Night of the Choctopus!

A long, long time ago, my younger sister, aware of my love of cephalopods, gifted me with a cake pan molded in the shape of an octopus.  It's a super-complicated, bundt-style pan from Williams Sonoma, and perhaps unsurprisingly they discontinued it a long time ago.  But I have one.

I'm not actually a great cake baker -- I'm often intimidated by them, something about the creaming butter and sugar for the right length of time, it just seems like a lot can go wrong.  I mean, I can make a pound cake.  And I'm good at brownies. But a cake, of that magnitude, in that pan...

So although I've had this amazing pan for ages, I've never been brave (or foolish) enough to try it out.

Until now.

I was going to meet friends for dinner and a game, and I volunteered to bring dessert. And I looked at the pan, and thought about it, and decided, "I'm not going to make an octopus. But I will make a choctopus!"

After looking around at assorted advice on chocolate bundt cakes, and rejecting recipes that began "take a box of devil's food mix and add a box of brownie mix to it...," I set my sights on King Arthur Flour's chocolate bundt recipe, which seemed surprisingly simple. 

I was a little concerned about having enough batter to fill the octo-pan, but comparing quantities of flour and such, I decided it should work fine.

I don't have step-by-step photos of the process here, but one thing that attracted me to the King Arthur recipe is that you melt the butter (with chocolate and cocoa and coffee) before adding it to a bunch of dry ingredients.

Although it's ostensibly nonstick anyway, I really, really, sprayed the inside of the pan well.

A good trick I read for these complex pans is to put just a little batter in at first and coat the more complex bits with a fine layer, tapping the pan as you go to minimize the chance of air bubbles messing up the form.  Then go back and fill the pan the rest of the way

Another good trick was to put it on a sheet pan, to catch any spillovers while baking, but also to make it much easier to move it into, and especially out of, the oven.

I had a brief panicky moment when i realized I don't have any skewers around the house.  Would a toothpick suffice for the classic cake done-ness test?  Would it probe deeply enough into the dark heart of the choctopus?

These are the things I worry about when I bake.

Here is what the underside of the choctopus looked like fresh out of the oven:

Promising, I thought.  But would it come out in one piece?  Would i have to do choctopus surgery?  Would I have to hope it could, as some cephalopods can, regenerate a severed arm?

Indeed, no.  BEHOLD THE CHOCTOPUS!

Fresh out of the pan, it was a little shiny, probably due to the care I took oiling it.  Fortunately, I'd made the thing a day in advance.

I knew I didn't want to cover up any of the details with icing, but shortly before setting out to dinner, I tried dusting it with powdered sugar.

I wasn't super happy with that result.  If I had all the time and patience in the world, I would've made little masks for the details, the shells and starfish and the eyes of the choctopus, and dusted to highlight those.  As it was, like a light coating of snow, I think even the small amount of sugar I put on just obscured the details of what is a very detailed cake.  Just serve it naked with some vanilla ice cream and call it a day, is my recommendation.

By the time we ate it, though, the powder had settled into the cake somewhat, and it was pretty much exactly what one would want in a chocolate octopus bundt cake.

Finally, the insides.  It was a most excellent chocolate cake indeed.  I can't think of what would make it better.  It had a very fine crumb, it was rich and dense but not heavy, it was moist, it was intensely chocolatey. King Arthur Flour wanted a cup of coffee in the mix, I used instant espresso instead, but either way, it really works to give a grown-up complexity to the chocolate.

My friends were all impressed and happy with the choctopus, too.  I look forward to more cakes, and more reasons to bake cakes, in my near future.

And finally, I'll just reiterate, for anyone seeking a great chocolate bundt cake recipe, I highly recommend the King Arthur Flour one.

They Really Do Have the Meats...

Aside from Chipotle and Starbucks, I haven't eaten at a national fast food chain in, well, let's just say I can't remember the last time.  I learned too late that Arby's occasional foray into deer made a brief appearance at the newest Manhattan Arby's.  The Gothamist folks reviewed it, and very favorably.

