Spreading Cookie Love on Heart Day

Spreading Cookie Love on Heart Day

My Valentine Box of Cookie had arrived in Aspen before me. Although I had e-mail, called and texted the kids at The Gant's front desk to 'not even think of eating those cookie', I paid a ransom when I picked them up. They received a big red tin of  Valentine Cookies from me.

My  Box of Cookies from my secret FFWD Valentine arrived at The Gant in Aspen before me. Although I had e-mailed, called and texted the kids at the front desk to ‘not even think of eating those cookies’,  I paid a ransom when I picked the box up. They received a big red tin of homemade Valentine Cookies from me. There were smiles all around.

 

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY 2013……….

This year many of us who belong to French Fridays with Dorie participated in a Valentine’s Cookie Exchange. Everything about this project was supposed to be top-secret until the “Big Reveal” on February 14th. Yeah, right……..

Our leader for this project was Alice Mizer who blogs at A Cooking Mizer. If you remember, Alice masterminded our Christmas card exchange and managed the project artfully. Admittedly, this Cupid Crowd was a bit unruly and, honestly, who can keep a secret? But along came February 14th, we’ve all sent treats to our secret Valentines, and you can see their sugary results and recipes at our French Fridays with Dorie link.

 

My secret Valentine Dorista knows how to put the Giant in Ginger Snaps. These cookies were humongous and outrageously delicious.

My secret Dorista Valentine  knows how to put the Giant in Ginger Snaps. These cookies were humongous and outrageously delicious.

 

Nothing about this project was difficult for me. I received the name of my secret Valentine, baked my tasty cookies, packaged them up and went to the post office to mail to Massachusetts on deadline. What totally traumatized me was after paying my proper postage, the postal clerk heaved, and, I mean, heaved my box into the postal bin.

How does your cookie crumble?

So, I immediately blew my cover and e-mailed my secret Valentine, Betsy, telling her that if my cookies arrived in pieces to NOT tell me.

 

The cookies I received were packaged in 9 feet of bubble wrap. Trust me, this lady, who owns a bakery, knows how to send baked goods.  Thank you, Susan, bubblewrap for my upcoming move and your cookies arrived in perfect condition.

The cookies I received were packaged in 9 feet of bubble wrap. Seriously.  Trust me, this lady, who owns a bakery, knows how to send baked goods. Thank you, Susan, this bubble wrap will be recycled for my upcoming move and your cookies arrived in perfect condition.

 

 

 

What a perfect dinner, after a ten-hour drive, to celebrate my safe arrival back  in Colorado: a glass of wine (or, 2 or 3) and two of Susan's Giant Giner Snap cookies. Lucky me.

What a perfect dinner, after a ten-hour drive, to celebrate my safe arrival back in Colorado: a glass of wine (or, 2 or 3) and two of Susan’s Giant Ginger Snap cookies. Lucky me.

 

My Valentine cookie box was waiting for me last Friday when I arrived in Aspen after a ten-hour road trip. Susan, a talented chef and baker who blogs at The Little French Bakery and runs a cooking school in North Freedom, Wisconsin, had baked Giant Ginger Snaps for me. Be still my heart. I am sharing her recipe with you at the end of my blog. Thank you, Susan, for the absolutely scrumptious cookies.

 

Happy Valentine's Day, Grandma     There is nothing about my family that isn't thoughtful. The first thing to pop up on my computer this morning was this long-distance Valentine, filling the gap between California and Colorado with Love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Grandma”  There is nothing about my family that isn’t thoughtful. The first thing to pop up on my computer this morning was this long-distance Valentine, filling our now-widened  gap between California and Colorado with Love.

 

Giant Ginger Snaps            

Ingredients:

2 Cups Vegetable Oil

4 Cups Sugar

1 Cup Molasses

4 Eggs, room temperature

8 Cups A-P Flour

1 Teaspoon Salt

8 Teaspoon Baking Soda

2 Teaspoon EACH, Cinnamon, Ground Cloves, and Ginger

Granulated Sugar for Rolling

 

Directions:

 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

 

Mix all the ingredients until a soft dough forms. Roll into balls the size that is slightly larger than a walnut but smaller than a golf ball. Roll in granulated sugar. Set balls on parchment-lined baking sheet. Press slightly. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes.  The cookies will puff, then flatten out. The crinkles will brown slightly. Bake less for chewy and more for a snap!

