Tea Spot NYC

Party Like It's 1773

2011-12-18T16:22:00.004-05:00

The first time I heard about the Boston Tea Party, I'm sure I was half asleep next to a hissing radiator in my second grade classroom. Due to my school's proximity to the scene of the crime, it was hammered into the curriculum each year around this season.

Indeed, 90,000 pounds of tea being dumped into Boston Harbor by barely disguised, openly disgusted colonists on December 16, 1773, was a seminal event for American independence. I wasn't quite yet obsessed with tea at that point, though. What finally got me interested in it was recently reading over some newspapers and books from the time (coincidentally, while sitting next to a somewhat quieter, new radiator in my hometown library- my former elementary school. So what if it took 30 years for me to pay attention?)

Tea was taboo in New England in the late 1770s; in order to show solidarity to the burgeoning movement of Down With The King (And Taxes, Too), colonists chose to stop consuming it.

"Do not suffer yourself to sip the accursed, dutied STUFF. For if you do, the devil will immediately enter into you, and you will instantly become a traitor to your country."
- Newport Mercury, Jan. 24, 1774

Apparently, a big part of this anti-tea movement ended up focusing on women. The boy's club could put down their cups for the sake of liberty, no problem. American ladies were a bit harder to convince:

"The women are such slaves to it, that they would rather go without their dinners than without a dish of tea."
- Abbe Claude C. Robin, New Travels Through North America, Boston, 1784

It was also feared that these insatiably thirsty women might badly influence their high-minded mates.

"For the New-England husbands, however they may intimidate British merchants and the British administration, are, in their own houses, too much on the hen-pecked establishment, to be able to carry such a measure against the Sovereign and absolute authority of their fair helpmates."
- Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser, June 14, 1770

The hens finally got it together, though. "To their immortal honor," the women of Boston took a solemn oath never to drink another cup (Essex Gazette, December 28, 1773). The patriotic pressure that turned this country off tea led us straight into the waiting arms of coffee- and the often marginalized state we American tea drinkers find ourselves today.

So raise your cup, and wonder: Would I give up tea in the name of freedom from oppression? Hmm. After a sip of this Wuyi oolong from Lock Cha, I'm not so sure.

You Always Remember Your First

2011-11-30T01:06:00.001-05:00

The older you get, the less firsts there are to experience- or so it seems. This is a sad state.

What astounded me on my trip to the home of tea was experiencing so many new things, every single day, that I'd never even imagined I would. I'd dreamed about it, of course, but I also dream about waking up in a pile of money and Steve McQueen bringing me breakfast in bed (and neither of those have happened yet).

I didn't believe that I would ever be pulled into a room that was full of tea leaves quietly oxidizing. I could never have conjured the aroma of this process, both floral and green, complex and comforting as the scent of a beloved person, or even pictured the fading glossiness of the leaves as their moisture almost visibly evaporates.

As happens to me almost daily, I simply wasn't prepared. My initial peek at a little tea processing in an small, sparse room, just that first sniff of freshly picked Tieguanyin- it absolutely knocked me out.

I floated through the subsequent walk through the tea fields, the conversations of the farmers and buyers around me, even the sitting down and tea tasting itself.

I can't ever forget it.

The Source

2011-11-14T06:28:00.006-05:00

I'm still here.

What's kept me away from writing about tea, ironically, is working in it. It's immersed me in a way I never imagined a job could. I've been making, drinking and learning about tea in a way that finally starts to satisfy the long hunger for it.

And then, one week ago, I was in a tea field, at the top of San Lin She, in the middle of Taiwan. It was the culmination of trip to tea farms around there, northern Taiwan, and Fujian, China, and I'm still reeling from it.

Now, sitting at home, watching the sun rise over Brooklyn, I am sipping a cup of High Mountain Oolong from this field; the farmer handed me a bag of the leaves after I drank about 20 cups of it he brewed. All I could do was smile and say thank you (which was my only spoken interaction with all the incredibly talented farmers I met) but it was enough. I shouldn't have been astounded- I've made and shared tea with hundreds of people over this past year- but the act of preparing and drinking tea together is so achingly beautiful, welcoming yet intimate, that it's simply all you need to communicate.

Words almost cheapen it; pictures too, even. Describing or documenting an experience can take you out of it sooner than you're ready. Obviously I'm not quite recovered yet- I think part of me is still running between those serpentine bushes, waiting for the rest to come back. (The producers, though, I'm sure were glad to get rid of the crazy white girl rubbing her nose all over the plants.)

All I can do is make another cup of this tea, and let the unfolding taste and aroma- warm melted butter over sweet, green clover- take me there.

Waiting for Good Donuts

2011-01-17T07:54:00.001-05:00

Some bleary mornings, you just wake up dreaming of donuts.

