May 2011 – Food Woolf

Most Improved

It was the summer between my junior and senior year and I was away at a summer youth music school. My parents were getting a divorce, my home life was a mess, and I was happy to spend almost two months with other kids my age focusing on the one thing I really loved: music.

I spent the summer working hard on my vocal performance. I auditioned for groups and tried out for the privilege of private lessons. I didn’t make the special chorus but I did qualify for one-on-one sessions with a vocal coach. I was excited. I was going to grow as a performer.

By the end of the summer I had learned more than I had ever bargained for. I even fell in love. On the last day of camp, hundreds of students and teachers gathered in an auditorium at the University of New Hampshire for a final ceremony.

I wore a loose tee shirt and a jean skirt as I sat in my seat feeling butterflies. I desperately hoped I’d be given an award. I wanted something to prove to the world around me that all of my hard work that summer was good. Really good.

Despite the fact I had rather low self-esteem, I did feel with some certainty that I would get an award. I just knew I had achieved something great. I had matured as a young woman, a student, and as a performer. But as the awards ceremony stretched out, I started to doubt my intuition. Hadn’t I proven my commitment and my passion for music?

Near the end of the awards ceremony, when it seemed as if all the awards had been handed out, the chairwoman of the vocal department stepped up to the podium. She cleared her throat before reading some handwritten words from a small note card.

“And lastly,” she said, “we have an award for this one very special person who worked hard, was committed to learning, and grew in leaps and bounds…The award for most improved singer of this year’s Summer Youth Music School is Brooke Burton.”

“The Most Improved” Award? I sat in my seat completely dumbfounded. I was struck by the thought that maybe the faculty had created the prize in a last minute show of pity. The self-loathing teenager I was–the person who told herself that her body was too square to be attractive and that the deep tone of my contralto voice was too manly–became undeniably uncomfortable in this long hoped for moment. I began to sweat through my tee. I was terrified.

Someone elbowed me to go up and take the award. I could barely feel my feet underneath me as I walked up to the stage. That’s it, I thought to myself. Now everyone knew the cold, honest truth. I was a terrible singer, only made better by a lot of hard work.

I felt humiliated by the award. Because when you’re seventeen years old and full of self-doubt, humility and pride is a hard thing to come by. Humiliation is what shows up, trucked in by the dumpster. “I guess I really sucked,” I said when I got back to my seat. I said it because I half believed it and also so that that person sitting next to me wouldn’t say it to me first.

Continue reading “Most Improved”

May 26May 28

Magical Thinking, A Scone Recipe

Some rather grandiose dreams spring to life from the enjoyment of a single morsel. At least, that’s how it works in this odd little brain of mine. One really good bite and an aspiring career is launched, imaginary restaurants are born, and desired franchises are launched.

Maybe you experience magical thinking, too?

It starts with a recipe and technique. You’ve worked on perfecting a particular food item for a long while and then, after much effort, art and science come together and make magic on the plate.

You regard what you created. You feel satisfied and proud. (And maybe a little bit hungry.) You take a bite. Your senses sparkle with excitement. Your mouth enlivens with activity. Neurons fire with glee.

Then, maybe a few moments later, someone across from you–a loved one or a cherished friend who joins you in this special meal–remarks “wow, this is really good.” Your beloved might continue and say something that stokes the fires of imagination even more with something inflammatory like the words “this is restaurant quality,” or “I’d pay good money for this.”

And then that’s it. Your pride rallies. Your over-active imagination kicks into high gear.

You picture the scenarios: you’ll start your own business, open a little bakery or a restaurant, begin a little catering company, quit your job, and do this thing you love so much for a living. You’ll cook, inspire, and change lives with a perfect scone, a great sandwich, a mouth watering steak, the perfect poached egg or an extraordinary dessert.

Continue reading “Magical Thinking, A Scone Recipe”

May 17August 17

Greater Than, Less Than

In the equation of life, I liked to put myself on the gaping side of the greater than symbol. To be greater than was the only option I could fathom. It was the strongest position to play. I was an army of one. I was the captain of my destiny. I was greater than any challenge. Should the test or dispute be too great for me, I ran from it. That’s why I avoided baking for so long. I walked away from the possibility of being less than a fallen cake, less than a dense loaf of bread, or less than a failed dessert.

