Dunk & Crumble

Breakfast

Chewy Granola Bars

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September is upon us, all of a sudden.  Doesn’t it always seem to slap you in the face with a Jansport backpack?  I mean, a few days ago I was drinking pink wine and talking about my favorite bathing suit cover-up, and today I had to go to the dentist and sharpen all of my pencils.  School buses are toting kids around as we speak.

So, fine, maybe I didn’t actually sharpen all of my pencils today, but can’t you feel it?  That shift from August to September, when everything starts to get serious and real and “back on track”?  You can.

There are pros and cons to this shifting paradigm.  My inner lazy lady mourns the loss of the slow summer months, but my typical oldest-child-type-A-eager-to-please-ism secretly heralds the crisp structure of autumn.  Let’s compare:

We’ll start with September’s cons:

  1. My birthday is not in September.
  2. Peach season is almost over.
  3. It’s now no longer appropriate to wear white pants.

And the pros?

  1. We can start legitimately thinking about Halloween costumes.
  2. After school snacks!
  3. It’s now no longer appropriate to wear white pants.

I’d like to call attention to the point about after school snacks.  Let’s make granola bars from scratch!  

I’d never thought about homemade granola bars before, and was entirely pleased with myself when I pulled these out of the oven.  I ate them happily, thinking myself the picture of sensible snacking health, until Ben pointed out that these are pretty much just cookies.

To which I replied, “so?” to which he replied “just saying,” to which I replied “SO??”

And then we dropped that issue.

Homemade granola bars!  Like cookies, only not.  Perfect for September.

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Balsamic French Prune Crisp

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Raise your hand if today is your birthday.

You, too?!  Happy birthday, birthday friend!

Today means 28 for me.  28 on the dot, dot com.

I feel like this year is going to be a good one.  It started out with breakfast: a healthy sprouted almond drink and a not-so-healthy bowl of balsamic French prune crisp.  See how balanced 28 is already?  I am on it this year.

Okay, 28.  Here’s to a year filled with love, friends, food, sisters, cousins, writing, being outside, learning to be less afraid of sharks, shamelessly still listening to N*SYNC, and wearing heels with confidence.  And putting some balsamic in a fruit crisp.

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Squash Blossom Frittata

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Flowers in my eggs?!

It’s true.

Squash blossoms have been all over the Bay Area farmer’s markets lately, so when I saw some beauties by the Ferry building this weekend, what else could I do but scoop some up and bake them in a frittata with ricotta and goat’s cheese?  Any logical person would have done the same, I think.

Now, I realize that there are those of you who are perfectly logical, thank-you-very-much, but who perhaps haven’t yet come across a squash blossom at the market or in the kitchen, and maybe wouldn’t even know what to do with one if you saw it, and so to you, Miss or Mister logical-but-squash-blossom-less, I say: that’s okay.  Here’s the deal: squash blossoms are the dainty and edible flowers of young summer squashes (usually zucchini).  They are bright orange, tinged with green, and sold at farmer’s markets alongside (and sometimes attached to) fresh, tender little squishes.  Squashes.  Squash.

Squash blossoms are usually stuffed with cheese and fried, which is a perfectly amazing way to enjoy them, but they can also be steamed or baked and thrown into soup, salad or pasta.  Or you could bake some in a fabulously herby frittata with ricotta and goat’s cheese.  Entirely up to you.

(I’d go with the frittata).  (But really, it’s up to you).

(Frittata).

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Jumbleberry Pie

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Serious question.  Why would anyone use the name “mixed berry” when “jumbleberry” is available?

Mixed berry is an ambiguous yogurt flavor.  Possibly a suspiciously giant scone option at Starbucks.  So.  There’s that.

But jumbleberry!  Jumbleberry bumbleberry humbleberry pie.  Get on this train right now.

