Red Sauce

Big Muffins, Big Hills, Big Crab Cake

Against a brick wall they sat in their tight shirts and their tight shorts and their clicky clacky clipped shoes. In the early afternoon on a Saturday or Sunday at the Runcible Spoon in Nyack you will see at least one hundred of them, cyclists, drinking iced coffee, eating huge (albeit spongy) muffins and pouring cool brightly colored smoothies down their throats.
The Runcible Spoon is about a 25 mile ride from the George W Bridge in Manhattan through farm country and rolling suburban hill country. It’s lovely, but someone has to learn to make a better muffin there. After riding 30 miles there I was happy to have a huge muffin and a smoothie. But during my 30 plus miles back to my Brooklyn apartment, I unfortunately still felt that huge, dense, meatloaf textured-apple crumb muffin sitting at the bottom of my belly. I wonder if the sinewy cyclists are just used to this or only eat half a muffin at “the Spoon.”
But I didn’t puke. I loved me the crazy gearheads. Will go back next weekend.

Voices Drown, the Tourist's In Town

Directly after enjoying a lovely lunch of chick pea cakes, duck confit in a cherry sauce and a dessert of chocolates and peanuts at Telepan, whose restaurant week menu is long and lovely, I went to Human Resources to bitch about Sheen of Puke. The perky HR woman, whose office was stifling hot, assured me they were aware of his problems and planned to do something about him.
So, as pleased as I was, I was then off to clear off my desk and head over incongruously to Bloomingdale’s where my sister in law and her two daughters were. They came in from Michigan for the weekend to shop and to eat.
We ate like queens this weekend. The relatives fought like schoolgirls and I saw New York City in some ways as a tourist. I saw it as a loud, hair extension-donning, label wearing tourist who is a bit upset her teenage daughter needs space.
The moment I knew it was going to be a long weekend was when over a bucket load of creamy, spicey guacamole made at our table by a dark-curly haired handsome gentleman here, my sister in law said, “Oh my god. Is that Paris Hilton?”
I looked over at a skinny blond woman who looked nothing like Paris Hilton and just said, “No.”
Then my sister in law said, “I really like her. She’s so classy. That Nicole Richie is just so tacky.”
Yeah, um, what do you say? I mean, surely, I was confused. I wanted to get more details. What did this mean and how is she measuring this tacky factor? But I didn’t ask. I just let that sentence lay there in the air of Rosa Mexicano and over my pomegranite margarita, which was thankfully very strong.
I am still recovering a little from my weekend.
I slept until nearly noon today and biked most of the afternoon.
On my long ride through Brooklyn, I was struck by the two images I am left with from my weekend. The first is of my sister in law pushing open the huge doors of La Perla’s Madison Avenue branch and in a loud unmistakable Midwestern accent asking the demure saleswomen all dressed in black and talking in whispers, “What’s upstairs? Sales?”
And then silence from the demure. And an even more silent head nod from one of them.
And the next is my sister in law pulling out one of her extensions on Bleecker Street and laughing and holding it up against the sky. “Hey, look, I lost one of my extensions. HA HA HA HA HA HA.”
I am exhausted.

Soothing Nut Loaf is Your Friend

Blueberries, cherries, walnuts, cinnamon, nutmeg and me. Aaaah, yes. Well, the walnuts are not necessary, but what a crunchy texture they add. But you know, I am ok without nuts in my loaves. I love me the summer fruit.
I wanted to continue to do my best in buying local. But seriously, it’s not so easy out on the East Coast. It’s one thing if you live in a sunny clime like California where cherries are now blooming. But another if you live here where not even blueberries are local right now.
But I got my butter from an upstate New York farmer at the Greenmarket as well as my cheese, lettuce, cow and eggs this weekend. It’s the small steps that lead to larger ones, kiddies.
Anyhoo, the blueberry, cherry, walnut, cinnamon mix leads me to discuss the loaf I made last night. Yeah, I made a quick bread loaf at 8 pm. What is happening to me?
Actually, I can’t think of many other things that relax and soothe me as much as cooking something. But I truly suck at baking. But when it comes to muffins and quick breads, I can’t stop trying. Um, one exception at my sucky baking—I can make a mean pizza dough.