 

Makes 3 to 4 dozen but recipe can be easily cut in half.

 

Susan Holding, The Little French Bakery

CHICKEN TAGINE, SNOW & the FOREST CONSERVANCY, FFWD

CHICKEN TAGINE, SNOW & the FOREST CONSERVANCY, FFWD

If Laughter is the best medicine and an apple a day keeps the doctor away, I’m looking at healthy. This has been a week carbo-loaded with Life’s joys and nature’s wonder. It’s also been days of peeling Granny Smith apples, tossing them in the crockpot and producing enough hunky applesauce to feed the populace of Colorado.

It’s because of joy, wonder, and, yes, even applesauce, that I am tardy in posting this week’s French Friday with Dorie recipe, a scrumptious Chicken Tagine with Sweet Potatoes and Prunes ( I used Dates).

It’s Friday. We’re scrambling to get Dorie’s Chicken Tagine with Sweet Potatoes and Dates plated. Probably not going to make the FFWD deadline. Donna, the Forest Conservancy treasurer and Fred, a volunteer Forest Ambassador, are not sympathetic to my small kitchen and lack of equipment. Fred’s wife, Cathy, was visiting her sister who lives in Portland and missed the meal.

 

Let me explain.  First, the applesauce. My philosophy, which I have finally come to regret, is that if more is better, more, more, more is best.  Granny Smith apples were on sale this week and, not wanting to miss out on a great price, I overbought. Peeling apples gulps up chunks of time.

Last Monday I celebrated my birthday. My enterprising friend, Jane, always, always,  always scouts out the greatest gifts. This year she outdid herself by finding a vintage felt Ranger hat, with the label, Campaign, authenticated with “sweat” marks on its headband. I will wear it when I’m a volunteer Wilderness Ranger next Summer.

 

As for Mother Nature’s wonder, she dumped it here last week. It’s called snow and Coloradans are ecstatic. As they should be. This state cries for moisture and its ski resorts beg for the white stuff. Having evaded such nonsense for the past eight years while living in Nevada, I found myself ill-prepared. No boots. No mittens. No car snow scraper. You name it, I didn’t have it. I declared myself a snow emergency and took a time-out to regroup.

 

Two days later, Mother Nature blew into town, leaving a snowy message and erasing any hopes of more Indian Summer days.

 

The joys have been in bringing closure to the journey of a good man and a life well-lived. For the past three months my family and I have been discussing how best to honor Michael with a memorial of some type. Although we wanted it to be meaningful and significant, we are not a family of great wealth, charitable trusts nor much discretionary income.

As our friend, Lloyd,  said in his eulogy to Michael, “He never confused his self-worth with his net-worth. Getting rich was not his goal in life. His life’s goal was taking care of his patients and he did that very well.”

 

While hiking in the Rockies in late August, we encountered freshman college students exploring our trail system during orientation week. They all wanted ( and, received ) Smokey the Bear stickers for their backpacks from volunteer Wilderness Rangers, Sandy (l) and Ruth.

 

There are all kinds of tiny, hand-to-mouth organizations in every community  and Aspen is no exception. But it was a no-brainer to choose the Forest Conservancy, a non-profit organization dedicated to protecting the White River National Forest and serving the community (that’s all of you) who enjoys it.

The FC was established in 2001 by four Aspenites concerned about the lack of government-paid personnel (Rangers) available to protect and monitor the 2.3 million acres of the WRNF. What began with four,  quickly grew to fourteen (when I joined), and now is well over one-hundred volunteers who serve as Wilderness Rangers, Forest Ambassadors and certified Master Naturalists.

 

Hiking with volunteer Wilderness Rangers Annie (L) and Donna (R). Donna amazes me with her knowledge of Rocky Mountain flowers and vegetation. I love to hike with her. As you can see, I cannot be issued my uniform again until I pass my certification and jump through some hoops. I’m not taking this personally, the Forest Conservancy means business.

