Comfort Me With Bucatini.

Growing up in Richmond, I recall very little pasta happening in either of my parents' kitchens, except maybe pasta salad. I also don't remember going out for much Italian food back then. I'm sure there was spaghetti and meatballs when I had dinner at my friends' houses, but – and I could be wrong – I don't think I ever saw it on my dining room table(s). That's weird, right? I mean, I don't even think we did lasagna, for crying out loud. It's a miracle I turned out alright.

That being said, there wasn't a ton of Italian food in my life for quite some time. After college, in the early Atlanta years, there were a couple of EYEtalian restaurants where I dined on occasion. By EYEtalian, I mean dimly lit rooms with red checker tablecloths, taper candles in old chianti bottles, dishes like eggplant parmigiana, veal scaloppini, chicken marsala, penne alla vodka (one of my favorite pasta dishes to this day), mostaccioli, linguine with clam sauce, baked ziti, lasagna, and spumoni or cannoli for dessert. Oh, and both kinds of wine: red and white.

Then in the last year or two there, a couple of Italian restaurants popped up that became game changers. For me, at least. Actually, it was really one restaurant that later became two with the same owner. The first born, Sotto Sotto, was the higher end version of its younger sibling, Fritti. It was at Sotto Sotto where a lot of things about Italian fare really evolved in my world. In a little restaurant in Inman Park, Atlanta, my palate got to travel from Southern to Northern Italy for the first time. I remember tasting delicate, handmade pastas of all shapes, sizes and consistencies, flecked with bright and fresh surprising accents like arugula, mint, and lemon or anchored down with braised, local duck with an aged twelve year balsamic. There were fresh truffles, walnut sauce and sage browned butter, which fifteen years ago was not something I saw on menus very often. I remember having the most delicate beef carpaccio I had ever tasted. The beef sliced so carefully, so thinly, that it essentially melted on my tongue. And then when the little sister, Fritti, came along, I was introduced to the lightest, freshest calamari fritti, garnished only with fresh lemon, and their crimini and portobello mushrooms, lightly fried in rice flour batter with white truffle oil. Most importantly, it was the first time I became acquainted with Neapolitan pizza. And burrata.

Best of all, I lived a mere two blocks away. Even bester, two of my girlfriends and my then boyfriend worked there.

And so an Italian food lover was born.

In the eleven years that I have lived here in LA, though, I don't make pasta at home as much as other things, I would say that my go to meal out is easily for Italian food. More often than not, what I crave is the Northern Italian fare; the fine handmade pastas with fresh, seasonal produce, nuanced flavors and elegant sauces, and almost always I will opt for Neapolitan pies to that of any other. That said, I would never turn down a dinner at Dan Tana's. Who wouldn't want a side of spaghetti with their spaghetti?

But here's the thing, a couple of years ago I came across a recipe in The Week for a dish called Cacio e Pepe. Its scant few ingredients and seemingly whimsical and simple process tempted me. The recipe called for a long pasta (in this case, bucatini), Parmesan cheese, extra virgin olive oil, Kosher salt and lots and lots of freshly cracked black pepper. After I tried to make it the first time, and failed, I started to read about the recipe. I realized that this dish exemplifies the complexity of pan sauce precision. Of course! This is one of those less-is-more, minimalist recipes by which cooks are measured – and as I read on, I learned that no two chefs agree on how to do it just right.

And, it's a Roman dish... making it kind of EYEtalian!

After that, my interest was piqued. If I saw it on a menu, I ordered it. And, for the most part, folks were using the bucatini. So, my only occasion, other than my own kitchen defeat, for both the bucatini and the cacio e pepe had been when dining out.

Then I met Fred. And on our third date, he invited me to his place to cook me dinner. I remember thinking, “Uh, oh. He has no idea what he's gotten himself into. Be nice, be nice, be nice.” Beyond all of the bells, whistles (the right kind, not the gaudy kind), and the ts crossed and is dotted, there he was, in his kitchen, with a YouTube video playing on his iPad illustrating how to make cacio e pepe. And before you ask, no, he had no idea. This was all Fred.

I remember thinking it was going to be a disaster. If I couldn't make it right, and it was such a cornerstone for great chefs, how was hegoing to do it?

