Simple is just the way to go sometimes.

Like when you’ve spent the last few weeks in meetings with loan officers and real estate agents and all those other folks who are helping you realize a dream of buying a home. It’s too bad we can’t do all of this over dinner, which I’m sure would be better received than the hollow white lights of an office we should have left hours ago. Yes, we would all be happier if we met over dinner.

But because we can’t, I’ll have to compromise with simple dinners that can be made between meetings and work. Spring and summer are the best seasons for these types of speedy dishes mainly because of all the produce at your fingertips. And because everything tastes better in the summer, you can have bruschetta three nights in a row without risking taste-bud fatigue – which is one of the worst kinds of fatigue, in my opinion.

This magic bruschetta, as I’ve been calling it lately, seemed to pave the way for other areas of my life to behave with simplicity. The meetings waned; the paperwork finally done. I found a home. We completed the first day of Escrow yesterday, just in time for my 28th birthday today (this getting older part still hasn’t hit met yet). We get a three day weekend next week, and then I take off for Hawaii. I’ll knock on wood to be safe, but I don’t think that things can get any simpler (and more exciting!) than that.

And aside from being thisclose to owning a slice of the world, the forces at work gave me the best gift of all: my sanity has returned.

Or maybe that’s the result of all the really, really good wine I’ve been drinking lately.

In any case, both reds and whites pair well with this simple bruschetta – one so laden with garlic that it seems to set your mouth on fire. It’s a simple dinner, but that doesn’t mean it’s a simplistic one. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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By far, the recipe on this blog that’s received the most attention is the one for s’mores cupcakes. And why not? They’re certainly eye-pleasing, and they contain all of the essential campfire ingredients minus the “Survivor”-esque wilderness trek (an experience that’s harrowing for some, I’m sure).

Anyhow, in that particular post, I mentioned that the frosting can be used as a crème with strawberries or peach slices for a twist on the fruit ‘n cream concept. Forgive me if I’m drilling this idea into your memory by ways of yet another mention, but I really must insist. Especially when strawberries are involved.

When you pair strawberries and marshmallow crème (and we’re not talking the jarred marshmallow stuff), you’re getting two kinds of sweet. From the strawberry, there’s the light, floral sweetness the fruit tends to yield when fully ripe. The marshmallow crème offers more of an unnatural sweetness, like the stuff that was in the potent candy you used to be addicted to when you were a kid. It’s a fantastic combination, especially for those of us trying hard to keep our childlike qualities with every facial wrinkle we earn. These little nuggets of heaven satisfy both our inner kids and the grown-ups we’ve become.

Now, I don’t mean to wax poetic about marshmallow strawberries (because it makes me sound, and feel, like a total weirdo), but I can’t seem to better explain why I really love these little treats. So here’s the simple version of what I’m trying to say: They’re just awesome.

I call them tortured strawberries, because you do have to torch them, albeit very lightly. But they don’t look the least bit tortured, do they? They look kind of snug, all swaddled into little pillowy bundles. I bet they actually like being torched. Perhaps they would be willing to suffer even more agony by a sprinkling of crushed Oreo cookies or a drizzling of caramel. The possibilities are far too much for me to handle right now.

On second thought, perhaps the one being tortured in all of this is me.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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Hey all: Here’s a recent column of mine that ran in The Orange County Register’s print edition. It can’t be found online, so here it is. Thanks for reading!

Summer in a sip
Not quite as sweet as fruit juice and more refreshing than lemonade, agua fresca is a tried-and-true summertime sipper.

By CYNTHIA FUREY
Special to the Register

My first memory of agua fresca was at a Sea World, where the large, 10-gallon-sized glass pitchers gleamed like jewels in the sun, with every color of the rainbow. It was hard to pick one.

If it makes sense, you still want to taste the water, which is like the refreshing agent in the drink. You will capture the essence of the fruit with just a tad of sugar, so that the drink doesn’t resemble KoolAid and instead is refreshing, almost feeling like you’re doing something good.

The following recipes are simple, all you will need is a 2-quart pitcher, a strainer and a blender. You can easily swap out different herbs for each drink as well. Serve immediately, as the pureed fruit will settle at the bottom. Recipes can easily be doubled, but may have to be done in batches depending on the size of your blender.

They are a little light for adding alcohol, but may benefit from a splash of Prosecco or sparkling wine. The key is to not overdo it, because the agua fresca is such a subtle taste, you run the risk of overpowering it. The addition of lime juice in each recipe perks it up just a bit. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipes.)