I'm so bummed I missed it. I don't often eat venison, but I'd totally go to Arby's for this. I'd love to see more unusual meat at the nation's fast food chains. Everyone remembers Krusty Burger's Ribwich, for as long as that lasted.

Fettuccine a Rachel

Two years ago now my friend Rachel and I took a pasta making class together at the Institute of Culinary Education.

A couple of weeks ago, we finally had a chance to put what we learned into practice, using her spiffy Kitchenaid stand mixer.  It was incredibly easy -- much simpler than kneading pasta dough by hand! -- and the results were fairly amazing.  Which is dumb because every single (rare) time I've made pasta from scratch I've ALWAYS said something like "the results were fairly amazing."  And yet, how many times have I made pasta from scratch?  Not enough.  Not nearly enough.

Anyway, Rachel's Kitchenaid definitely wins pasta night.  From unimpressive flour to impressive pasta dough in just a few minutes.

 And following a short rest and some liberal flouring, the rolling went super smoothly as well.

So lovely. Below is the post-cooking version, with apologies for the slightly steamed-up camera lens.

At Rachel's suggestion, we tried Marcella Hazan's famous/infamous (but new to me) tomato sauce.  It's barely a recipe: 

Take a can of whole tomatoes, 5 tablespoons of butter, an onion that you've peeled and cut in two, and a little salt, and throw them in a pot for 45 minutes, stirring and occasionally smooshing the tomatoes a bit.  Remove the onion halves.  Done.

You can see why I was skeptical.  But holy crap was that good.  It makes me rethink the whole idea of cooking Italian food with olive oil.  I insisted on adding a little fresh basil.  I make no apologies for that.

Such a good, simple, hearty meal.  And good fun to make and share it with a friend.

A couple of notes.  Since the sauce is so simple, using super-good tomatoes is imperative.  I hunted around a bit and I think Cento San Marzanos are the ones to beat.  Delicious, Italian, and the can is BPA free, which I look for in cans these days.

Also, the recipe from ICE said to use 100g of flour plus 1 egg per person.  We were skeptical, so we ended up using about 300g of flour and 3 eggs (and a small amount of salt and olive oil and water).  That made a LOT of pasta.  I had leftovers for dinner for most of the week.  I am not complaining in the least, just stating for the record that, yes, 100g of flour is more than enough for 1 serving of pasta.

Finally, I made a loaf of bread, since there might not have been enough carbs otherwise. So here's a picture of that too.

The Aldi Adventure

I had heard of Aldi, a culty value-centric European grocery store that fans apparently obsess over, for some time -- I remember reading a Times article about it a while ago, I think.  But I didn't realize there was one semi-close to me until fairly recently.  My wanderings in the city don't often take me over to East River Plaza, the very un-Manhattan complex at farthest east 117th street, featuring ample parking, Manhattan's one Costco, a giant Target, and assorted other suburban fixtures.  And, it turns out, an Aldi.  Always curious about new grocery experiences, and always in favor of saving money, I headed that way last week.

I deliberately wanted to keep myself objective about Aldi, so I didn't do any research beforehand, didn't look up best values, or just why it's so beloved.  I knew nothing beyond the string of adjectives in my opening line.

Aldi:  Right next door to Gamestop!  This is definitely the most suburban I've ever felt on the island of Manhattan.

This picture is a good summary of my impression of Aldi.  It's not much to look at.  Definitely cheap.  But nothing is presented in a way that makes you want to try it, take a chance, get something new.  Unlike the other notable culty grocery store, Trader Joe's, which takes merchandising and presentation and friendliness to new heights.  Aldi seems to say "we're cheap.  Don't expect anything else."  Produce was...there.  I was a little iffy about it.  Four bucks for a pound of medjool dates, though.

Brands were an interesting thing.  There isn't an Aldi brand like there is a Trader Joe's brand, but it definitely leans heavily on various store brands.  And yet there were familiar brands in the mix, seemingly at random, as well.  It was, truly, a lot like a European grocery store.  Everything was just a little bit off.  Check it out, honey nut cheerios, alongside several varieties of "crispy oats."  And above them, "honey crunch 'n oats."

