Bread, we’ve come a long way, haven’t we?

It seems like only yesterday that you were a troublesome character. Nothing short of abuse would make you behave. I’ll be honest; sometimes I loved giving you what was coming to you. Slapping you around, kneading the hell out of you until I deemed you ready for a rest. Those were some fun times. And don’t lie, you liked it, too. All I ever wanted to do was break you. Is that too much to ask?

Over the years, we were fools to think it would get easier. When the early 1900s brought us stand mixers and dough hooks, we knew we had an upper hand in the relationship. When the 1980s gifted us with bread machines and rapid rise yeast, we thought that maybe, just maybe, we had a chance.

But bread, you were stubborn still. It got to the point where nothing short of song, dance and good old-fashioned ‘80s sex appeal would work on you. I can’t believe you made this guy work so hard for you. You’re nothing if not selfish.

Making bread in the 80s

MySpace Melbourne | MySpace Video

All synth and sex aside, I’m tired of resenting you for being so difficult. I’m a changed woman, bread. I’m getting older – wiser—and I want something simple. Something effortless. Our relationship is too much drama sometimes, don’t you think? If I propose a new idea, will you at least try it? For us?

You see, a few years ago, Mark Bittman told us that the more we ignore you, the better you’ll be. If we put in as little effort into you as possible, you rise, obviously missing all of the attention we once bestowed.

And when you’re fresh from the oven, my goodness, you’ll be wearing your Sunday best! A youthful sheen over a crunchy, bubbly crust, and a tender heart that’s just begging to be dressed in garlic butter. You’ll be a pleasure, pure and simple.

Maybe with a sudden change of heart on your part, and my cease to abuse, our relationship will finally work out. I’ll give you what you want – time, love, and patience – and you’ll give me what I want – nourishment, taste, and satisfaction. I think we can do it. Do you?

(Click on link below for recipe)

(more…)

Sunday was all about putting the finishing touches on the fruits of my labor. Here’s the mint brownie brigade, created in the final hours of a three-day baking bonanza. Each little brownie bite stands tall and proud (well, save for some underachievers in the back), like a little soldier marching in his rank. To the gift boxes!

The do-over batch of caramels were finally wrapped…

… and the rainbow cookies were lookin’ festive despite my laziness in layering on the chocolate. With my baking bonanza now over, I sat back with a glass of Beaujolais and would truck the boxes to the post office in the morning. Merry Christmas!

– Cynthia Furey

Just interrupting my holiday baking bonanza series to report that Tastespotting picked the photo I submitted! It’s the first of many, I can only hope. My photo is in the top row, center. What an awesome Christmas present. I’m so excited!

– Cynthia Furey

It was day 2 of my baking bonanza. Today, I vowed not to leave my apartment until absolutely necessary. I had everything I needed – food, a television, the warmth of an oven – so there was no reason to leave.

I loved the thought of being holed up in a toasty-warm apartment all day, presiding over all kinds of holiday goodies. All day, I swirled around the kitchen amid the smells of vanilla, sugar and chocolate, feeling very festive and holiday-ish. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Well, there is one thing. I would have asked to keep the 300 caramels that I had to throw out. That kinda sucked. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” below for more)

(more…)

Originally, I had planned to start my scheduled baking activities on Saturday. The kitchen beckoned a bit earlier, however, and the games began Friday night.

The plan was to finish 340 caramels, 120 mint brownies and 120 Italian rainbow cookies, all packaged and boxed, by Sunday evening.

First up: the caramels. My chosen cooking utensils: Le Creuset pot, candy thermometer.

The Le Creuset pot is a godsend when it comes to making caramel. Nothing sticks to it, it conducts heat evenly with no hot spots, and it is very, very easy to clean. Come to think of it, everything I’ve ever cooked with it (Mark Bittman’s No-Knead Bread, beef burgundy, etc.) has turned out beautifully. Amazing.

I used a standard caramel recipe, adding some vanilla to the mix for some extra flavor. (Click “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.) The tricky part in making caramel is watching the temperature as the sugar boils. Ideally, I wanted soft caramels with a bit of a chew to them, so I settled at taking the caramel off of the heat at 243 degrees – a tiny bit higher than soft-ball stage.

In the end, there were two baking sheets full of caramel. I left them out overnight to cool and harden, and it was off to bed. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” below for more)
(more…)

This marks my first year of a massive holiday baking spree – and I’m making it a point to continue this event every year for as long as my hands will let me.