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Once, I made a chocolate mint cake for someone’s birthday. We’re talking a big-deal kinda birthday cake, tall and proud, with Valrhona, fresh mint leaves steeped in cream, chocolate curls and piped borders. When I was finished, it looked like every Baking 101 technique out there had assaulted the defenseless, 10×6 confection. It took days to complete. And it only took a split second to devastate.

The cake was transported from my kitchen to the birthday site, a mere 10-minute drive down a residential surface street. I sat in the passenger seat with the plated cake in my lap. Sometime during the drive, I remember blinking, and the next thing I knew my seatbelt had tightened forcefully, and the heavy weight on my lap was suddenly absent. While my friend cursed the car that had caused the sudden stop, I sat stunned, staring at an almond-crusted pile of shit at my feet. It may as well have been steaming.

Cakes don’t travel in my lap anymore. At the very least, they travel in wide boxes with slip-proof rubber mats underneath. Since then, I’ve had a few more rounds of travel mishaps — like a car floor covered in cream of mushroom soup and butterscotch pudding after yet another sudden stop — but for the most part, things have remained unscathed. A homemade three-tiered wedding cake survived a three-hour trip from Orange County, Calif., to Santa Barbara, and this strawberry cream cheese cake recently arrived at a San Diego housewarming party in near-perfect condition. Thank goodness for that. 

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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There’s this story of a famous journalist who started his career at a daily paper in a town so tiny, that there was no real news to write about. I mean, we’re talking daily AP photos of squirrels on skis and a whole lotta bake sale stories.

But he refused to settle for those ho-hum tales. Instead, this guy would throw a dart at a city map that was hanging on his wall, and wherever the dart landed was where he was going to find his next story. It didn’t matter if the dart pierced the middle of an intersection or the corner of an open corn field. He would find a story.

Using that method, he met all kinds of interesting people, and equally interesting stories ensued. Now, he’s a big-deal reporter in a metropolitan city. Bake sales be damned.

I never learned the name of this guy – and that detail alone makes the tale scream fiction over fact. But real or not, it reminds me to think creatively when developing recipes: Pick an ingredient and develop the flavors around it, just as he picked a place and developed a story around it.

The tale also helps when choosing one recipe over another to try. But instead of using the dart method, I close my eyes and mix up all the cookbooks on my office floor, then point a finger at a page. There. Done.

It was a similar situation when I made this Gorgonzola and leek crème brulee. It was one in a handful of recipes that we testers at Leite’s Culinaria had to choose from in order to fulfill our monthly testing duties. I closed my eyes, and with finger poised at the computer screen, I made a selection.

Only, as luck would have it, my fat, sausage-of-a-finger landed on three recipes instead of one. Of course, I thought. Just when this dart method of choosing was proving to be foolproof, this happens.

But fat finger be damned. I made them all.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for more)

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Hey all,

Here’s my latest Food 101 column, which appeared today in the print version of The Orange County Register. It’s not online on the paper’s site, so I’ve posted it below. Thanks for reading!

Potatoes to the rescue
The creamy, mashed dish is a smashing success with most any main course.

By CYNTHIA FUREY
Special to the Register

Stories of superheroes and sidekicks have lined the pages of comic books for ages. Though it’s true that quite of few of these superheroes perform their mighty deeds alone, many of them do have help. The same rings true for main courses and sides: Both have lined your dinner table for ages, mightily feeding your friends, family and dinner guests. But unlike superheroes, something seems amiss when a main course appears without accompaniment. Yes, that beef tenderloin is a glorious spectacle on its own, but it would benefit from an equally glorious supporting cast of characters to share the table with.

Enter mashed potatoes, one of those classic sidekicks that work with almost all protein dishes. Dress them up with Parmesan and mash them until they’re silky, and you can serve them with an elegant roast. Add cheddar with potatoes and their skins, and you’ve got a dish you can take to a picnic or barbecue. Every good cook should have at least one mashed potato recipe in their back pocket, at the ready for when you need to fill a vacant slot on your menu.

I call my own recipe Kitchen Sink Mashed Potatoes, because it seems there’s a little bit of everything in them. Now, I must warn you, these mashed potatoes aren’t for the faint of heart, or those who want to fit into their bathing suits this summer. They will stick to your like the Freshmen 15 you gained in college, like the clingy significant other you eventually managed to shake off. The red potatoes in this recipe merely act as a vehicle for butter, cheese and cream. (But in the recipe’s defense, that can also be said for many mashed potato recipes.)

