Voting For Coffeecake

The crowd delicately coiled behind a dirty white minivan, weaving through a red Camry and back around a blue Lexus. Without realizing it, we had wrapped ourselves around the quintessential American symbol: cars the color of the American flag. The wait promised to easily exceed an hour, and I wondered who was the lunatic that assured me early voting at this unknown, dilapidated poll was a guaranteed twenty minutes. Probably the same lunatic that spoke to the lady with the walker, the couple with the frustrated four-year old (we just started, kid) and the aunt and her overly enthusiastic nephew, whose high-pitched voice and pimple-laden face made me question if he indeed did qualify as a first-time voter.

These folks were my neighbors for the morning, and when we’d be done, we’d end as friends, regardless of whom we wanted on our ticket. In fact, our stance on healthcare, Iraq, or taxes never even came up. We had other platforms to discuss on this uncharacteristically chilly Florida morning and they began with our youngest representative sitting in the bright green umbrella stroller:

“I’m hungry”, cute nameless child wailed.
“We’re almost done” her mother lied. “Sit tight and before you know it I will get you something to eat.”

Those of us around the child knew that if her inquisitive blue eyes weren’t buying it we shouldn’t either, still, we longed for her mother’s words to be true. There was no telling when we’d have the privilege to perform our civic duty but a snack sounded tempting to every one of us just the same.

“What I’d do for a cup of coffee,” Aunt X grumbled to her nephew loudly enough so we could all commiserate.

“Such a windy morning, yeah, I could go for a hot coffee”, a man (looking very much like Joe the Plumber) chimed in.

“Dunkin’ Donuts hazelnut,” someone begged behind me.

“I think there is a Starbucks on the next corner,” another voice promised, even though that corner wasn’t going to help us much in this line.

I started salivating just thinking of a cup of Joe, more specifically, my home-brewed marroncito coffee, which is Venezuelan for “little brown one.” My days are fueled by a steady infusion of this drink, made in my reliable espresso machine; using only the finest Venezuelan beans my husband faithful hauls back from his business trips there. Securing this coffee is no simple feat: the brand I favor is reserved for restaurants and local bakeries which boast huge Gaggia machines that nurture the country’s obsession with this addictive drink. Years of string-pulling with the right people have secured us our tasty caffeine, making me fortunate enough to partake of it here in Florida. Even though I already had consumed my allotted two morning cups all this talk of coffee had me buzzing for more.

The child, still glued to her stroller, looked up at us indignantly. She seemed shocked that we could be so selfish as to distort her request for food by digressing into some obtuse adult adoration of a beverage other than apple juice.

“Mom!!!” she wailed much more forcibly. “I said, I’m HUNGRY!”

Her mother, (who looked as if she could use a marroncito herself), began searching frantically in her purse. She was a good mother. I knew this because she had a very big purse. All good mothers have big purses, magic bags that house any given item a restless offspring may desire. She was sure not to disappoint. The child (and I) watched in anticipation.


Her eyes squinted as she bravely groped the inside of her bag. Suddenly, she stopped, as if stung by something, but instead of a scream of pain a warm smile spread across her sleep-deprived face and her hand made its victorious exit. A gold package glittered as it left the cavernous confines of leather hell and sparkled in the bright sunshine. It was a bag of Teddy Bear Graham crackers.

I wasn’t impressed but you’d think the girl won the lottery. She squealed with delight.

“GIMME, GIMME, GIMME,” she demanded.
The proud mother handed over the bag that was surely to be gobbled up in a matter of minutes. Still, a couple of minutes of sanity was better than none.

I looked at the mother and smiled. She looked at me and returned a grin. We’d done it again, our exchange seemed to confirm. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but we were both mothers (my sleep-deprived look must have given me away) and therefore her victory was mine as well.

I leaned over to her and whispered, “What we need with our pretend coffee is a good coffeecake.”

“With lots of cinnamon”, she bounced back with a skip in her voice. Under the crunch of her daughter’s snack, waiting in our early voting line that would stretch out a couple more hours, we closed our eyes, not to envision a day with John McCain or Barack Obama, but simply one with the perfect coffeecake.