It was perfect. It is still the best version of cacio e pepe (and with bucatini, mind you) I have had to date. I'm serious!

And so, not only did cacio e pepe become even more pivotal to me, but bucatini, in particular did as well. Unfortunately, I have only stumbled upon it a few times here in LA since I began this obsession. And I look. Once I saw it at the Silverlake Farmers' Market, but it seemed a little pricey. Anyway, on a recent trip to San Francisco, Fred and I poked into our favorite EYEtalian deli and grabbed every kind of bucatini they had. That would be five (5) different brands of bucatini.

And a couple of nights ago I made a dish with the prettiest and fanciest of our bucatinis. It was a type of a cacio e pepe, but I added shaved asparagus stalks, a single clove of garlic, some red pepper flakes, lemon and I topped everything with fresh breadcrumbs. I also used two cheeses; a Grana Padano, for its velvety texture, and Pecorino, for its sharpness. Other than adding the extras, the concept and the technique were no different than the original cacio e pepe.

I'd like to tell you how romantic it was that we made this, our very special dish together. I'd like it to seem like we savored that last strand of bucatini like the Lady and the Tramp. But we were really just so excited and so hungry, that we pretty much inhaled our big bowls of pasta and glasses of chianti. Just-a like-a Mama would-a like-a.

Bucatini with Shaved Asparagus & Fresh Breadcrumbs

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 thick slices hearty bread, torn into about 1-inch pieces


extra virgin olive oil


1 pound bucatini


red pepper flakes


1 clove garlic, minced


2 bundles asparagus, shaved


The juice of 1 lemon


1/4 cup mixed grated Grana Padano & Pecorino cheeses

Kosher salt, and freshly cracked black pepper

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Pulse bread in food processor to make bread crumbs.  Spread the crumbs on a small baking tray.  Drizzle with olive oil and a pinch of salt; toss.  Toast for 15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Cook bucatini until al dente.  Reserve a bit of the cooking water.

Just before the pasta finishes cooking, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet.  Add garlic and a pinch or two of red pepper flakes and cook until fragrant, about a minute.  Add asparagus and a pinch of salt; cook until the asparagus until slightly softened.  Add juice of the lemon.  Toss.

Add the cooked bucatini and parmesan to the skillet with the asparagus; toss to coat.  Add reserved cooking water a tablespoon at a time, if necessary, to achieve your desired consistency.  Serve, topped with toasted breadcrumbs.


Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce
Two years ago: I Left My Heart in San Fran-cheesy; Part 3, The Final Chapter
Three years ago: Chili with Beef & Bacon
Five years ago: Angelini Osteria

An inspirational GIVEAWAY!

This is a first here at F for Food, but that last post inspired me to do it. 

Recently, as I glanced across my vast cookbook collection, at all of the words and images that inspire me daily in the kitchen, I thought I might just pass some of that inspiration along to you. I recently attended an event in which Michael Psilakis did a cooking demonstration. While he showed us how to make Greek sliders, he spoke of his inspiration, his father, who always encouraged him to follow what he loved. Much like Chef Psilakis, I have been lucky enough to have two parents that have always fostered my creativity. No matter what. 

That night, I received an autographed(!)copy of his beautiful cookbook: How to Roast a Lamb. The recipes and photography are inspired and inspiring. And I want to give this very cookbook to one of you!

How to Enter How to Roast a LambGiveaway


This is a blog-comment giveaway.

1. Leave a comment on this post about something that has been inspirational to you.

2. Let me know how I can contact you (blog, email, Twitter handle, etc.) so I can track you down if you are selected!

3. Share this giveaway post with your friends on Facebook and/or Twitter because, after all, sharing is caring!

4.Everyone is welcome to comment to enter, but I can only ship this set of cookbooks within the U.S. for no other reason than it is heavy and expensive to ship. (If you’re outside the US and win, you just need to provide me with a US mailing address to send.)

This giveaway ends on Friday, March 8th at 5PM PST. 

Good luck!

Inspirato.

Yes, we have all heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And, on a base level and on the high-road level, I suppose it is. But, there is a fine line between imitation and inspiration.  Imitation versus inspiration is a perennial discussion in the art world and other worlds as well.  And, it is such valid dialogue.

