Sunday, April 12, 2009

Fake Tower Cafe French Toast

A few weeks ago, Squeeze and I had breakfast at the Tower Cafe, each of us sampling their Famous French Toast.

It was incredibly delicious, but in these trying financial times, we can't afford to go out to eat all the time. Since we still had a craving for that yummy dish, I decided to try to create a french toast recipe that was similar to what we had experienced on our outing.

I was very pleased with this morning's experiment, and will probably stick with it. For those who may want to try it, here it is:

Fake Tower Cafe French Toast

Ingredients:
1 loaf french bread (regular, not sourdough)
4 eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream or whipping cream (NOT whipped cream)
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup sugar
1 Tbsp vanilla
dash of salt
butter

Optional: powdered sugar, syrup, fruit compote

Prep:
Cut french bread at an angle to make six 1" thick slices approximately 3"x6".

Whisk eggs, cream, milk, vanilla, sugar and dash of salt together until uniform. Pour into a shallow pan (I used a jelly roll pan) and place the slices of bread in the batter. Let sit for 5 minutes, then turn over and let soak, covered, for 15-20 minutes or until all the batter has been absorbed, turning again if needed.

This will keep well in the refrigerator for several hours if you have late risers or want to prepare it ahead of time.


Heat a griddle or shallow frying pan over medium heat. Butter the cooking surface generously and grill the battered bread until crispy and golden on each side. Top with a pat of butter while still hot.

Alternatively, top with sprinkled powdered sugar, fruit, syrup, or your preferred mixture of any of these, though this is very sweet on its own.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Lemons Plus Baking = Cookies!

Although I don't like to cook, I LOVE baking. Yesterday I wanted to combine my love of baking with another food I love: lemons.

It's true. I love lemons. It's a life-long affair that started when I was a little girl. I don't remember who introduced me to them, but I am forever grateful. My preferred lemon-eating method is to cut it in half, salt it, then squeeze it and slurp up the juice. This is done as many times as are necessary until only pulp remains.

If it's a nice, really ripe lemon, I can then turn it inside out to get at the pulpy sections still adhering to the rind. Ahhh.

I have a friend at work who also likes lemons, but she puts sugar on hers. I'm a bit dubious about this, but may try it this weekend since another coworker gave me a bag of lemons from his tree. Wasn't that a lovely thing for him to do? I thought so too.

Another friend had given me several Meyer lemons from the tree in her back yard, so I had plenty to play with. Wonderful people, my friends.

Since I had an abundance of citrus-y goodness, I decided to delve into my recipe bookmarks for something I had never made. I considered attempting a lemon tart, but didn't feel the time was right for it since I had to work the next day and I wanted something that would be easy to share.

As I perused my list, I saw something that would work. Cookies!

The recipe was actually for Key Lime Meltaways over at Smitten Kitchen. I had seen lots of yummy sounding things over there, but this would be my first attempt at making one of them.

Because I can be reckless at times, I decided that I would ignore the fact that the recipe calls for an entirely different citrus fruit. I would simply have to make substitutions. It could have been a disaster, but it actually worked out very well. Your mileage may vary.

I did a one-to-one substitution of lemon juice for the lime juice, but had a harder time deciding just how much zest would result from four small key limes or two larger ones. Being too lazy to look it up on line, I guessed and used enough to fill up one tablespoon. Did I mention my tendencies toward recklessness?

I had a small frustration when I went to actually obtain the lemon zest. I mentioned that some of the lemons were Meyer lemons, which I absolutely adore. There was nothing about Meyers I didn't like - until yesterday. I was completely unable to zest them. The rinds were too smooth.

Fortunately, I had normal, pebbled-skinned lemons too thanks to my work friend. These provided an abundance of what was not to be found on the Meyers.

The recipe called for room temperature butter, but I had a time crunch, so I microwaved the butter for a few seconds. I didn't melt it, but it was very soft. It was probably this that led to a distinct lack of fluffiness in the batter once I added the vanilla and lemon juice. The liquids just did not incorporate well.

Did this stop me? No! I decided to forge on.

The resulting cookie dough was soft with a slight sheen to it. It was very easy to roll into tubes using parchment paper. When I took the cookie dough tubes out of the refrigerator an hour later, they were the perfect consistency for slicing. The cookies were ready to come out of the oven exactly 15 minutes after they went in, and they smelled wonderful, though the aroma didn't permeate the house the way chocolate chip cookies do.

It was very easy to follow this recipe and despite all my hurried adaptations the cookies were delicious. I would probably use more lemon zest next time, but then, I am a lemon fanatic. Everyone else was very happy with them as they were.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

The Iceman Cometh No More

Summers were endless in the small desert town of my childhood. Probably because they began in April and ended in November.

The days were filled with roller skating, bike riding, tree climbing, dirt clod wars, and - my favorite - swimming at the community pool. You could judge how far the season had progressed by the shade of green my hair had turned. There were games of hide and seek that lingered long past twilight, ending only when our exhausted parents threatened dire consequences.

On special days, our house would be filled with people. There were aunts reaching around each other in the kitchen, chatting as they prepared enough food to feed a small army, and uncles watching television and discussing whatever it was the men talked about. I never stayed long enough to find out. A constant stream of kids were running in and out of the house, hoping for refrigerated Kool-Aid, or at least a moment in the air conditioning, but more often being herded right back out and told to get a drink from the hose and to stop letting in flies.

On exceptional days, we would make ice cream.

I would beg to ride in the back of the truck when dad would go in to town to buy ice. We never used cubes from our freezer or purchased bags from the store. Oh no. We went straight to the ice plant and bought a block of it from the source.

Dad had some red painted heavy-duty cast iron ice tongs that he would use to heft the block into the back of the truck. They were as heavy as the ice. I loved the simple elegance of their function. Once the tips were dug into the block, the weight of the ice as you carried it kept them in position. The real trick was getting them back out again.

At home, the ice went into the sink for chipping. This was my self-assigned job, and I took pride in stabbing the icepick into the block to create pieces of just the right size. These were nestled around the churning cylinder, and layered with rock salt. Once everything was in position, a folded towel was set on top so that the person sitting on the ice cream maker to turn the crank didn't get frostbite in any inconvenient places.

As the youngest, I had the first turn at cranking. When my arm got too tired, I would run in to make more ice chips. These were always needed to replace their brothers that had melted and were now gushing out of the overflow hole.

Anticipation ran high whenever dad finally took over crank duty. We pestered him mercilessly: "Is it done yet?" "Is it too hard to turn?" "What about now?"

Was there ever a better, more longed-for frozen treat than ice cream made by your own effort on a hot summer day? I can't think of any. A spoonful was a tiny miracle melting on the tongue.

Today the ice plant in my home town burned to the ground. A part of my childhood has just passed into the beyond. Thankfully, the memories linger like the taste of melting ice cream.