It’s a tradition I’m starting for selfish reasons. I really miss culinary school. As hard as it was, I miss the adrenaline rush of working under a time constraint in a professional kitchen, standing elbow-to-elbow with my peers as we sweat all over everything, both literally and figuratively.

Those long days of cooking under stress satisfied something in me that I can’t seem to put into words, and now, without them, it seems there’s a void in my life. Though it would be pretty cool to actually work in a restaurant or bakery professionally, I’d miss writing too much. And those long hours can be soul-draining. (My hat is off to any cook, baker or chef who can withstand them, day in, day out.)

Enter the holiday baking spree, my solution to fill this void. It’s not the same as working in a professional kitchen, but there are certain pleasures to this scenario as well. For one, it’s my kitchen. And I call all of the shots.

The whole experience will be chronicled in a series of daily posts. Come back tomorrow for Day 1 of the baking saga. Onward!

– Cynthia Furey

Recently, I emerged from Boule as a proud owner of a small bag of French macarons.

I made the short walk back to my car, got in and buckled my seatbelt. But instead of starting the engine, I placed the bag on the passenger’s seat and selected a caramel macaron to devour before the long drive home. Its smooth crust cracked softly against my lips.

At once, I catapult through the upper echelons of social class. My driver’s seat is a plush throne, and I’m perched in it with a silk sash draped across my velvet robes. In my left hand sits the royal caramel delicacy, in my right, a jeweled scepter.

Chewing slowly, I peer out of my carriage as peasants walk by, oblivious to my transformation. “Ha!” I guffaw at them with my mouth full. “You’ll never sample a dessert as elegant as this.” I taste a quick burst of caramel, with notes of almonds and vanilla. The flavors fade, and I shove the final morsel into my mouth. And in that instant, the macaron is gone.

With nothing more than a lap full of crumbs, I plummet back to the sober land of lower-middle class. My velvet robe melts away to reveal a $10 cardigan. In my right hands is a beige transmission lever. My left hand is cupped around an invisible macaron, still quivering from the sudden fall from grace. I’m just a nobody sitting in the driver’s seat of an illegally parked Corolla.

So I have another.

– Cynthia Furey

As a kid, I loved going to McDonald’s. It was one of my first experiences with American food, as I had grown up largely on Vietnamese pho and other variants of the cuisine. In fourth grade, a drive-through window at a McDonald’s granted me my first taste of barbecue sauce; my first bites of cheese. As much as I hate admitting that I grew up loving (and still kinda have an affinity for) fast food, I really do have to credit the genre for making me less picky about what I eat.

I occasionally go back to those drive-thru windows, albeit when I’m hungry and broke or when I’m having a bad day and all I want to do is wallow and feel even worse. The price of a meal has increased since my first time, but the taste of the burgers and sauce haven’t changed.

What did change, however, were McDonald’s apple pies, which provided me my first-ever taste of apple pie. Back then, they were little pockets of glossy mush, tasting of nothing more than sugar and cinnamon. There could have been anything in those things – apples, peaches — and no one would have noticed a difference. And, most importantly, they were fried.

I LOVED those things. My mother would drive us to McDonald’s and, in front of the drive-thru speaker, we would engage in little arguments over whether or not my behavior warranted one. In her eyes, I was a hyperactive, unruly child who could live without the treat. In my eyes, my mother didn’t love me and was depriving me of one of life’s greatest pleasures. These were epic battles.

It was during this time that I learned the art of making a deal: I proposed to rake leaves, baby-sit my cousins for free and morph into an absolute angel, in exchange for one of those apple pies.

Each time my mother relented, it was like I had won a battle. Each pie was a prize for my efforts. My mom would hand me a little rectangular red box emblazoned with a food-porn photo of the apple pie, and I would eat its contents voraciously, tasting victory with every bite. It didn’t matter if I had to rake the yard or do extra chores. I had won.

One day, it so happened that I emerged a winner from another of our battles and was handed a new box. Still red, but with a different photo on the front. It was one of McDonald’s new apple pies – baked.

These things lacked everything I loved about the old ones: The chewy, blistered crust, the super-sugary mush. Instead (and probably what most people like about them), they had a flaky crust. Sprinkled with cinnamon, and with the taste of apples. I was not a fan.

After that day, I actually did become the angel I had always promised to be: Shy, reserved, ordering just what was necessary to quiet my hunger. Apple pie? No thank you. I never had a McDonald’s apple pie again.

Since then, I’ve eaten dozens of slices of apple pie – some fantastic, some inedible, some I’ve made myself – but nothing has come close to the feeling of biting into those awful little pockets. But, as I’m pleased to announce, there is a happy ending to this story. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” below for more)

(more…)