Imitation:

Okay, so when Julie Esperes got her Coca-Cola shirt and acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade, I really wanted them, too. But let's face it, it wasn't just Julie who had the Coca-Cola shirt or the acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade. It was a trend. And yes, both Paz and I desperately wanted Johnny Depp as our boyfriend after watching the french-kissing scene in Cry Baby for the seventy-third time in a row. Again, I doubt we were alone.  Incidentally, while I do think I scored the jeans, I neither got the Coca Cola shirt nor Johnny Depp.

Occasionally, I have succumbed to and thoroughly enjoyed some trends and things I've seen my friends, or Madonna, do.  But the thing is, black rubber bracelets and all, I've known what works and doesn't work for me. No matter how many girlfriends of mine did it, I would never have dotted my i with a heart.

As I grew more and more into myself, the Me in me kept growing into more and more of Me.  More often than not I have marched to the beat of my own drum and had my own style, which admittedly has not always been super awesome (I didn't start shaving my legs until I was almost finished with college and I have given myself some truly atrocious haircuts/dye-jobs throughout my life).  My confidence in my passion and "wanting to to it my way" hasn't always worked.  Deciding on Film Noir as a 'major' in undergraduate school, or creating an independent study in roller skating for PE credit did not earn me points or make me too popular. 

Inspiration:

When I lived in Atlanta, I started playing with Polaroid cameras. All sorts. Then it moved into all plastic lens or toy cameras. I was fixated on the muted tones, blurred light, and the ephemeral quality of the prints. I was equally fixated on how what began as happy accidents, with light leaks and light streaks, could become purposeful and designed. Then certain artists began to stand out, almost like deciphering code for John Nash. I became enamored of photographers such as Nan Goldin, Uta Barth, Corrine Day, Terry Richardson and William Eggelston, to name a few. I was devouring publications like Purple, Big, Soma, Blind Spot and sweating publishers such as Steidle and Taschen.

And so I went back to school. To study photography. The funny thing was, though a very good school, it was an institution that focused primarily on advertising and professional photography - not art. From 35mm to 4X5 to medium format, from black and white to color, we studied every technical nuance of the science of light to the camera to the celluloid that went in it. I had to do mock Gap ads and even spent a week in the studio, with a house of cards of scrims and gels and filters trying to light a Michael Graves pepper mill in the style of German Expressionism. I called the final product The Pepper Mill of Dr. Caligari.

The thing is, throughout photography school, being taught technique and control, I really and truly grasped the concept of needing to understand rules before breaking them. And for one of my final projects, I cast aside the Hasselblad and picked up the Polaroid 600. I shot eight images, some of bright flowers and some of me and my then boyfriend nude and/or tangled up with one another. I then very coarsely sewed them together to create a Jacob's Ladder of sorts. I also had to also stand up and present and explain my work to a room full of wide-eyed, speechless classmates and teachers. I don't know that they quite knew what to do with it, or me, but I know they all appreciated my confidence in what I had created. It was the most personal and most beautiful piece of art I have made to date.

And now I have shifted again. For the past five years I have had this little food blog. Now I like to write. Now I want to write. Sometimes I write things that make me feel naked, or stupid, or trivial. Sometimes I write things that I know make my parent's toenails curl (like mentioning that Polaroid booklet). I don't know who's reading or what they think of what they see. But I know I need to do it. Whether it's understanding every frame of The Blue Dahlia, and talking about it, or taking pictures of pepper mills, Gap products or my sex life, or writing about what I eat, drink, cook or think about, I feel I have always had my voice.

And though I may have coveted my neighbors, so to speak, I have never emulated them. Nor could I. But without Nan Goldin, I don't know if I would have found the courage to be naked, be it on film or in words. And without Terry Richardson, if I would have understood the brilliance in the simplicity, and the validity, of a point and shoot camera with a built in flash. Without the publications that gave them a voice, I don't know if I'd keep making mine as loud as possible for so long.

And to be honest, this particular blog post is, in part, inspired by two other blog posts: one with words that are so profound, elegant and straightforward, that I feel I must run off to write every time I read a new post, and another one that had a beautiful and inspired looking recipe, that propelled me straight into the kitchen. I know I don't, and couldn't, write like Ellisa, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Because, as I've said, I am me and I have my own voice. And I had no way to make the recipe Olga posted, because I did not have the time nor the ingredients. Instead, I took the two the parts of the dish that my eyes landed on in the photograph of the food, and the baking method (roasting), and figured out something of my own.