But then I decided to do things a little differently. I started to run towards my fear. When I got too scared, I began to say so and ask for help. I might be strong, but I’m not bigger than the world around me. By admitting my weaknesses and owning up to my vulnerability rather than running away from it, I began to perceive the world in a new way. I started to see my life change. And not just in little ways. I stopped looking at fear as a closed door or a finite choice of NO, and began regarding fear as the gateway to the infinite possibility of YES.

It’s almost funny how I used to approach baking. I would reverse brag, and talk myself down about my inability to make a crust. I’d tell fictional tales based on fears about how I was constitutionally incapable of putting flour and butter together to create anything that resembled pastry. And yet, just the other day, I did just that.

All it took was a little whole wheat and unbleached all-purpose flours, sugar, salt, egg, milk, butter, fruit and a large dose of confidence. The result: a mixed wheat crust that’s earthy, light, and agrodolce (sweet and sour) from the balance of sweet berries and tart rhubarb. One slice to my friends and they rolled their eyes with delight because I proved myself wrong. I CAN bake. I do have the power to transfer love and comfort to their belly through something as beautiful as a Rhubarb and Mixed Berry Crostata.

I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised by the cascading changes that are happening. These little efforts are beginning to add up to something bigger. Ever since I commenced dealing with the core basics (flour, water, perspective, etc.), everything else has followed.

Facing my fear of baking (and everything else in between) is a pivot point that’s bringing about wide and sweeping transformation. With every crostata, each tea cake, and all the baked goods I pull from my oven I can feel my perspective shift from a finite point of view to one that’s much more infinite.

In a simple word I say “YES”, yes to the infinite possibility of it all.

[print_link]
Rhubarb and Mixed Fruit Crostata

Based on a recipe published in Bon Appetit by Karen DeMasco, Locanda Verde
8-10 servings, depending on how you cut it

Crust

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

½ cup whole wheat flour

1 ½ tbsp sugar

½ tsp kosher salt

1 ½ sticks chilled, unsalted butter. Cubed.

1 large egg

1 tbsp whole milk

Filling

¼ cup cornstarch

3 cups ½” thick sliced rhubarb

1 small container of raspberries

1 cup sliced strawberries

2/3 cup sugar

1 large egg, beaten

Raw sugar or Turbinado sugar for finishing

For the crust:

Combine the flours, sugar, and salt in a processor. Blend for 6 seconds. Add butter and pulse until it is broken down into pea-sized pieces. Whisk egg and milk in a small bowl; add the mixture to the processor and pulse until moist clumps form. Gather the dough into a round ball and then flatten into a disk. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for at least 1 ½ hours. This dough can be made up to two days ahead.

For the filling:

In a small bowl, dissolve the cornstarch in 3 tbsp of water; set aside. Combine the fruit, rhubarb and sugar in a heavy saucepan. Cook over medium heat. Stir often while the sugar dissolves and the fruit juices are released, about 4 minutes. Stir in cornstarch liquid and bring to a boil (rhubarb will not be tender and will not be broken down). Transfer mixture to a bowl. Chill until cool, about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400˚. Roll out dough onto floured parchment paper until it reaches a 12″ round. Brush the dough with beaten egg. Mound the filling in the center of the crust and gently spread it out, leaving enough of a border for you to fold back the edges to form a crust. Gently fold back the edges (about an inch or more) over filling; pleat as necessary. Side parchment with crostata onto a large rimmed baking sheet and bake until the crust is golden brown and the filling bubbly, about 45 minutes. Let crostata cool on a baking rack. Cut into wedges.

Serve as a breakfast snack or, for a fancy dessert, add whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

May 13May 22

Food Blogger Bake Sale for Share Our Strength

Something I would never expect happened to me today. I was browsing in the baking section at one of my favorite cooking supply stores and day dreaming about baking. I know. It’s a miracle. Or maybe it’s the Food Blogging Bake Sale for Share our Strength that’s got me thinking about something other than getting over my fear of baking.

Today is a day dedicated to all things baked because I’m helping with all sorts of preparations for tomorrow’s nation wide bake sale. The second annual Los Angeles Foodblogger Bakesale—organized by the fabulous and extraordinary Gaby of What’s Gaby Cooking—is the flagship city for the nation-wide event that gathers the nation’s top bloggers/food writers/and chefs to raise money for Share our Strength, an organization striving to eradicate childhood hunger in America by 2015. I’m excited to be part of this talented pool of food lovers who are gathering up all their best baked goods to bring awareness to this very real problem that’s happening in your city and, more than likely, in your neighborhood.