 

The FC collaborates with the USDA Forest Service and thirteen other partners to hike and monitor our trails. Today, more than a decade later, the FC is an indispensable arm of the Forest Service and BLM and…………always strapped for cash.

What better way to recognize a man who not only skiied these mountains for fifty straight years but also grumbled his way through three to five-mile hikes every summer with his wife.  Once decided, my brother and sister-in-law made a very, very generous contribution to the FC in Michael’s name which I will match.  Happily, we’re in business. A win-win for everyone.

 

Sometimes we even chat-up the guys we meet on the trail because they are good-lookin’ !!!

 

Last Friday night, three FC friends, all FC volunteers, joined me for dinner to celebrate, thus having the opportunity to sample Dorie’s FFWD recipe choice.  Once again, this week’s recipe, Chicken Tagine with Sweet Potatoes and Prunes, was fabulous. Luckily, you can find the recipe here.  I served this one-dish meal with Yotam Ottolenghi’s Beet, Orange and Black Olive Salad (recipe here) saffron risotto and crusty bread.  Needing a light dessert, we enjoyed daughter Melissa’s crockpot applesauce (warm) over Dulce de Leche ice cream.

 

Mise en Place for the Chicken Tagine with Sweet Potatoes and Prunes. Notice I substituted Dates for Prunes.

 

Donna, who coincidentally, is the FC treasurer, loved this tagine’s spices – saffron, cinnamon, cayenne, star anise and bay leaves. “There are no sharp edges to this dish,” she remarked, “it’s just round and mellow.”

Her husband, Bernie, who is a Forest Ambassador at our beloved Maroon Bells, brought bottles of well-regarded Chateau De Paraza red wine from the Minervois AOC region of the Lanquedoc. It was fruitier than a Bordeaux with an earthy, rustic taste that complimented the tagine.

 

At last, dinner is served. The verdict? Tasty. Delicious. Very good.

 

My only tagine suggestions which I offer are:

1. For fuller flavoring, steep the saffon threads in the 1/2 cup of warmed water needed in the tagine.

2.  Because it is topped with toasted chopped walnuts, I substituted walnut oil for the plain olive oil.

3.  I chose Dates over Prunes.

 

To see what the Doristas, my colleagues who did meet the Friday deadline cooked up, go here.

STONE SOUP and the SKINNY CHICK’S Cookies = FFWD

STONE SOUP and the SKINNY CHICK’S Cookies = FFWD

AT LAST!!! Dan, who works at the front desk at The Gant, called to tell Clara, (L) and Emma (R) that Mrs. Berg’s cookies had arrived. They ran to pick up the bigggggg box.

 

Although Dorie calls this week’s recipe,  Spur-of-the-Moment Vegetable Soup, she admits it’s really Stone Soup. She’s referring, of course, to that glorious ancient folk tale which, in 1947,  writer Marcia Brown used as the basis of her children’s book entitled  Stone Soup. And for writing it, Brown won a prestigious Caldecott Medal that year.

Before we get to the soup, let’s move on to dessert, Oatmeal-M & M’s Cookies baked by Liz Berg of  That Skinny Chick Can Bake. In July, Liz participated in an on-line baking auction to raise money for victims of our devastating Colorado fires. After a fierce bidding war, I successfully won her cookies. We decided that she would wait to bake and send the cookies until mid-October when my entire family, including two little girls who love cookies, would be in Aspen.

 

Emma is older so she gets to open the box.

 

This past Tuesday we celebrated Michael’s Life with family and friends at a wonderful and joyful service. Our two little cookie monsters stood at the altar, in a church full of strangers, and sang like angels. Is it sacreligious to say they nailed “Amazing Grace”?  It goes without saying that when the anticipated cookies arrived, even their Mother (that’s Melissa), let them each have a bag, no sharing. Thanks, Liz, you baked a great reward!

 

“It’s a big box, Grandma.” (Clara)

 

The Mother Lode.

 

“One bag of cookies for each of us. Thank you, Mrs. Berg.”