Garbage Bag Full of Abs

Last week in spin class (similar opening, “One summer at band camp”) my spin instructor said she was miserable and needed to lose weight for a sport once and so she did sit ups in the sauna clad only in garbage bags. She lost 20 pounds.
So it seems garbage bags and misery can produce weight loss in great measures. There are two kinds of misery, the one where you can’t eat and the one where you can. The not eating misery means you choke down a piece of toast because you have to. (For example, Amy’s multigrain with a swab of honey spread atop the butter you placed on the toast at 9am on a horrendously miserable Sunday.) The eating misery makes you order Chinese food and pretend there is someone else in the room. So when you order the two, or sometimes even three, orders, you put the phone down at one point and yell out to an imaginary roommate, “Did you want the General Tso’s?”
Then there is this long term kind of misery that makes some people drink, do drugs or exercise like a madman or woman.
When I was a wee youngster, my oldest brother used to lift weights daily. His misery made him a workout freak. Similar to the unhappy workout waifs at the gym, he worked out for hours so he could attain that adrenaline rush he craved to squelch his misery and also so he could eat things like my mom’s meatballs and veal cutlet sandwiches and still be the insane, muscle-cut freak he wanted to be while sating an incurable hunger.

Don't Eat, Don't Tell-My Belly, Again

As I continue to contemplate how to eat the things I like to eat and still get back into my summer clothes, I have been trying to think about why it is I over indulge. Here’s some self-absorbed analysis here.
(Anyhow, I didn’t really have any food moments to discuss from my weekend. And Sheen of Puke is so predictable; he’s not much fun today.)
So here it is: secrets, shame and stress, the three S conundrum is what is bloating my belly. And you can’t really have one without the other. (And I also took down the screensaver of a Patsy's pizza I had on my work computer.)

I Hate You and Everything You Stand For

He’s easily the most universally hated person in the city, the subway door stander. Even this man who selfishly, obnoxiously, grossly stands in front of the door not allowing anyone easy passage inside hates the other guys (women rarely do this) who do the same thing.
Today’s subway door stander is also one of the most hateable types in the city. He’s the generic smug white man. He was wearing his long sleeve black t-shirt this morning, no doubt what he thinks of as the edgiest Tee in his wardrobe and some jeans, ones that are a bit too light. He likes his jeans light. Such a dumbass.
So, there he is standing there not moving as about six of us try to enter. He does not move, just looks up. I glare. I roll my eyes. I even make a huffing noise. So then I find a seat and sit disgusted in myself for making all that drama upon my entry.
Then I start hating the city, the subway, all white men. (Muffin recipe after the jump!)

Hostess Hair Caught in Shirt, Pancakes Cold

I knew it was going to be a good Sunday when one of my breakfast eating partners turned to me and said, “I used to eat the weirdest things when I was a kid. I would pull the tics off my dog and suck on them. My face would just be full of blood.”
It’s the kind of conversation that starts when you are seriously hungry. Hungover hungry, Sunday morning, haven’t eaten since last night and it’s 2pm hungry.
It’s brunch talk. Or well at least talk at the brunches I go to and god damn, I love brunch or breakfast. The word “brunch” is only meant to differentiate itself from breakfast since it’s usually eaten a bit later than a traditional breakfast. Isn’t it? Or am I wrong?
I love the ceremony of going out to brunch. I even like waiting in line with the hungry, hungover types or the ones with parents in from out of town all looking nervous and awkward or the ones that only go out for breakfast with their newborns, but never do dinner. I like looking in the face of the person you just spent the night with and reassessing your life, their life, over your first coffee in a strange place where the light is different from your kitchen and theirs. Ahh, the illumination that happens on an empty stomach on a Sunday can barely be explained with words. It’s like the feeling you get when you see a beam of light reflected off a copper roofed building. It’s at once chilling and awakening and rare, or maybe it just seems that way because it's Sunday and you are fighting off a two valium, two bottles of wine kind of night, or not.