The things Trader Joe's excels at, like bread and pastries, and odd and interesting cheeses, were  disappointing at Aldi.  Some staples were there, and things were, again, cheap, but for me at least, little was enticing.  Bagels were pretty repulsive, though I think that about all prepackaged bagels.

And I won't even really talk about the terrifying and awful concept of frozen sushi, except I will.  What the heck is frozen sushi?  I should've bought some just to see.  But I was scared of it, and beyond skeptical.  Also, this freezer case is another good example of Aldi's general lack of care and presentation.  You might see that sort of chaos at a TJ's late on a very busy day, but it would be short lived.  I was at Aldi on a sleepy weekday afternoon.

So what did I get?  I spent $40.43, and came away with dates, a great price on maple syrup, almonds, ground turkey, ranch flavored sesame seeds, some awesome bacon, brussel's sprouts, corn chips, black beans, chicken sausages, and dark chocolate cashews.  Not a bad basket; I imagine if I'd bought equivalents at my local Westside Market I would've spent maybe $60 or even more.  And everything I've had so far has been tasty, although nothing has me wanting to go back to pick up more.

I have spent a small amount of time seeking hymns of praise to Aldi.  Slate and the Daily News both have them.  The Daily News writer treks across town for a particular kind of face cream.  Fair enough. And the Slate writer basically likes that Aldi has lackluster-to-bad customer service. Because in her mind it means the groceries are better (for some reason) and she has a general fetish for the German way of doing things. I'm not persuaded.

However, the Slate piece also informed me that Trader Joe's and Aldi are estranged corporate siblings, started by estranged real siblings.  Read the article, I had no idea -- it's fascinating.

Finally, I realize Aldi's far East Harlem outpost may not be representative, just the way the madness that are Manhattan's Trader Joe'ses (how do you pluralize Trader Joe's, anyway?) is nothing like a TJ's experience other places.  So I generalize with great care.  I can't imagine making a special trip just to go to Aldi again.  It's cheap, but the time and energy required aren't worth it.  If you're in the neighborhood and need economical beans or dates or slightly weirdly branded cereal or chips, though, by all means, stop on by.

My New Pet

It's not a dog or cat or gerbil or even a tarantula, but I'm happy to introduce the world to R, my sourdough starter.  R was a gift from my friend Rob, in whose shadow as a bread baker I humbly stand. He makes his own baguettes, even. I mentioned to him a couple of weeks ago that I was thinking of starting my own sourdough starter and he was like, "really, dude, it's not worth it, just take some of mine."

And without further ado, R was, well, I was going to say "born" but that's not exactly accurate.  Decanted.

Here is R in its resting state, safely ensconced in its jar.

And here's R tucked away in my fridge, where it'll be spending most of its time.

 

Next this is R in its active, growth phase, having just been fed and about to spin off some starter for making my first ever loaf of sourdough bread.  Doesn't it look bubbly and perky? I bet R would have like a thousand followers on Instagram, like a certain pug I know.  (Digression: searching for 'yeast' on Instagram, which I don't necessarily recommend, does yield two gems:  "Yeastie Boys Bagels," and "Yeast of Eden."  Bravo!)

 

And here's the product of my and R's collaboration. Cook's Illustrated's no-knead sourdough recipe from issue 142 is what planted this whole idea in my head.  It was an almost 40 hour process to make this loaf (albeit, most of it waiting around while R did its thing and gluten formed and such).  I made a project plan spreadsheet and everything.

And check out the inside.  The crumb needs a little work -- I think maybe some (more) kneading is in order?  But I was really happy with the flavor, not too sour, but definitely tangy, and amazing that thanks to R the only store-bought ingredients I need to make a loaf of bread are flour and a little salt.  Made some superb BLTs.

 

I'm finding I like having a companion.  Even if R doesn't know me or come when I call, I still have to feed it and keep it perky.  And how many pets can you eat a chunk of from time to time? 