The vegetable soup, which was our main course for dinner tonight, was a wonderfully simple and nutritious entrée. After cooking sliced carrots, onions, celery, and seasonings in olive oil, I added chicken broth, diced potatoes and brought everything to a boil. After taking it down to a simmer for 20-30 minutes and adjusting the seasoning, I did choose to puree it.  And to that  pureed soup I added cooked quinoa for extra nutrition, texture and flavoring. I served the hearty soup with yellow/red beets and crusty bread for a delicious meal.

 

I put together a mixture of sliced carrots, onions, celery, garlic and Provençal seasonings and tossed them together with olive oil into a Dutch oven .

 

After adding chicken broth and diced potatoes to the mixture, I brought it to a boil and then let it simmer, partially covered, for 20-30 minutes.

 

To see what stones my colleagues threw in their soup this week, go here.

 

After adjusting the seasonings and pureeing the soup, I added cooked quinoa to make a heartier soup.

Filo-Fi-Fum: Crispy, Crackly Apple-Almond Tart

Filo-Fi-Fum: Crispy, Crackly Apple-Almond Tart

Lacey (l) and Molly are just two of the many young people at The Gant in Aspen, where I live, who keep my life on-track. All of them are eager and willing food-testers. Both the girls liked the addition of mint to the apple jelly glaze. ” And Kiley  (another Gant employee) doesn’t even like mint at all, Mrs Hirsch,”  Molly told me. “She honestly cannot stand it, but she liked the minty flavor of the topping and thought it was really, really good.”

 

Yep, today’s French Fridays with Dorie recipe choice is a tart. To my thinking, however, there is nothing about this tasty dessert that looks tarty. As Dorie explained, “It’s so thin and crackly, you get to eat it out of hand.” 

Have you ever met a tart that is “thin and crackly” ? What makes it so are multiple sheets of filo dough, each sheet carefully slathered with butter, piled in layers. This was my first experience with fragile, easily torn, uncooperative filo dough. Surprisingly, it was no problem.

Hold that thought……

 

As I was walking through the Cooper Street Mall in Aspen this afternoon, I spotted a one-to-two year old black bear, napping in a tree. This cub, in all probability, has been abandoned by his Mother who is more concerned right now about packing on 30 to 40 pounds of body fat to survive hibernation and give birth to the next generation of bears. This cub, who obviously cannot find enough food to eat, will probably not last through the winter.

 

Let’s talk Bear Business. Last week I returned to my home in Aspen to stay until Thanksgiving. This is a particularly lovely time of year because the fall color extravaganza is ending and there’s no snow in sight. Translation: no tourists. Although we love, adore, need and want tourists – we are a resort community, after all – every so often it’s nice to grab our town back.

This fall, more than ever, we are sharing our town with black bears. According to Colorado Parks & Wildlife, there are about 16,000 blackies in Colorado. Aspen is probably the epicenter of bear-human interaction in the state. This year, as the bears prepare for hibernation, needing 30 to 40 pounds of extra body fat for winter survival, they are more desperate than ever for food.

Colorado has been scorched by a summer of fires, the drought has destroyed the bears’ food supply and more homes are infringing into bear habitats. Serviceberry and chokecherry bushes as well as other natural food sources are being bulldozed under for development. Unable to find natural food sources, at night, these savvy and hungry bears wander into town, dismembering our crab apple trees and dumpster-diving into the ones that are unsecured. Although it’s against the law to leave dumpsters and garbage cans unsecured, every night five or six bears charge into downtown to scrounge for their daily rations. By day they sometimes hang in a tree, napping, in the heart of downtown Aspen.

 

An adult Colorado black bear can weigh anywhere from 150 pounds (a sow) to over 350-400 pounds (a male).

 

These guys even have their own Facebook page, Aspen Bears.

The little bear I saw this afternoon, dozing in a tree on the Cooper Street Mall, is probably an abandoned cub. It’s “survival of the fittest”, the mother’s harsh reality. She’s gone off to take care of herself.

Those of us who live here try to protect our bears. There are laws, strictly enforced, to make our county “bear-proof”.  Once a bear, considered a nuisance, is tagged, the next naughty-bear report means euthanasia. As local writer Barry Petersen wrote, “ Most people in Aspen stay cool about it all, perhaps remembering that the houses and cars and streetlights are all late arrivals — that, in truth, it was the bears who for centuries have thought of this area as their home.”