Playing Hooky And Making Muffins, Mofos

I started my day by making muffins. There aren't many other better ways to starting my day. Muffins are oddly one of my favorite foods in the world. And yet again, more evidence of how American I am. Perhaps only pie is more American than a muffin, or maybe a burger. Both of which, by the way, I love. I am not trying to be patriotic or anything gross like that. I am just saying as much as the Grad School wanted to concentrate on my dago, Italian American fuck you background, I am so American it hurts.
Back to muffins--the aromas, the delicate pockets of sweet and savory give me a satisfaction like few other things can.
I had buttermilk, oats, whole wheat and white flour and two eggs along with the proper leavening supplies. Instead of vegetable oil, though, I had Crisco. This is what I was working with and I was not going out to buy anything because I am home to do work. But, yes, the work is being held back to make muffins. Procrastination? Nah. Muffins pack power and energy for the mind.
Ahem. Anyhow, in my sleepy mind, I forgot I ate the rest of the strawberries last night. My plan was to make some kind of strawberry, buttermilk-based muffin. But when I opened il frigo, I remembered the strawberries were gone.
So I unsealed my bag of dried mixed berries from the great state of Michigan and started in on Dried Berry Oat Muffins with Buttermilk.
The thing I must keep in mind when making muffins is to not overbeat the batter. I tend to overbeat. I also tend to add too much sugar or too much milk in my quest of perfecting a recipe.
Muffin recipes in books always leave me disappointed. The muffins come out bland and with an even, meaning, boring texture.
For what these muffins today are, a smorgasbord of what was in my cupboard, they came out brilliantly, I must say. They have an oaty, nutty substantial heaviness to them but are lightened up by the brown sugar and white flour (I decided against using the whole wheat, thought it might get too heavy). The dried berries add some texture, chew and some sweetness.
I have a slight obsession with honey. This is hard to admit because The Ruth, does not even like honey. But I found this "Rare Hawaiian Organic White Honey" at Garden of Eden. It’s smooth like butter. And can be spread on toast, muffins or in muffins. The texture is like a thick glaze. I added a dollop into the muffin batter.

Mixed Dried Berry Oat Muffins

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup rolled oats
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 egg
1/4 cup crisco
3/4 cup dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup mixed dried berries
Dollop of Rare Hawaiian Organic honey
Tablespoon of sugar

cinnamon

DIRECTIONS:
1 Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease and flour a muffin pan, or use paper liners. In a small bowl, combine oats and buttermilk, and let stand 5 minutes. In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt; set aside.
2 In a large bowl, beat together the egg, oil, dark brown sugar, honey, cinnamon and vanilla. Blend in the oat mixture. Stir in the flour mixture, just until moistened. Fold in dried berries. Fill muffin cups 2/3 to 3/4 full. Pour a smattering of white sugar over the top of each muffin
3 Bake in the preheated oven for 15 to 20 minutes

Moist Muffin Top Cookin’

                                                   

I have embarked on perfecting the muffin recipe. A muffin, should not be too sweet, like a cupcake. But also should not be too dense like a yeasty bread. It’s a quick bread, for sure. But it’s hard to get the balance right. A plain muffin calls for a different balance of ingredients than a fruit filled muffin. And a nut filled muffin or one with bran or oats in it, forget it—whole other story.  Needless to say, I am still perfecting.

     Anyhow, today at lunch, I had a lovely sandwich—turkey, fresh mozzarella (hate when people say “motz”), tomato on whole grain toasted bread from Muffins Café up on Columbus on the Upper West Side.  But before I picked up the handful of toasted wonder, I had to make my way to the local Banana Republic to buy some transition pants. As my once abolished “muffin top” has returned. 

  Decided as I was at getting some muffin top abolishing pants (perhaps still a size too small), I have also decided that using the term as much as possible will make it go away eventually. The term is disgusting. Are men allowed muffin tops or do they have a more comely spare tire?

Annoying words or phrases:

“Muffin top"

“Moist”

“Baby” (as in “Baby, please don’t go”)

“Tweak”

“Morsel”

“Horny”

"Cookin'"

"(the c word)"

"Lit-rally"