with people you love and who cherish you right back. And that telling them so is a Very Important Thing.

I’ve learned that there is definitely something to the art of doing nothing. To napping beneath a tree. To dipping your fingers into a fountain and taking off your shoes in the park. To watching endless movie marathons and recording the lovely random thoughts that float through your head. To enjoying a perfect bite of cheese, the squeezing of a lemon and the sizzle of butter.

And I have learned that it’s okay to grow, and to change your mind, and to be wrong, and to be right, and to just be. And that the constant adventure and the thrill of what’s next is kind of what makes us tick, what makes us human, what makes us blessed.

So I cheers to you. To remaining true to yourself, but to the constant change. To the loved ones in your life. To another year to celebrate sunshine and clouds, raindrops and snowflakes, fall leaves and new flowers. To stretching yourself completely, and the loveliness of curling back up, newly changed, but always and essentially you. To your birthday, whenever it may be. To you.

From The Vagabond Table

As they say in Albania… Gezuar! Now go bake that cake and celebrate in style.

Summer Break

To the beach we go.
To the waves and fresh air.
To Dogfish.
To dreaming and talking
To the beach we go.

Ah, to the beach we go!
To the wind in our hair and the sand in our toes
To sleeping deeply and laughing loudly
To salty fresh breezes
and singing out loud
Ah, to the beach we go!

From The Vagabond Table

I recently took a little jaunt down to Rehoboth Beach with my roomie. We stayed at a lovely B&B (1/2 block from the beach! Center of it all! On a magical lane named “Brooklyn!”) This house even had a screened in porch. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my obsession of porches, but I have a deep, revered love for them. For playing card games late at night. For rocking on chairs and swinging on hammocks and breakfasting and lunching and dining, I'm pretty sure porches are a favorite of mine from some prior life in the old south.

From The Vagabond Table

It was a grand ol’ time. We threw a mix called “I Heart the 90’s” into our rental car, belted out some Alanis and Pearl Jam and grooved to The Avett Brothers and Chatham County Line. We drove past lots of corn fields and farms and adorable fruit stands with names like “Ma and Pa’s Market.” We went there, and I must say Ma was rather nice, too.

From The Vagabond Table

This was my first trip to the Atlantic coast beaches, my first time dipping my toes into cold water and seeing early morning from the east coast. I’m used to southern California beaches, and while I can’t quite put my finger on it, it was different. And lovely.

From The Vagabond Table

We mulled our lives over some great brews at the Dogfish Head Brewpub and discovered the most amazing Italian Salumeria and Pasticceria at Touch of Italy where we bought dried Italian figs, fresh-made mozzarella, and grilled olives. I also tried a delicious cold Peach Soup (with champagne, nutmeg, and coconut milk, no less!) at a fantastic restaurant called Hobo’s.

It was a good time.

One of my favorite parts was coming back home Sunday evening and rehashing everything over a cherry-tomato, basil, and mozzarella salad with a great new recipe I found for Rosemary Focaccia bread.

From The Vagabond Table

From The Vagabond Table

Heaven in my bowl! Heaven in the oven! By heavens, I have been blessed with most-excellent Delaware farm-fresh produce and a wicked Rosemary Focaccia bread recipe to match. Have I suddenly become a baker? Have I lost all fear of yeast (and kneading) doughs? So many tough questions, but they are balanced by easy recipes and lovely summer suppers, and, I think, they are questions that can be left to ponder during colder winter months.

Perfection Weekend

Someone needs to give me French lessons, because I’m very iffy on how to pronounce this dish, but what I’m not iffy on is how much I love it.

Moules à la marinière (mussels with garlic and white wine) are awesome. They are more than easy to make. They make you feel refined and posh and edgy and talented in the kitchen. They make you want to share wine and stories and play Foodie Fight with friends over an hours-long Saturday evening meal.

From The Vagabond Table

Also, they’re gorgeous.


Courtesy of Lucy

From The Vagabond Table

Lucy was in town, and Roni and I went all-out on the relaxation factor. We had Ethiopian food and drinks at one of our fave bars, The Red Derby, Friday night. Saturday after a late breakfast we laid in a park for hours, sipping on wine while munching on peaches and napping in the shade of a big tree. We went shopping, came home, and Roni made her famous gazpacho with local heirloom tomatoes while I made moules à la marinière with crusty bread and brie and a lovely bottle of white wine. It was, I think, the most relaxed I’ve been in ages.

From The Vagabond Table

Lazing around in Meridian Hill park.