The Perfect Coffeecake

¼ lbs. soft butter
1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
1 cup sour cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 teaspoons cinnamon

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat butter and one cup of the sugar until fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time.
Stir in sour cream and vanilla.

Sift together flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt and stir into batter until smooth.

Spoon half the batter into a greased 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine the remaining sugar, nuts and cinnamon and sprinkle 2/3 of it over the batter.

Top with remaining nut mixture.

Bake 50 minutes or until done.
Serve warm.

(Makes 16 servings)

Skipping the Yacht for a Steak

“I feel spent and like running away to some foreign, exotic country…by myself”, where not the reassuring words my husband, (calling from the disconnected distance of Mexico) expected to hear from his wife, but it was the answer he got nevertheless. Not even the award-winning Merlot he had secured from a tiny, dusty vineyard he visited in Argentina last week seemed to dull the strains of being the sole caregiver of two young children 24/7. Glass two was empty and the options had narrowed themselves to Turkey or Greece for my escape.

Husband was smart enough to sense that whatever reply he offered would invariably get him in trouble, so, he spoke extra slowly, as if such verbal speed bumps would guarantee him some sort of half victory in the conversation.

“…Escape …to…a foreign…country? “
There was a second or two where he honestly questioned my authenticity on such a declaration, and in him believing it, I, for that split second, did too, instantly being photographed by hoards of hungry paparazzi while I lounged around in a much-coveted 7-million dollar yacht off the coast of Mykonos. It sounded good. I already felt tan.

Until I heard a 6-year old squeal, “ESCAPE TO A FOREIGN COUNTRY???” and was catapulted back to my reality: a suburban evening boasting unmade beds, backed-up loads of dirty laundry and two highly energetic kids. The only thing going for me was my dinner plans of watercress and steak.

The first time I’d been privy to such a mix was in the dark, damp corner of Le Coq D’Or restaurant, a French culinary secret nestled in a sinister, unforgiving street in Caracas. This was my parents all-time favorite restaurant, and, after we’d brave the less-than coveted neighborhood, we’d enter the tiny establishment and be greeted by an art exhibit serving as a tribute to fighting cocks: a tradition still practiced in parts of Venezuela today. Paintings and sculptures of all sorts and sizes lined the walls celebrating this disturbing cultural custom. I managed to disengage from what such artwork, as well as the name of the restaurant, represented because I knew the culinary rewards far outweighed any ethical ones.

After a brief visit at the overcrowded bar where my parents began their excursion with a series of, what they described as, ‘the best whiskey sour on this earth’ we would be seated at a small, dark booth where we’d all instinctively order the house special: pepper steak with watercress.

The steak was simply served: swimming in a silky ocean of creamy butter and speckled with peppery peppercorns, it’s red juices comingling with the crisp and pungent mound of watercress served as an accompaniment. It was a straightforward dish, but unforgettable at that. I remember closing my eyes as the bite of the watercress mixed with the softness and full-flavor of the rare steak. If you were lucky, you’d get a peppercorn or two mixed in there and the experience was so incredibly pure and good I would yearn to repeat it over and over and over again, asking my parents on regular intervals when we would be visiting Le Coq D’Or again.

I have no tributes to cockfighting in my home (if you don’t count my children pitting against each other over the remote), but every once in a while, when the day has been a rough one and I peer out the garden window in search of the yacht, I settle my craving for escape with a simple and wonderful steak and watercress special, just as they served in Le Coq D’Or.

CHEATER’S FAST STEAK AU POIVRE
2 marbled strip steaks, about 1 1 /2 pounds total
2 tablespoons whole peppercorns (can be black or combination)
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon parsley garlic salt
4 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon oil
FOR THE WATERCRESS:
2 cups washed watercress
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
kosher sea salt

Coat steaks with peppercorns, salt, and garlic salt.
Heat 1 tablespoon butter and the oil in a skillet set on high and sear the meat 2 minutes on each side. Cook an additional minute each side for rare.
Remove pan from heat and stir in remaining 3 tablespoons butter until melted.