What they do lack in modesty, however, they make up for in flavor. For one, there’s the aforementioned trifecta of ingredients that seem to make everything taste better, while also functioning in the recipe as texture helpers: Butter and heavy cream add creaminess and fluff, while Parmesan cheese gives them a bit of tang. There’s also enough garlic in them that there’s a chance you may still taste them next week. (If you’re not a garlic fan, by all means, scale back on the quantity called for below.) A touch of chicken stock beefs them up.

While the potatoes are cooling it helps to have a mise en place (a French phrase that literally translates to “everything in place” or “putting in place”). Grate your cheese, chop your garlic and measure all liquids and spices and place them around your work area within an arms distance. When the time comes for you to add these ingredients, you won’t have to stop what you’re doing to measure, pour or chop. It helps to have a mise en place with all recipes.

Kitchen Sink Mashed Potatoes call for grated Parmesan cheese, but you can substitute with other Italian hard cheeses like Asiago or Romano, or a blend of all of them. Mild and sharp cheddar cheese will also work well. Red rose potatoes are used because they can be boiled without breaking down (like their Russet siblings). It’s your choice to keep the potato skins on or off.

You can make them a day ahead of time, stored in refrigerator and reheated on the stove in a pot or in the microwave in a bowl. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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In fourth grade summer school, I met a girl named Vanessa, the first person I had ever known with a Spanish accent.

The minute she opened her mouth, her foreign accent trumped my ordinary American one: she was instantly prettier, smarter and funnier than me – and boy, was I jealous. I hated her, yet I still had this strange urge to be her friend. (The term frenemy would be coined almost 20 years later to describe this phenomenon.)

Since I knew not a word of Spanish, I practiced speaking English the Spanish way – Vanessa’s way. “S” sounding words were replaced with a “th”: “Sour Patch Kids” became “Thour Path Kidth.” “Hey Vanessa, push me on the swing” became “Hey Vane-tha, puth me on the thwing.” My heavy American tongue proved useless in producing an enviable accent, and instead, words sounded swollen and lethargic. But as usual, Vanessa would flit about, speaking in that singsong voice of hers, and I swear if we had been in a cartoon there would have been a forest, birds and Disney animals hanging onto her every syllable.

But I would learn that her accent had an Achilles Heel. There was one word she couldn’t really say: “chips.” I laughed the hardest at her expense when she asked to share my bag of potato “ships.”

“Ships?” I would ask incredulously. “You mean chips. Say it again!”
“Ships.”
“Ahahahahahahahaha!” I cackled. “Chips!”
“Ships.”
“Ahahahahahahahaha!”

I tried to make her say the word in front of boys we liked in a desperate, fourth-grade attempt to embarrass her. (In addition to frenemy behavior, the second social lesson I learned that summer was that all was fair in love and war.)

But, as life would have it, my plan backfired. Boys still thought she was charming and lovely, despite the sound of her voice mistaking a popular snack food for a massive watercraft. Soon, everyone was eating ships. It was enough for me to finally give up sabotaging her – and it would be the last lesson I learned that summer: If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

I never saw Vanessa again, but I’d like to believe she’s maintained her charming accent and is still eating ships. In fact, if Vanessa were an avid cook who wanted to make her own ships, I wouldn’t expect them to be of the Russet variety. They would be familiar yet foreign. Like these sweet potato chips. They’re familiar enough, but with fresh rosemary plucked from a backyard shrub and a sprinkle of sea salt, they become elegant and extraordinary. Like her accent was.

Click on this link for the recipe, from Leite’s Culinaria.

– Cynthia Furey

There are two types of Okonomiyaki, says my friend Mark, who spent the last few years teaching English in Fukuoka, Japan. He was in my kitchen, readying us for a quick lesson in Japanese food.

Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki uses a batter of flour, egg and water to create a pancake. Cabbage, meat and a garnish of yakisoba noodles are layered (think the way a pizza is layered) in a nonstick pan and cooked. Osaka-style okonomiyaki is made without the yakisoba noodles, and instead of layering ingredients, they’re mixed together and thrown in the pan (like an omelet). We were making the Osaka-style.

The savory crepe-like dish is simple, and it acts like a base for whatever ingredients you want to include. Traditionally, thinly sliced pork and beef are used, but fried eggs, cheese and fish are not uncommon. Garnishes include a Tonkatsu sauce (kind of like a sweet teriyaki sauce), fish flakes and nori flakes. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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