I will close by mentioning that R is partly named after Rob (duh) but it's mostly named after R, the undead hero of my favorite zombie romantic comedy (or "zom-rom-com" -- I didn't make that up), Isaac Marion's beautiful Warm Bodies.  Seemed somehow fitting for a jar filled with wild yeast and who knows what bacteria.

Cheesy Meal

My friends R and S, of the Night of Two Souffles and the 2016 Ottolenghi Dinner, and I had been kicking around ideas for another themed feast for a while now.  S mentioned she'd been wanting to make a feta cheesecake from Honey & Co. and I said, half jokingly, well, we could do an entire meal around cheese.

And then that's what we had to do.

I'd been wanting to try making gnocchi for a long time. I recalled a Cook's Illustrated ricotta gnocchi (or in Italian, gnudi) recipe that sounded fun and cheesy.  Like the insides of ravioli, without the outsides.  Or, "nude" ravioli.

I made the dough, and we did the cutting and cooking together.  It was sticky, and I can't say they were terribly pretty.  And in another strategic error, we were pretty hungry, so I think overly enthused about dumping a whole lot in the pot at once rather than a few at a time. So while the batch you see cooking here turned out great, many of the ones after this ended up a bit clumpy.

Still, though, with a brown butter, shallot, herb sauce, it's hard to find any nits to pick. 

 Here's the final dish.

 

I started with the gnocchi because it was the main event, but for an appetizer we made a very cheesy stuffed mushroom recipe -- melty taleggio, Parmesean, etc., from Ottolenghi's Plenty.  I think I went too easy on the taleggio -- the picture in the cookbook is definitely way more cheesed over than ours turned out.  Lesson learned.  Also, the recipe didn't call for scraping out the portobello, just piling the filling on top of them.  I think it would be better with some scraping out.  So I'll try that next time.  



It must be said though that the stuffing was amazing. I was skeptical reading the recipe, along the lines of "you want HOW MUCH sun dried tomato in there???" But it was rich and flavorful and the leftovers made some tremendous scrambled eggs the next day. Definitely the kind of thing I could see just making and using kind of like a condiment.  I feel like it would improve everything it touches.

There was also a very nice, simple goat cheese salad, which I didn't take a picture of because even in these photo-happy food memorializing times, sometimes I just forget.  And a small cheese plate to start.

And finally the cheesecake.  It was beautiful and utterly light and divine.  I quibble just a little bit with calling it "cheesecake," I think it was more of a mousse.  But whatever one calls it, it was definitely the high point of a very cheesy evening.

Proper British Scones

I have been feeling the need to bake.  But unfocused as to exactly what I should bake.  I thought about cookies, or a cake.  But having come currents leftover from my biryani project last week, scones jumped to the head of the list as the most natural thing to make.  A quick survey of options brought me to Cooks Illustrated's Proper British Scone recipe from issue 127.

Pretty simple, not overly sweet, I had all the ingredients in house, and it would use up most of the currents.

Here they are, raw and cooked.  They definitely did what you'd want scones to do, puffed upward but not outward, tall and, well, scone-y (as opposed to muffin-y or biscuit-y or cakey or bready).

It's worth calling out the little "bonus" scone tucked on the pan in the photo above.  I can never bring myself to just throw out the bit of dough that inevitably is left behind once you've cut, pressed, measured, or scooped all the whatever you can out of a batch.  It was just as delicious as its full-sized relatives.

I lack a biscuit cutter, so extend a special thanks to the can of black beans I made into chili last night.  Since I hadn't recycled it yet, it served the purpose admirably.

 

Below plated and ready for a test-bite.  I even had some proper orange marmalade (with champagne!) to spread on them.  Lastly, a look at the interior.  I'm really really pleased with them.  Like I said, it was totally easy to make the batter, which in turn was quite easy to work with.  I'm going to have to share them with friends -- my apartment is now chock full of proper scones.  I bet they freeze well...