 

The tart with its eight layers of buttered filo dough, almond cream and then, apples, ready to bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes.

 

Thanks for allowing me a timeout for our wild animals. Now, let’s get back to the tart.

Luckily, this recipe for the Crispy, Crackly Apple-Almond Tart is here and I suspect if you try it, you’ll love it.  I made the almond cream 2 days ahead and then brought it to room temperature before spreading it on the delicate filo dough. If you haven’t baked with filo before, it will not be difficult if you carefully follow the directions on the filo box and in Dorie’s recipe. I chose Braeburn apples to peel, slice and fan onto the tart base.

 

The tart, baked and glazed

Since I could not find apple jelly for the glaze, I used mint apple jelly and really enjoyed the additional slight minty tang. Although we ate this immediately, the tart can also be served at room temperature. Next time I might even dump a scoop of ice cream on top!

 

 

To see what my colleagues baked this week go to French Fridays with Dorie.

Orange Juice, Melons, and Tea Parties: A Tribute to Michael

Orange Juice, Melons, and Tea Parties: A Tribute to Michael

(My daughter, Melissa, a writer who has her own site, flyingnotscreaming, will be a guest contributor to my blog for the next two weeks. Last Thursday, I lost my husband Michael. In this post, Melissa shares some of her memories of her stepfather that happen to revolve around food. –Mary)

by Melissa Myers Place

I first met Michael Hirsch when he was courting my mother. I was a sophomore in college and back in Des Moines for a winter break. Just after I’d awakened my first morning home, Michael pulled into my mom’s driveway.  He was on his way to his OB/GYN practice, and was looking dapper in his suit and bow tie (few men can pull off that combo). He rolled down his window and handed my mother a heavy crystal glass full of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mother explained to me with a blush that this was their morning routine since meeting several months previously. It was enough to gross out the nineteen-year-old I was back then, but still, I couldn’t ignore the obvious: Michael was crazy about my mother and she was pretty smitten with him.

Several months later, my mother married her handsome doctor. Since I had pretty much left the nest and already had a close relationship with my biological father, Michael wisely suggested that we just be friends. Soon after, we settled into an easy and comfortable relationship.

 

Mary and Michael Hirsch

 

Since my mother’s call last Thursday morning to tell me that Michael died peacefully in his sleep after his decade-long struggle with Alzheimer’s, I have been thinking about our twenty-six year friendship and the memories he and I made together. As I have, it occurred to me that many of our shared experiences revolved around food. In no way, shape, or form was Michael a gourmet, but he had specific food preferences that tickled us and irked us, occasionally at the same time.

As I learned that first day in my mother’s driveway, he insisted on fresh-squeezed orange juice each and every morning. He was borderline rude to any wait staff who tried to serve him “that fake stuff from a concentrate.”  Each winter, Michael had cases of Honeybell oranges shipped to Aspen, Colorado, where he and my mother relocated after his retirement from medicine. Honeybells, which are called the “diamond of the citrus world,” are only grown in Florida and their availability is limited to the month of January. The other months of the year, Michael had to make do with ordinary oranges, but nevertheless, morning juice was always fresh-squeezed and always served in a crystal glass.

Other than juicing oranges, Michael didn’t do much in the kitchen, but he was a master when standing out on the deck beside his Weber. He even used his grilling savvy to bolster my love life. When I brought home my new boyfriend midway through my senior year of college, Michael, with his typical generosity, packed us into his Jeep Cherokee, stuffed my wallet with money, gave us a key to his condo in Aspen, and sent us on our way. Before we pulled out of the driveway, he handed us a huge tupperware container of barbequed chicken that he’d spent the afternoon grilling (after clearing the deck of snow: it was January in Iowa). My boyfriend ate that chicken as we drove through the night towards Colorado. The white shirt he was wearing was never the same again, but he loved every bite. And I loved Michael for his matchmaking efforts. That boyfriend and I have been married for twenty-three years now.