Gazpacho, courtesy of Lucy

Sunday morning we made fruit salad, asparagus-red pepper frittata, and blueberry whole-wheat scones while Stumptown coffee brewed as a big summer storm rolled in.

From The Vagabond Table

Stumptown coffee time

Courtesy of Lucy

This weekend has been more than lovely, with great food, good weather, and fun reunions with peeps I haven’t seen in a while. I’m also convinced I need to move to France for a year and apprentice to a baker and vintner. I see wineries, French wine, baguettes and more moules à la marinière in my future, mon amis!

Cobbled Together

Traditionally, a cobbler is a shoemaker and sole-repairman, with, I like to imagine, a brown leather apron and a pair of glasses sitting just so on the edge of his nose.

My kind of cobbler, the fruit kind, fixes things too. It fixes the fact that you haven’t had much of a life for a few months straight. It fixes the fact you haven’t seen your family since Christmas. It fixes all the stress by relaxing you with the lovely job of pitting stone fruits, squeezing a lemon, and mixing together a crumbly topping. My kind of a cobbler is the soul-repairman, summer-fruit version.

From The Vagabond Table

For my mom’s birthday, I gave her David Lebovitz’s delicious book, Ready for Dessert, a book that offers everything from pies and cakes to tarts and ice creams. For the past month or so we’ve discussed baking one of his recipes together, and upon my return home, we decided on the Cherry-Almond Cobbler, a relatively simple and delicious-sounding dessert that we chose to serve at a brunch later in the weekend.

You pit a pound of cherries (luckily my mom had a cherry-pitter. Unluckily, I suck at using it and she had to go back through and remove all the seeds that I missed.) You mix sugar and lemon juice with the cherries (with your cherry-juice stained arms), then mix a simple topping of flour, marzipan, butter, milk, and sugar until fluffy and spoon over the cherries. The dish smells heavenly when baking, toasted and almond-y with a ripe layer of summer fruit at its peak.

From The Vagabond Table

This Cherry-Almond Cobbler is easy to assemble, and just as easy to disassemble, as noted by my lack of any photos of an actual serving of it. The whole dish was gone within twenty minutes, so I know I'm not the only one who loves summer-fruit cobblers! The almond topping complimented the cherries perfectly, and really, such a dessert is the only reason you should even turn your oven on in these swelteringly hot days of summer.

From The Vagabond Table

Guys, this cobbler was a hit. And, like I mentioned earlier, it tends to be a fixer-upper of things, and I’m a-hankerin' to keep it around for a while.

My People

Guys, I’ve been all UP in my Indian-ness recently. My naani should be proud.

Over Memorial Day, I went to NYC where I visited my friend Lucy, who in turn took me to the Alvin Ailey Dance Studo (!) where we took a Masala Bhangra class (!!) from Sarina Jain herself, and proceeded to get the.best.calf.workout.of.my.life. No joke. For like 5 days afterwards my calves groaned and stretched and ached, and by the end of the recovery period, I had somewhat-well-defined calf muscles on my skinny chicken legs! Most importantly, though, I had a blast…it was full of heart. Full of drama and passion and strength. It was so much fun. I felt like I’d directly bonded with my people. Shabad, my 100% Indian friend who I grabbed breakfast with that same weekend, welcomed me into the Bhangra-loving-Indian-fold. It was a good weekend.

I’d like to note I haven’t made Indian food since the Vegetable Pulau episode which kicked off this whole blog a year and a half ago. It’s so strange. I’ll delve into Vietnamese, South American, Mexican, Italian, German…but I’m nervous to cook anything Indian. It's almost as if I can’t cook it, because it won’t ever be like home. Does that even make sense? Either way, my trusty roomie Roni was pushing me to make something Indian recently and I finally said okay then.

From The Vagabond Table

I searched all day online for something simple, vegetarian, and Indian. I couldn’t remember my G-ma ever making Chole Palak (Chickpeas and Spinach) so I didn’t feel too nervous. I even decided to make Parathas (minus, of course, the right kind of atta or flour my naani uses, but a girl has to make do with what she and the Whole Foods has, you know.)

From The Vagabond Table

So I came home and I made Indian food. My parathas were wheatier and heavier than my G-Ma’s, but that’s okay. They still tasted good. The Chole Palak was delicious and did what any good Indian dish does…makes your clothes and kitchen smell like spice for 2 days straight. It was a tiny personal triumph, and while a small thing, it was a big thing.

Sorry I've been gone for a minute...a work conference I've been helping to plan for the better part of a year just finished in San Antonio (great city!) and I'm resting for a few days in Phoenix before heading back. Joy to being home with my people, and more recipes to follow.