And it was delicious. And what's more, amazing food for thought.


Click here to check out and enter an inspirational giveaway!

Roasted Chicken Thighs with Blood Orange

*inspired by Sassy Radish's Roasted Chicken Thighs With Clementines

which was inspired by Jerusalem, by Ottolenghi and Tamimi

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 tablespoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 pounds (approximately 6) bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs 

1 medium shallot, thinly sliced

3 cloves of garlic, chopped

3 tablespoons fresh sage, coarsely chopped

1 medium blood orange, cut into very thin slices

3 tablespoons of blood orange juice

A splash of champagne

The juice of 1 Meyer lemon

Directions:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl combine the olive oil, blood orange juice, lemon juice, champagne, shallot, salt, and pepper with 1/4 cup of water.

Add chicken to bowl and give everything a nice stir, so that the chicken is well-coated in the marinade, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. If you didn’t plan ahead and don’t have a few hours (or overnight) making this on the go works out perfectly fine.

Position the baking rack in the middle and heat the oven. Divide the chicken and all the marinade across (9x13x2-inch) roasting pan, so that there is enough room to accommodate everything comfortably in a single layer. Make sure the chicken skin is facing up. Wedge the blood orange slices among the chicken, throughout the pan. Sprinkle the sage and garlic equally over the chicken. Roast for about 45 minutes or until the chicken is nicely browned and cooked through, basting 3 or 4 times during the first 30 minutes. The edges of some of the clementines will start to look burnt. Check on the chicken about 35 minutes into the roasting process and if you think that the liquid is beginning to dry up add a splash more water (or use your judgment).

Serve chicken with some of the caramelized orange slices an a drizzle of the drippings from the roasting pan.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce

Two years ago: Avgolemono Soup

Three years ago: Lasagne Bolognese

Five years ago: Angelini Osteria

Coming Clean

While I was certainly no angel as a child, next to my childhood friend, Ben, I was definitely perceived as one. But he was a little boy and I was merely a little tomboy. Ben got into far more trouble than I ever did; invariably he would get caught.  I would often get caught but, clearly, far less.  Most of the Ben stories I have heard have come from our parents and these stories are based on incidents that took place circa the mid-1980's. 

One story, from the mouth of my dad, is one I not only recall well, but one in which I was a player. A sweet, little, innocent bystander, of course. So here's the story...

I guess it was around about 1985, and Dad had just done some work on the kitchen. Most notably he replaced the counter with an all new butcher block top. It was all shiny and new, with nary a cut mark in it. Ben's mom, Susan, was out for the evening and and so Ben was over at my house. We were just noodling around, goofing off, watching TV and whatnot. And honestly, it was so long ago, I don't know the how or the why, but I do know that I took the butcher knife and hacked a chunklet out of the edge of the new butcher block counter. I don't even remember if Ben was in the room at the time or not. I don't even know if Ben knows anything about this story, either.

Well, needless to say, the next day when Dad noticed the rather obvious, shall we say, blemish, on his new countertop, he went through the roof. And let me tell you, that man does not visibly agitate easily. When he actually erupts, you know it's really bad.

So clearly I blamed Ben. 

It seemed obvious that a rambunctious, rascally little boy who was always in some sort of trouble anyway would be the irrefutable culprit. Plus Ben wasn't there to defend himself, and we weren't hanging around as much in those days, and who would care or remember about a little nick in the counter for very long? Right? And my dad has a terrible memory to boot. Right?

Well, jeez. Who knew Dad was such a harborer? Yes, he stayed pretty irritated about the butcher block situation for a good long while. Cursing and mumbling under his breath as he ran his fingers over the disfigured area of the countertop. So I just kept quiet.

Then Ben and I went to separate middle schools, high schools, colleges, grew up, moved away, and I literally cannot even think of the last time we saw one another. So it hardly mattered anymore. To me.

Here is a glimpse of the countertop, but not the defaced part.