 

“The Boyfriend,” Melissa, Mary, and Michael

 

But where Michael really shone was as a grandfather.  He came to grandparenthood late, at seventy-two, but he enjoyed every moment of the the years he had with my children before the disease took too much of his mind. He would watch their every move as newborns, toddlers, and then preschoolers, his eyes shining with pride. Grinning from ear to ear, he’d say, “Aren’t they wonderful? They’re just wonderful. Aren’t they wonderful?”

 

Grandpa Hirsch with his youngest granddaughter Clara

 

“Yes, Michael,” we’d all groan, teasing him for sounding like a broken record, but his appreciation and adoration of his grandchildren was wonderfully endearing.  And I learned early on that when it came to my girls, there was nothing he wouldn’t do. Even if it meant driving twenty-six hours round trip to pick up me and my newborn who was wearing me out from her constant crying.

“I’m so tired,” I sobbed during a call to my mom and Michael six weeks after my oldest daughter was born. “I need help. She cries all the time and I don’t know why.”

 

Michael and Mary as proud new grandparents with Emma.

 

 

My mom and Michael were at my doorstep in Bishop, California the very next day. Without a single complaint, Michael settled my new baby and myself in the backseat and we headed back to Aspen. It was a long, long drive with a nursing newborn, but as always, Michael was a good sport. And he needed to be because my mom and I together are a force to be reckoned with. We are quick-witted and quick-tongued, a tad bossy, and uproariously funny (or so we think). Often, especially during that visit, our humor was at Michael’s expense.

As we made our way home, Michael, despite our protests, made a stop at a melon stand in Green River, Utah to buy several (FIVE!) huge melons. This stand was known for its casaba melons and Michael loved melons almost as much as he loved fresh-squeezed orange juice. But my mom, my newborn, and I were tired and cranky, and we did not appreciate the delay.  We were impatient and annoyed as he squeezed the melons into the already full trunk, and kept talking on and on about how these were the best melons in the whole world and how we were going to love them.

Shortly after leaving Utah, Michael, as usual, was driving too fast. (Michael was skilled at many things, but driving was not one of them.) He was unable to slow in time to avoid a construction bump in the road, and he hit it hard, jarring us all.  Both my mom and I started upbraiding him about the newborn in the backseat and demanded that he slow down and pay more careful attention.

In the midst of our verbal tirade, I noticed that the whole car started to smell like melons.  My exhaustion got the best of me, and I started to laugh. “It smells like melons,” I shrieked with near hysteria. “I think the melons broke.” Soon my mom was helpless with laughter as well. Michael was not amused. He didn’t talk to us the rest of the way home even though we would sporadically break into uncontrollable giggles and the scent of melon lingered in the air.

Whether or not any melons actually broke in the trunk, I don’t know. He never told us. And with uncharacteristic selfishness, he ate every bit of those melons without offering us a single slice. My mom and I brought up “the melon incident” at every family gathering, and each time Michael looked at us as if he’d just tasted something sour, never cracking a smile, which, of course, made us laugh even harder.

He was a good guy like that. He let us laugh and be who we were, and secretly he relished every moment of it. The last joyful memory I have of Michael, before the light went out in his eyes and he became someone I couldn’t recognize, was during his final visit to Bishop. The night before he and my mother were scheduled to leave, he lay down on the floor where my girls were playing. He was exhausted from the busy weekend (he was probably seventy-seven years old at the time and we’d kept him hopping.)  As he lay there on his back, my daughters setup a tea party on his belly–little cups filled with water that inevitably spilled on his shirt and bits of cookies that he’d periodically snitch from their plates. “GRANDPA HIRSCH!” the girls would shout. “No stealing the cookies!” He’d feign innocence and chuckle at their outrage.

At one point, as they played, he turned his head towards where I was sitting, careful not to disturb the set up on his belly, and said, “This is the happiest moment of my life. Aren’t they wonderful?”

Yes, Michael. They are wonderful and so were you in many, many ways.

 

Grandpa Hirsch with Emma and Clara

 

No one knows what happens in the afterlife, but I hope with all my heart, that Michael, my friend for over half of my life, is somehow reliving the memory of that happy tea party with his grandchildren. And that he is being served fresh-squeezed orange juice and slightly damaged melons.