Serve on top of a bed of watercress drizzled with salt and extra virgin olive oil.
Serves 2

Fuzzy Ambition

He waddled with such determination that I soon realized this was a duck to be reckoned with. Although he was tiny and barely feathered, I felt resolve in his stance, making him stand out instantly amongst his cramped, fuzzy siblings. After all, I had looked high and low for him and it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. Only the best duck would do.

As a small child I remembered cuddling with a fluffy, bright yellow rendition of this fellow. It lay balanced on my head as the final pièce de résistance of my stuffed animal sculpture I’d require to be piled on top of me at bedtime. My mother would have to re-do the entire floppy monument if it was not properly topped with Sealy, the seal, Lady, the dog, and my washed-out duck, who remained nameless but held honorary peek position atop my nose. Only then would I be safe from the perils of nighttime and go to sleep.

My destiny with ducks grew, quietly fueled by my close childhood friend Raquel and her displaced obsession with the creatures. Adults questioned her fascination. We were not children growing up in rural Maine, traipsing amongst cattle and cornfields, but rather, urbanites raised in the metropolis of Caracas, a fast-paced, fume-congested city sprouting up buildings quicker than a weed will grow on a riverbank. The closest things to ducks were the stray dogs roaming the street for scraps of food. Still, Raquel seemed a wildflower equally displaced in this grandiose city and when she tired of saving beetles and stick bugs and ants from all the metal and concrete surrounding them she longed for a duck. As her best friend and a teenager in dire need for shock attention I made it my feat to get her one.

At first, I innocently believed it would be as easy as going to the store and buying one. But the eyes of the lady at the brightly lit, aseptic pet shop crammed with crates of overpriced, exotic dogs went flat when I turned down the 8-week old Canadian Eskimo puppy (a purebred, she guaranteed, waving the papers to prove it) and insisted I wanted a duck.

“Un pato?”, she asked, confused and deflated.
“Si, un pato,” I announced, forcing my heart to not get disoriented by all the canine cuteness.
“Ay, mijita, aqui no hay patos, solo perros”, which roughly translated to, ‘you’re on your own kid’, and was the send off to my newfound obsession: securing a duck for my beloved friend’s fifteenth birthday.

“You sure you don’t want to get her a pretty necklace?” my mother gingerly offered, no doubt taking cues from the feel-good “how-to-raise-a-teenager” books I’d seen slowly stacking on her bedside table. The books promised my mother that the secret to a successful relationship with your teenager was allowing them their space to make their own decisions while kindly reinforcing the sound resolution of an adult’s level-headed view, something she felt quite applicable in this circumstance. My rebuttal to level-headed thinking was a full eye roll (I’d gotten pretty good at those). Plus, I knew the idea was crazy and had no logical argument.

We spent the following days feverishly searching for a duck. All the pet stores looked at me with pity or amusement or a careful combination of both, but with every rejection I became more determined to somehow bless my friend with this furry creature. I received some reprieve when, leaving the last pet shop on my list, the owner suggested I go to the local market on the outskirts of the city and try my luck there.

Local markets today, are, of course, very politically correct places, conjuring up images of tenderly cared-for animals and ferociously organic crops banding together against the supersized evils of the mechanized food industry. But “local market” on the outskirts of Caracas in the 80s meant a very different, grungy affair where, quite frankly, getting to the location unscathed was half the battle.

My mother insisted my father visit the market alone but this request only fumed my desire to go more and my father couldn’t turn down the rare opportunity of his teenage daughter begging to spend time with him, even if it meant getting mugged. At least it would make for a memorable, bonding story. So, in the earliest weekend hours of Raquel’s birthday we headed to the farthest outskirts of the poorest neighborhood and made our way down dirty aisles crowded with stands selling fresh coconut water, lingerie, and miniature saints, amongst other things.

When the toothless woman realized we weren’t buying a hand-carved statue of Jose Gregorio Hernandez (honored for his healing powers and guaranteed to cure all that ails in life) she reluctantly directed us to a tiny, rickety stand between the rosemaries and the spare blender parts where Raquel’s long-awaited surprise was housed in a crushed cardboard box.