Is there anything not fun about jumbleberry?  Saying it?  Fun.  Making it?  Also fun.  Eating it?  SO MUCH FUN.  It’s sweet and slightly tart and full of bursting little berries, rubies of every size, staining plates, forks, and lips with deep purple juice.  A summer-scented pie bringing berry-stained smiles.

So go gather your ingredients, and jumble one together.  A jumbleberry rumbleberry humbleberry pie (I could keep this up for awhile.  …Crumbleberry.  See?  Definitely.  So you’d do well to get going).  Top with ice cream.  Eat with friends.  Yumbleberry.  Yup.

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Rustic Peach Cake

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It seems I can’t help myself.  As long as there is fresh summer fruit to be had, I’m going to go ahead and bake with it.  It’s just so gorgeous, you know?  So full of juice and sweetness!  You understand?  Gorgeous, tender, juicy little things.

…Did that sound dirty to you?

Get your head out of the gutter.  Jeez.

Instead of putting apricots in a galette or raspberries in a brownie, this time I decided to put some rustic into a peach cake.  On account of the recipe I saw in an old Cook’s Illustrated Magazine.  You guys read that rag?  Extremely thorough and excruciatingly meticulous.  A baker’s dream of a publication.  And they have peach cake!

This one uses lots of fresh peaches (obviously), and also gets some help from a bit of finely chopped dried fruit, which absorbs some fresh peach juice (leaving the dried fruit wonderfully plump and tender) and helps to keep the cake from getting all sogged up.  Very clever.  Good on you, Cook’s Illustrated.

I used dried apricots because they were easier to find than dried peaches, but, as the saying goes, I think a stone fruit is a stone fruit is a stone fruit.  Probably.

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Carrot Bread

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Today is a day for slouchy yellow sweaters and neon pink nails, for doing the crossword and then riding your new blue bike through the grey fog, for parking yourself at the greenmarket.  When you’re there, you’ll want to buy olive bread, red snapper fillets, fresh mint, fat asparagus, new strawberries and some gnarly carrots, short and lumpy, with well-coiffed leafy green tops that rustle and billow with the wind from the Bay.

When you get home, you’ll want to eat sugared strawberries, olive toast, carrot bread.  You’ll measure your flour, mix your sugars, grate your nutmeg, but then you’ll hit a snag.  Those lovely carrots, you’ll realize, have gone missing.  Where could they be?  You’ll check your market tote, the refrigerator, the countertop – no carrots.  You’ll check those places again, and also the freezer, just for good measure, because maybe you’re going nuts and you threw them in there without realizing.  You didn’t.  You’ll scratch your head, because you know that you definitely bought some carrots and that those carrots were here just a minute ago.

Then you’ll look towards the couch.  You will see Ben there, looking guilty, crunching his jaw and holding a carrot top.

He’ll say “oops,” and then you’ll say “OOPS?!” and vow not to give him any carrot bread, once you get more carrots and actually bake it, you mean.  But you will give him carrot bread, because he likes it so much and because you can’t help yourself, because he is Ben and because they were just carrots, after all.  And because carrot bread, faintly sweet and speckled with coconut, is meant for sharing.  Even with a carrot sneak.

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Meyer Lemon Dream Curd

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It’s true, I’ve already said my piece about Meyer lemons.  The thing is, they’re still here.  They’re kind of all over the place.  Smooth and bright little yellow jewels, bunched in baskets at every market, crying out for me to turn them into cakes and dressings and curds (oh my).

So I do.

Lemon curd is a gorgeous thing, really.  Dreamy.  It sings with flavor, simultaneously tart and sweet, with a texture spun of silk, so smooth and downy soft you’ll want to just start spreading.  And spreading and spreading some more.

I’d start with toast.  Maybe a scone.  Definitely swirled into some plain yogurt for a dressed up breakfast, or folded into a bowl of soft whipped cream alongside some berries for a decadent dessert.

Do with it what you will, just make sure you do with it, not without.