The last time I went home, Dad and I were standing in the kitchen, assembling a cheese plate and sipping on our glasses of crisp white wine, as I jokingly pointed out the nick in the countertop. Although it was something I had seen every time I did anything in the kitchen, it had become so much a part of the landscape, I had pretty much forgotten about its lore. But not Dad. He said every time he looked down at the aberration in the now, well-worn countertop, he cursed Ben's name. Though, he said, he never said anything to Susan or Ben about it.

I then realized it was time to come clean. He was shocked when he heard my story, but not more than just a little vexed thanks to time and that glass of wine. Plus, it's much more forgivable when it's your dear, sweet, innocent only child daughter...

And now we laugh about that funky little spot in the kitchen. It has a story to tell. It's part of the fabric – a sweet, anecdotal, minuscule imperfection.

When Susan was in LA recently to help Mom move back to Richmond, I decided to come clean to her, too. Although she never knew anything about the butcher block, I thought she should hear the tale. If nothing else to sort of exonerate Ben from his mischievous rep as a child and to fess up about my angelic one (or lack thereof). We laughed, but she did agree, Ben really did take the heat for a lot of stuff: some valid and some, maybe not so much.

Only one person left: I must confess to Ben and receive his forgiveness. So I emailed both Ben and Susan to find out what Ben's most favorite dish was. They both said broccoli casserole. I then emailed Susan and got the recipe. She emailed me back promptly with the recipe that she unearthed. It was her grandmother's recipe in her mother's handwriting. The recipe was as one would expect; ingredients like mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, Ritz crackers, and the like. My mission was to make the recipe as authentic as possible without using mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, or Ritz crackers. I wanted to keep the integrity of the dish but try to vamp it up for 2013.

I began by making a roux and adding fresh mushrooms, and then slowly adding cream until it was about the consistency and quantity of a can of cream of mushroom soup. I also added a splash of sherry for good measure. In lieu of the mayo, I simply used cream. And finally, to substitute the Ritz crackers, I used fresh bread crumbs. Now, I'm sure it would be way more yummy and fun, and would totally satisfy that like-grandma-made-when-I-was-a-kid thing most of us have, to use mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and Ritz crackers, but this turned out beautifully. Fred and I basically ate that, and nothing else, for dinner last night. And later as a snack.

Later this week, we will be traveling up to Northern California for a little respite, and plan on staying one night in San Francisco, where Ben now lives with his wife. And so in person I can share the story of The 25 Year Long Mystery of The Butcher Block with him. And hopefully we will laugh together over it. If not, Ben, here is the recipe your mom shared with me for your favorite, cozy, homey food, exactly as your grandmother wrote it and made it. That makes it all right, right?

Mimi’s Baked Broccoli

(Mimi is Sara in this instance)

(in Mother’s handwriting, so I know this is the one Ben likes)

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 large heads of broccoli, if using fresh (2 packages chopped broccoli, if using frozen)

1 can cream of mushroom soup

½ cup mayonnaise

1 small onion, minced

1 Tablespoon lemon juice

1 egg

½-3/4 cup cheddar cheese

½-3/4 cup cracker crumbs (can use cheese crackers, saltines, or Ritz – I used Ritz)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Make sauce by mixing 1 can of undiluted soup, mayonnaise, onion, lemon juice, and egg.

Add a little salt and pepper.

Steam the broccoli for a few minutes if cooking fresh florets with short stems (don’t cook it until soft, but until it softens a small amount). If using frozen chopped broccoli, thaw only.

In casserole, put a layer of broccoli (one-half of it), then a layer of the sauce (one-half of it). Next, put in a layer of remaining broccoli topped with remaining sauce. Put ½ of crackers on top, the cheese, then ½ of remaining crackers.

Bake for about 30 min. at 350 degrees.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony Butter Sauce

Two years ago: Celeraic Soup with Sunchoke 'Croutons'

Three years ago: French Red Pepper Soup

Five years ago: Yang Chow

Rainy Clouds

It all started in the second grade at John B. Cary Elementary School. Our class put on a school play. It was a production of Close Encounters of The Food Kind. Spencer was the Swiss cheese, Kelly was the Riboflavin, Laura was the fish, and me, I was the alien visitor narrator. I'll never forget my closing lines, “So, remember folks, when you want a snack that's nutritious and dandy, have a carrot instead of candy. Vegetables, fruit, bread and meat; these are the healthy things to eat. It's time to go, and now you know about the good things that make you grow.”