The baby duck seemed relieved to see me, quickly waddling towards me and away from his brothers and sisters as if reprimanding me for being late in getting him. I picked him up, handed the owner an exuberant amount of money and began heading back to the car, briefly stopping for a sliver of coconut cake.

The cake was sweet and delicious, swarming my taste buds with joy and victory: a definite celebration to a long fought search. Each bite was soaked in syrupy coconut milk and perfectly chilled, coming out of an auspicious cooler packed with smoking dry ice. I asked no questions about its origin or the fact that such a cake could have had such perfect timing (for my stomach was now aching with hunger), but rather, closed my eyes and enjoyed every bite of it while my father nervously glanced in the direction of the car hoping its hubcaps where not one of the newest additions dangling off a wire in the car stands down row 3.

I cradled the frightened creature under my jacket keeping him safe from the swarm of human life that bustled around us. It was just barely nine o’clock in the morning. No doubt Raquel would not be up for another two hours, but the thought of keeping this perfectly fuzzy secret from her for any more time felt unbearably impossible a feat and it was, after all, her birthday.

We made our way to her house, where to the shock and dismay of her parents (who must have read the same how-to-deal-with-adolescents book that allowed for space but gently guided reason) I produced a baby duck from inside my grey Member’s Only jacket.

“Is Raquel up?” was all I managed to plead.

It seemed to be enough. I am not sure if it was my big blue eyes (probably not, her parents had grown used to me playing those up), or the fragile fuzzy duck trembling in my hands, or simply the generous, good-hearted spirit that has always easily flowed from both her parents, but whatever the motive was, it melted their look of apprehension into one of acceptance as they made way for me and my gift to pass.
“She’s not, honey, but why don’t you go on ahead and wake her up for this” her mom said.

And with that, I skipped, ever so carefully, with my trophy gift, a smile on my face, and what I knew for sure, would be the best birthday wake up present to date.

Sweet Coconut Cake
Inspired from the Venezuelan national dessert, “Bienmesabe” which literally translates to “It Tastes Good To Me and is the pinnacle of the country’s fixation with coconut: from delicious and healthy coconut water, to coconut candy to this lusciously sweet delight.

Make this the night before serving so the flavors have time to blend and the cake to chill.



Cake:
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup shortening
1 ¼ cup milk
3 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs

Heat oven to 350F

Prepare the cake. In a large bowl, beat all ingredients together on low speed for 30 seconds, scraping bowl constantly. Beat on high speed for three minutes.
Pour batter into a greased 13 x 9 x 2 pan.
Bake 35-40 minutes

Meanwhile, mix the milk mixture ingredients together (see below).

As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, cut into 20 squares and pour milk mixture over the cake, allowing the cake to absorb completely.
Refrigerate overnight. Serve with a sprinkling of shredded coconut.

Milk Mixture:
1 (15-ounce) can cream of coconut (Coco Lopez)


1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
½ cup whole milk
¼ cup dark rum
Preheat oven to 350F
Topping:
Shredded coconut

Makes 20 servings

Becoming an American Jew

Today is Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement, where all Jews become somber and introspective, asking for forgiveness for any wrongs they may have done throughout the year, spilling the beans to God, for lack of a better word. All this has to be done without any distractions, which means, no food.

Such a condition does not sit well with a foodie like me, as you can well imagine, and so, I breathe a sigh of relief to be a member of a very progressive, informal synagogue, the only one in my nieghborhood, I believe, where my son is warmly accepted wearing jeans and crocks to the service and the rabbi conveniently slips us an out to the food clause by ending his sermon with a “for all of you who are fasting, may it be an easy fast.” He knows enough to assume there is one or two or three of us who will be more distracted without food than with it.

Religion did not play a big role in my upbringing. I’d venture to say it was quite non-existent. Amongst the rows and rows of churches and saints we were the token, odd Jewish family in an unquestioning Catholic South American country that seemed to have more churches and saints than homes. And we seemed just fine like that.