I couldn’t think of a better reason to spend all day in the kitchen.

Several months back I shared a deeply personal story about a difficult time in my life when I was a hungry kid. Luckily, childhood hunger wasn’t something I had to face for a very long time, but those early experiences of asking for help and being denied assistance changed me. Having a door slammed in your face when you’re a hungry kid has a way of affecting your relationship with food and the rest of the world. It’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable sharing my story, but I knew it was important to reveal the honest truth to bring light to a subject matter that many people believe only affects a marginal group of people in our country.

But the fact is, at least one kid in ten is hungry in America. Not just in the cities. Not just in the poor rural areas. In just about every school in America, there are kids struggling to find food to fill their empty bellies.

There’s more hunger in the classrooms than you’d care to believe. In rural and urban schools, a majority of kids (65%) aren’t getting fed well at home and must rely on school lunches for their main source of nutrition. Considering the fact that many children must rely on schools to feed them, SOS has a number of summer lunch programs in place to make sure summer vacation is something all kids can look forward to.

So whether or not you are in Los Angeles or are near another city that’s hosting a Food Blogger Bake Sale, you can donate a few dollars here to support the cause. And if you are in Los Angeles and have something of a sweet tooth or want something healthy and good, I highly recommend you swing by BLD (7450 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90036) for a treat. You will not be disappointed. Continue reading “Food Blogger Bake Sale for Share Our Strength”

May 12August 16

Service 101: Help Me Help You

“I’m not usually a difficult customer,” The Beverly Hills housewife said out of the corner of her red lipsticked mouth. “I just don’t understand why getting me a drink is such a production.”

It was a Friday night and the restaurant was packed. I had spotted the guests’ unhappiness across the room when I scanned the dining room for signals of possible problems. My glance bounced over happy customers curved over plates and full cocktail glasses, and stopped hard against a squared edge of a black suit and the stiff neck of the man wearing it.

I was already moving across the room towards the four-top when the suited man’s friend, a man with gray hair and no drink, swiveled in his chair in search of assistance. I stepped up to the table and took my place next to the ladies perched in their seats. The women were two rigid examples of a 60-something Beverly Hills housewife.

“Good evening,” I said with my most soothing voice of leadership. “May I help you?”

“I should hope so,” the white knuckled man with no drink said. “We’ve been here thirty minutes and our server hasn’t been able to get us a drink.” I nodded. Time warps and stretches into large increments when you’re a desperate for something. I had seen a trusted server working hard to find a single malt scotch for the suited gentlemen, surely their thirty minutes were—in real time—actually just five or six. But in the world of the customer, perception and reality don’t always meet.

The make-up primed blonde housewife continued. “I don’t want anything crazy. I just want a glass of chardonnay.”

I smiled. A deep breath would fuel my calm. This would not be an easy turn around.

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May 5March 14

Mother’s Day Baking Epiphanies

Before there was fear, there was love.

Baking wasn’t always something that frightened me. When I was a child, baking was something I longed for. The art of bread and baked sweets was something rare and special. It was sacred.

One of my first memories of baking was when I was quite young. Maybe I was in a high chair. Or I was just old enough to be trusted to stand on a chair by myself. In this memory, I watch my mother knead dough on a floured counter top. She has her back to me and her long, wavy brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that reaches down her back. All is quiet as I watch her move through clouds of dusty flour. She’s creating something beautiful from almost nothing.

Betty Crocker Mother's Day — Little girls like me loved watching her mother bake

My mother baked when she was happy. Baking days were especially bright days when we had enough money to buy all the ingredients and take the day to make food together. We’d play Godspell as loud as the stereo would let us, and we’d bake something from a cookbook. I’d stand at her side and observe my mother like a museum patron observes a piece of art. I’d marvel at her chin, her ocean blue eyes, and her big strong hands as she slipped rounds of dough into a rough ceramic bowl the color of raisins.

When I was tall enough to reach the counter I watched almost jealously, as she mothered the bread. I stole glances of my bready siblings as they crept up and nudged their head-shaped mounds against the canopy of damp cloth that draped above them. When it was time, she’d let me touch the dough so I could feel the life in them. Then she’d pick them up, shape them again, and slip them into the stove to be baked into hearty loaves.

Continue reading “Mother’s Day Baking Epiphanies”