A Little Fiction. Some Recipes. A Fantastic Book. And a Super Event.

This week is a bit different......

And now, for a little change of pace.

A few years ago I was asked to write a story about a recipe and this one floated into my mind. Little wonder: that car in the woods still appears in my dreams. And this classic cookie has been a favorite since I was very small.

Different kinds of magic.

My father once built a house on the edge of a dark, forbidding and wonderfully mysterious forest. For years I lacked the courage to venture into those woods. But the summer I was eight my best friend Jeanie dared me to do it. “I’ll come with you,” she promised.

Holding hands we took a few tentative steps, and then a few more, until we were deep in the forest where the trees were so tall they blocked the sun and the only sounds were the singing birds and whispering wind. Suddenly we came upon the wreck of an ancient car. It was a Model T Ford, its engine rusted to a deep and resonant orange. Plants had taken root in the upholstery and burst through the roof. How did the car get there? Did a road once run through these woods? We could not have been more enchanted had we happened upon a zebra or a lion.

We told no one about our discovery. But we went into the woods every day, seeking out buried treasure.  Each time we discovered something new: broken jars, old buttons, a book whose pages had absorbed so much rain they’d turned into puffy little pillows.  One day we found a china doll with a broken nose.  Another a leather change purse filled with coins covered in strange foreign symbols. The day we found an empty perfume bottle we sniffed and sniffed, until we were able to imagine the ghostly aroma of just-cut grass. We tried to recreate it, but making perfume, it turns out, is not child’s play.

It was late in August when we unearthed a large round metal tin buried near the car.  Prying it open we found the remains of a cake. How long had it been there? We looked at each other. We shrugged. We were eight years old. We stuffed it into our mouths.

“Honey cake!” I cried, taking another bite. We sat on the damp ground, eating that cake, bite by bite. In my memory it was sweet and slightly nutty, with a tinge of vanilla and a hint of orange.  It tasted like flowers and candy, like all the good things on earth rolled into one. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten.

But the next day, when we went back, the car had vanished. So had all the buried treasures. We looked and looked, but we never found another trace.  It was as if that old jalopy had been a figment of our imaginations. How could it have simply disappeared? 

“It was the cake,” said Jeanie. “We weren’t supposed to eat it.  I’m never eating honey again.”

“Me either,” I vowed.

Over the years I have eaten just about everything that’s come my way. In Laos I happily consumed tea made of silk larva excrement while my friends looked on in horror. I drank rattlesnake blood in China. I’ve gobbled ant eggs on two continents.  I consider guinea pig delicious and fermented squid guts even better.  Yet I have never taken another bite of honey.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jeanie, but I’m willing to bet that she hasn’t either.

Magic Cookies
These cookies always remind me of that summer in the forest. It is almost impossible to believe that a few ordinary ingredients can produce something so crisp, elegant and mysteriously nutty. They do not, of course, contain a single drop of honey.

2 1/2 cups rolled oats
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 stick butter, melted
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Grease a large cookie sheet.

In a large bowl, mix the oats, brown sugar and baking powder. Stir in the melted butter, the egg and vanilla.

Drop by spoonfuls onto the cookie sheet and flatten with the back of the spoon.

Bake at for about 8 minutes, or until the edges of the cookies begin to brown.

Remove the baking sheet from the oven and allow it to sit for a couple of minutes before removing the cookies..

If they stick, return them to the oven for a minute.

Another change of pace; these are advertisements for some of the restaurants my parents frequented when I was that little girl nosing around in the woods behind our house. I remember them all with great fondness.

What a surprise to open a 1958 issue of Gourmet and find this ad!  My father's office was in the Fred F. French building, right above The Dubonnet where my parents ate a few times a week. Now I see why: a 7-course dinner was $3, and given my mother's cooking it was probably the safest, most economical option. (Besides, Mom would never have eaten seven courses, so she probably reduced her cost to about a buck.)

How lucky for me! Our favorite waiter, Max, used to take me into the kitchen and introduce me to exotic spices. I remember mostly French food, but now I see that it was French-Hungarian and its appeal to my German father becomes clearer.

We ate at the late, lamented Luchow's at least once a week.  My father usually had Kassler Ripchen with a side order of pfifferlinge (chanterelles). Mom always ordered the apple pancake because she loved the theater of any dish that was flambéed at the table.  I think I ordered something different every time I went; the menu was huge and there was so much to explore.