And curtain.

In high school my crew, my super crew, consisted of four people, Paz, Sam, Spencer and me. We were inseparable. I have so, so many wonderful memories. We loved each other but we were tortuous and cruel to one another. We all made each other do terrible, terrible things in Truth or Dare. I'm pretty sure I made Spencer lick the under side of a toilet seat. But he and Sam threw me out of the car, on the side of a busy road, screaming loudly for everyone to hear - that I was a prostitute, at lunchtime the day before.

In high school, Spencer moved to Brazil for a foreign exchange program. When he returned he had a serious staph infection on his thumb. Of course it was our duty to taunt him and make him feel like a leper: we chanted that he was bitten by a Tsetse fly. He almost lost his thumb. God, we were so evil. In addition to coming back with that thumb issue Spencer had fallen in love. With Brazil. He was obsessed. And one evening, after countless shots of a mixture of every single thing in my dad's liquor cabinet, and perhaps smoking a little of that devil's lettuce, Spencer professed he was going to move back to Brazil and marry a Carnival queen. I'm sure we laughed, pointed and made fun of him.

While Paz, Sam and I were in College in Ohio, Spencer noodled around doing this and that in Richmond. Then, when Sam took a quarter to study in Brazil, Spencer went to meet him. They travelled around together for awhile, and then Spencer found Eva. Though she was not exactly a Carnival queen, she was pretty close; she was a trapeze artist in 'Circo Escola', a government program to help kids get off the street via art. Spencer fell in love and married Eva. From Brazil to Richmond to New Orleans back to Brazil and then to Peru and then finally landing back in Richmond, where they have settled with their two beautiful daughters, Spencer and Eva are an enviable team.

And now, together, they have launched something very cool in Richmond, VACLAA: The Virginia Center for Latin American Art. It is a non-profit arts and culture education organization. Here is a great article outlining the organization in Style Weekly.

It is my honor to present my guest blogger, Eva, with a recipe close to her heart and home.

Rainy Clouds

I was born in rural Brazil and grew up with many cousins. You see, my grandmother had eleven kids, each of those kids had at least three kids of their own. My cousins and I treasured the countless adventures we had together on the surrounding land: climbing trees and hills, crashing watermelon fields, floating in the river of brown reddish waters of my state, Parana.

At age nine, I was already working picking coffee or cotton. I never thought of that as a job- I loved the touch of the cotton. We would walk miles to get to the fields.

So we were always moving.  Some of us would stop at the end of a long day.  We would lie down on the fields and observe the clouds. We played a game of finding forms in the clouds: “the first to find a bunny-like shape will be the first to be kissed…” and other ones like that, created out of the clouds shaped on the open blue sky. But there were rainy days; and on those days we were all stuck inside my grandmother’s house around her wood stove. She would shoo us away like cats or chickens to get us from under her feet.  She would often make a big pail of Rainy Cloud Cakes.  My grandmother would deliberately leave the mixture a little bit moist so it would create strange forms when fried and then toss them in powdered sugar so they resembled clouds. “It’s a heart,”  “It’s a bunny; I will be the first one to be kissed!”  We would play this way.

I made my own search in the clouds and rainy cakes… I believed that if I could find a male shoe, or perhaps a bus, or even a horse, it would mean my father would be coming home. I still look for that shape.

Rainy Cloud Cakes

Ingredients:

1 egg

1 cup of milk

1 cup of all-purpose flour

1/3 cup of sugar

1/4 teaspoon of salt

1/2 teaspoon of baking powder

1 quart of oil

Granulated and/or powdered sugar to sprinkle on top

optional: a pinch of nutmeg and/or cinnamon

Place dry ingredients in a bowl, stir together with fork.

Lightly beat egg; add egg and milk to dry ingredients and stir.

Mixture should be loose; add a little more milk, if necessary, to get the proper consistency

Scoop heaping spoonful of mixture and drop into hot oil:  fry, turning once, until golden brown.

Drain and sprinkle generously with powdered sugar, nutmeg & cinnamon.

For strange shapes let the mixture fall in any way- have fun.


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Creamy Green Garlic Soup with Bacon & Black Garlic Chips
Two years ago: Relate
Three years ago: Scallops & Shrimp over Linguini with Baked Feta
Five years ago: Tasca