My father would joke about his father (a man of iconic stature I’d grown up hearing stories about) who would most likely be turning in his grave at the sight of his son frying up Sunday’s bacon. And yet, he’d smile, fry on and offer up another story about Isaac Abbady’s critical role with the British government in Palestine, only to end the story with a plateful of the tastiest bacon (the secret, he claimed, was a low flame and lots of patience). If my grandfather was turning, I wouldn’t hear him over the crunch.

Even still, my stamp of Jewish identity seemed an inherent right to me. Born to an Israeli father, my life was woven with colorful stories of abba (Hebrew for “father”) and his youthful adventures as a Boy Scout romping through the still-forming confusion of Palestine and then later, Israel. My father was a real sabra (a term I wore proudly as if my own) used to describe native-born Israelis. He’d come alive during his tales growing up in Israel, his hazel eyes lighting up with sparks of excitement that drew me into his world and kept me there.

Every year my family and I would make our annual summer trip to Israel, where, aside from intrusive cheek pinching from overbearing musty relatives, our father would point out the landmarks of his many stories and even attempt to relive some with my sisters and I: the skidding snake trail of Masada, the small kiosk on a crowded Jerusalem street which served as a meeting point for skipping school, the overcrowded beaches in Tel-Aviv. Each had helped make my father who he was and in turn, each helped draw him closer to me.

This was how my Jewish identity was formed and it attached itself easily to the kaleidoscope of my unconventional upbringing as a child raised in a Latin country by an Israeli man and a American (converted) woman, a life spent brushing shoulders with diplomat kids and army brats that came from any corner of the world you chose. It all seemed quite normal to me.

When I started my own family in South Florida I realized I had missed a huge American Jewish cultural gap. Just as I couldn’t bond with college buddies reciting episodes of The Brady Bunch (I only caught snippets of it on our winter visits to the U.S.), I couldn’t navigate through the American Jew’s pronunciations of Sabbath, Yom Kippur, or Rosh Ha Shanna.

There have been many other adjustments coming from a secular Israeli-international background to a South Florida Jewish one filled with moments where I feel I don’t quite fit in. But then again, it is a feeling I have carried with me one way or another my entire life and its strangeness is strangely familiar to me.

My adaptation to the food customs has been a huge success as I eagerly embrace the American Jewish obsession with brisket, kugel, and tzimmes: delicious prerequisites for being a good American Jew. The pronunciations and prayers may take some time to figure out, but again, I am grateful for my unassuming, progressive rabbi as well as the unbridled excitement and enthusiasm of my kids. This is their reality, this is their Judaism, and I am quietly, gratefully and hungrily along for the ride.

GINGER KUGEL
A great way to break the fast or not break the fast, whatever your liking.
Noodle Kugel:
water
1 pound medium egg noodles
1/2 cup butter (1 stick) at room temperature
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese
8 ounces plain Greek yogurt (or sour cream)
6 eggs, slightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup sugar
1 (8-ounce) can crushed pineapple
1 tablespoon fresh-grated ginger

Crumb Topping:
3/4 cup crushed cornflakes
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
4 tablespoons butter

To make kugel:
In a boiling pot of water, cook noodles about 10 minutes until slightly overcooked.
Meanwhile, combine the butter, yogurt, sour cream, eggs, vanilla and sugar in a food processor (or mix with electric mixer). Combine.
In a small bowl, combine pineapple with ginger and mix well.
Drain noodles and place in a bowl.
Add noodle mixture and pineapple/ginger mixture and mix well.
Transfer to a greased 13 x 9 x 2 inch glass baking dish and refrigerate overnight (if you are short on time, you can freeze for 30 minutes).

To make topping:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix together crushed cornflakes, sugar and cinnamon and spread evenly on top of kugel. Dot top with bits of butter and bake 1 hour or until golden brown.

Makes 8-10 servings.

Deconstructing A Blackberry

It started out simply enough: his big beautiful butterscotch eyes widened in amazement, popping those thick, mile-long eyelashes up to the sky as he asked in a six-year-old’s innocence:
“Oooooh! What are those?”