Charming. Old. And the place where my parents were married. (After a hitch; when the management discovered that the minister marrying them was Black they tried to wriggle out of the contract. My indomitable grandmother, however, stood her ground and the wedding took place as planned.) The restaurant closed in 2016 after an eighty year run.

Another Mom favorite. Also charming and old. (This too had a long run; it closed ten years ago.)

Since I mentioned Luchow’s above, and since we have now officially crossed into apple season, I can’t help giving you my version of their apple pancake. This snippet is from Save Me the Plums, just after I came upon Gourmet’s recipe for the famous Luchow pancake in an ancient issue. Of course I ran right into the kitchen.

Soon the seductive aroma of apples melting into butter drew my family to the kitchen. Even the cats came, twining around our ankles as we opened the oven and pulled out the pan. The smell was so alluring that we burnt our fingers snatching bites from the pan.

Then there was an awful silence. Finally Nick said, “Your mother really liked this?”

Looking at that sad concoction I remembered You Asked For It and how restaurant recipes always needed to be tweaked. In 1960 Gourmet had neither kitchens nor cooks.

“C’mon, Mom.” Nick opened a bottle of wine and handed me a glass. “I’m sure you can figure this out.”

I tried to remember. The Luchow’s pancake wasn’t fat and puffy like this Gourmet version, but svelte and elegant. I pictured Mom, saw her face begin to glow as the waiter doused the pancake with rum and set it on fire.

Working from memory I began breaking eggs into a bowl. The batter should be thin: a lot of milk and just enough flour to frame the apples.

As the scent of melting butter filled the kitchen Nick’s partner, Monica, wordlessly began to peel more apples. Michael poured himself a glass of wine. Outside the sun began to set, filling the sky with a blaze of pink and orange. Sam Cooke was singing as I heated up the skillet. We stood there, shimmying around the stove, waiting to see what would happen.

Sometimes you know, before the very first taste, when a recipe is right. When I slid that floppy crepe out of the skillet it looked exactly like the one my mother used to love. I rolled it up, heated rum, poured it over, struck a match.

German Apple Pancake
2 tart cooking apples (Granny Smiths are good)
1 lemon
1/2 stick unsalted butter (4 tablespoons)
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
Small grating of nutmeg
3 eggs
3/4 cup flour
Pinch salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup milk
Calvados, Armagnac or rum (optional)

Peel the apples, core them, and slice them thinly. Shower them with about 2 tablespoons of lemon juice.

Melt half the butter (2 tablespoons) in a medium skillet, and stir in the brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Add the apple slices and cook for about 8 minutes, until they’ve become caramelized and smell impossibly delicious.

Meanwhile beat the eggs. Whisk in the flour, salt, and sugar. Add the milk. The batter should be thin.

Melt 2 more tablespoons of butter in an 8-inch skillet and when it’s hot pour in a quarter cup of batter, tilting the pan so that it covers the entire surface, making a thin crepe. Cook just until set, about two minutes.

Evenly distribute a quarter of the apples over the batter, pour over another quarter cup of batter, and turn the pancake (this is easiest if you have two pancake turners) and allow the bottom to brown. Turn out onto a large plate and roll the pancake up like a jelly roll. Sprinkle with sugar and lemon juice.

This recipe makes 4 pancakes. You can serve them whole or cut in half. If you want to flame your creation, lightly warm a few tablespoons of rum or armagnac for each pancake, pour it over the top and set it on fire.

Makes 4 pancakes

M friend Joe Yonan has just come out with this instant masterpiece. That may sound like hyperbole, but…

If you have any interest in vegan cooking - and who among us does not? - you need this book. Filled with information and appealing recipes from around the world, it’s the most exciting new cookbook I’ve seen this year.

I wrote about the wonderful Anne Saxelby Legacy Fund here. (You have to scroll down.) It’s a worthy organization and a tribute to an inspirational woman who left us far too early. This year’s tribute takes place in the Chelsea Market where 130 of the city’s best chefs, mixologists and artisans will be on hand. It promises to be a fantastic fundraiser for a very worthy cause. If you’re going to be in New York City next Thursday, you can buy tickets here.