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Lemon Scented Banana Bread

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When I lived in an enormous apartment building in New York City (a mere month ago), I knew only one of my neighbors.  Just one of those New York things, I guess; when you live in a city with 8 million others, it’s far too daunting to try and get to know everyone, so, instead, nobody gets to know anyone.  Neighborliness is too exhausting when you live in a building of thousands, you know?  At any rate, my one New York neighbor was named Mike.  He owned a big dog and a nice collection of shoes, and I’m fairly certain he thought my sister and I were a sweet young lesbian couple who lived three doors down and often wore matching workout gear.

Since I’ve moved to San Francisco, I’ve already met two of my neighbors.  There’s Chris, who lives next door — we met when I was walking out of my apartment and he was walking into his.  It was clear we were both in respective hurries, so we said quick hellos and then did an awkward shuffle around each other in our small hallway; it was nice.

My other neighbor is named Jen.  I know this because of the late-night laundry lock out.  The late-night laundry lockout began at 10:30pm last Saturday night.  Ben and I snuck down to the laundry room to throw in a load (quite a life, we lead), terrified yet thrilled at the prospect of doing laundry after the building’s acceptable laundry hours.  We darted into the washroom, fed the machines some quarters and then dashed out, nervously giggling at our domestic derring-do.  It wasn’t until we were halfway up the building’s back staircase that Ben asked me, smiling, “You have my keys, right?”

I didn’t.  Being his keys and all, I didn’t, you know, have them.

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Meyer Lemon Almond Loaf Cake

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Roughly 80% of my days here in California have been rainy ones.  Maybe 73%.  70-80 percent, probably.  Definitely.  I mean, those are made up percentages, but whatever, it’s been rainy.  What’s going on, California?  Meanwhile, my old love, New York City, has been taunting us with sun-filled, 70 degree days.  It’s officially spring now, so let’s get our act together, California, okay?  Okay.

Spring it may be, but only just.  At the markets, the steadfast winter jewels are hanging on tight — kale, Brussels sprouts, apples, citrus.  They haven’t yet made way for asparagus, rhubarb, strawberries and peas.  I don’t really mind, because of the Meyer lemons.

Meyer lemons are thin-skinned, bright and gorgeous, especially here, where they’re grown in my neighbors’ backyards.  They’re sweeter and more floral than regular lemons, since they’re actually a cross between a Eureka or Lisbon lemon and a mandarin orange.  (It’s true, I Googled it).

I’m planning to wait out the rain, and to wait for the strawberries.  Until then, we have Meyer lemons, and that’s okay with me.

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Green & Goat Frittata

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It started with a simple enough proposition.  A run, Ben said, down to the Ferry Building farmer’s market.  Just a short run, he said, about a mile.  We can jog.  A short jog, I thought, might be nice!  Nice way to see my new city and end up at the farmer’s market.  Let’s go.

So we went!  And went.  And went, and went, and went.

Roughly three miles and many dirty looks later, Ben and I arrived at the Ferry Building, he unruffled, cool as a cucumber, me gasping for oxygen in strained bursts, my face the color of a vibrant summer tomato.

I’ve never been so happy to see a farmer’s market in my life.  This one had stalls overflowing with tangy cheeses, piles of orange and yellow citrus, and endless bunches of dark, leafy greens.  I was temporarily distracted from the searing cramp in my side by the Californian grandeur of it all – the people, the produce, the pastries!  As I sucked in big gulps of air off the Bay, Ben offered to buy me an almond croissant, and, suddenly, all was forgiven.  The peace offering complete, we browsed the market, ducking between stalls and choosing fat bunches of dinosaur kale, a large, muddy-bottomed leek, and a few sharp stalks of purple-specked green garlic.

After an hour or so, my face had turned from tomato red to what Ben assured me was a healthy, pinkish glow.  Right.  We took the bus home.

Our green market haul went happily into this frittata, along with a handful of creamy goat’s cheese, and was enjoyed by some lovely new San Francisco friends for brunch on Sunday, and then again for dinner on Tuesday.  Yep, this one is a keeper.

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