We weren’t brushing through thick, quiet forests on a peaceful summer’s Vermont afternoon like we should have been, like the way my sister and I did when we first asked that same question thirty years ago, so I felt a pang of guilt at cheating my son of the experience, but he knew no better. No, we were in the middle of an artificially-lit and climate-controlled sterilized supermarket in a South Florida strip mall, our shopping cart haphazardly parked between wilted bags of age-defying iceberg and a shocked pile of leftover peaches claiming to be from Georgia (but any good Georgian peach would have scoffed at the suggestion.) It was there that I held the tiny Canadian plastic box bursting with blackberries and my son, ever the fruit zealot, beamed at the steroid-sized bubbles of blackness.

“These are blackberries”, I forced myself to say in the calmest and most believable voice. I could still sense Champ, my favorite horse, pulling at the bit, eagerly wanting to jump the next log (we weren’t allowed to jump on trails, but Champ and I were both little daredevils when paired together) and the only time I’d hold him back was when we’d encounter those thick bushes speckled with tiny, tart blackberries, one fourth the size of these ones, but most certainly packed with double the flavor. Still, that was thirty years ago and I wasn’t going to spoil it for my son, no matter how sweet my memory or how shocking the size of these babies.

It didn’t take much for him to love them, and love them instantly. He didn’t even need a horse, or the story of one (I tried, he seemed bored). And so, we began buying blackberries. Lots of blackberries. Dollars and dollars worth of blackberries (they can become rather expensive coming from Chile, or New Zealand, or anywhere but the mountains of Vermont, where they are a well-kept secret). It became his fruit of choice, his FOOD of choice, which isn’t hard for a self-proclaimed fruit eater as he is. Stacks of tiny plastic crates filled my fridge and for weeks I found myself running back to that tiny, neon-lit refrigerated corner of the supermarket for more.

My son is a no-thrills kind of guy and would eat them straight up, stalling only for the mandatory rinse I insisted on giving them. But that was it. I, on the other hand, become restless enjoying fruit in its naked sense. I must do something with it to celebrate it. Eating it straight up is too quick a commemoration. So, my mind began to wander and inevitably led me back to the mountains of Vermont. I recall my mother making amazing blackberry pies during those long summer days spent in the Green Mountain state, but I didn’t want to compete with that memory so I went for the next best thing: blackberry muffins with chocolate ganache.

My son seemed a bit irritated by such manipulation. He is only six but already has mastered the curled lip to a frightening perfection. “Why are you messing with excellence?” he seemed to wonder when he realized the baked goods where created from his refrigerated stacks of plastic goodness. But then again, he is only six and it usually doesn’t take much beyond the word “chocolate” to bring him around. This time seemed no exception. He was perfectly content enjoying my muffins as long as they were served with a side of fresh blackberries.

Chocolate Berry Cupcakes
(adapted from Beverley Glock, 500 Cupcakes)

½ cup fresh blackberries
3 tablespoons water
1 cup superfine sugar
1 cup self-rising flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ cup soft butter
2 eggs
1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder

For the Ganache:
¾ cup (5 oz.) bittersweet chocolate, broken
½ cup (about 2 scoops) melted vanilla ice cream (Hagen Daaz)
12 blackberries (if they are huge, slice them in half)

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line 12-cup mini muffin pan with paper baking cups (if you don’t have paper cups just coat with oil and dust with some flour.) Combine the blackberries, water and ½ cup sugar in a small saucepan over low heat. Simmer for about 5 minutes, until the fruit starts to release its juices. Smash fruit with the back of a spoon. Set aside to cool.
Combine the rest of the ingredients in a medium bowl and beat with an electric mixer until pale and creamy, about 2 to 3 minutes. Spoon the batter into the cups. Spoon a little of the fruit on top. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove the pan and cool for 5 minutes. Then remove the cupcakes and cool on a rack.
To make the ganache, melt the chocolate (microwave or double boiler) and slowly whisk in the melted ice cream until glossy and smooth. Spread the ganache onto each cooled cupcake and top with a blackberry. Refrigerate until set.
Makes 1 dozen small cupcakes.