Especially when a friend writes the night before, telling you she will have bag full of them and asks if you'd like her to drop by for breakfast.

And especially when the donuts are born at none other than Peter Pan (727 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn), a bakery in Greenpoint.

Peter Pan is no chi-chi Doughnut Plant, but while I adore its 1960s-Warsaw charm, it's not close enough for me to go often (which is probably a good thing). These donuts are dangerous: sweet, not too dense, and the best you can feel for $1. There are dozens of flavors, but my favorite remains the sour cream glazed.

And as I waited for my delivery, I had time to select the perfect donut-accompanying tea- a bold one, with a lot of body, to stand up to all that sugary delight. Keemun is ideal: A strong Chinese black tea, it brews up a deeply fragrant cup, with intoxicating notes of chocolate and dark berries.

I too often overlook these rich, tobacco-colored little leaves, but I really shouldn't. Keemun is such a full flavored, almost velvety cup of tea, it should be drunk regardless of your donut status.

After a few cups, you almost don't need the donut. Almost.

That's for Remembrance

2011-01-14T07:29:00.000-05:00

Is it really possible I haven't baked or eaten anything sweet since last August? According to this blog, that's the case.

I haven't completely forgotten about desserts, even though it's been pretty quiet in my kitchen, and I have been drinking enough tea to kill a small horse. In fact, when I was gifted with a healthy bunch of rosemary after a dinner party this past weekend, I got straight to work. (After an American Apparel-style photo shoot with it, of course.)

So here are two different takes on rosemary cookies- both delicate in texture but heady with the woodsy, piney essence of the herb. The pine nut version is a bit more involved (and as only Martha Stewart can do- which is where the recipe is originally from- annoyingly calls for a few tablespoons of heavy cream), but it's worth it. It is getting some serious competition from the shortbread this morning, however, with all its rich, crumbly simplicity.

Pine Nut-Rosemary Cookies
Makes: about 3 dozen.

1 generous tablespoon chopped rosemary
1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted, plus more for topping
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons heavy cream
1 egg, at room temperature

1. Heat oven to 325°. Finely chop rosemary in food processor; add pine nuts and pulse until coarsely ground. Stir in 2 cups flour, baking soda, ginger and salt; set aside.

2. Beat together butter and sugar with mixer on high speed until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Mix in oil; reduce speed to low and add flour mixture. Add cream; mix until well combined. Mix in egg, then remaining 1/4 cup flour.

3. Shape dough into scant 1-inch balls and place on baking sheets. Flatten each slightly with fingers, and press one pine nut into top. Bake until edges are golden, about 13 minutes. Let cookies cool, on sheets, at least 10 minutes to firm up.

Rosemary Shortbread

In large bowl, stir together 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1/2 cup sugar, 1/4 cup finely chopped rosemary and 1/4 teaspoon coarse salt. Using a pastry cutter, cut in 2 sticks (16 tablespoons) unsalted butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Transfer to 10 x 8-inch baking pan, pressing to smooth top. Let sit at room temperature for 2 hours, then heat oven to 375° (350° if using glass pan). Bake until pale golden, 20-30 minutes. Score shortbread into squares while still warm; let cool completely then cut.

After you bake both and decide on your favorite, the true challenge begins: tea pairing. Try a darker oolong (Oriental Beauty or a Wuyi) with either; it cuts through all that butter but still lets the rosemary taste sing.

The Tea Cure

2011-01-11T07:44:00.000-05:00

There are so many reasons not to do something.

But no matter what the something is, the inaction always seems to stem from perfectionism or laziness. The first is a fear of not doing something well; the second is a fear of trying at all. I suspect everyone has both qualities- the more accomplished among us just have managed to mentally or emotionally outmaneuver these tendencies.

Leaving laziness aside (and letting it burrow back to its natural home under the covers), I'll readily admit to the paralysis of perfectionism. The worst part about a desire to excel is that you're left with an increasingly narrow focus and paradoxically, less to perfect.

Sitting here at 6:30 on a Tuesday morning, a few things come to mind that have escaped this often unproductive urge: throwing the javelin at track meets in junior high school (I don't think it ever went more than 35 feet, but I got to hurl a spear through the air), and playing bass in a punk band in college (I never practiced, and in fact, didn't even own an instrument, much to the frustration of my bandmates).

What strikes me now is that these were some of the few activities I've unabashedly enjoyed. You've experienced them at some point- the thing itself absorbs and consumes you; any sense of time beyond the immediate moment ceases to exist.

And it probably means I'm getting old, but making tea has joined the list. It is a decidedly more contemplative activity than those in my past, but it's still one that I've come to enjoy knowing that I don't know it all. I'm not going to make a perfect cup every time, and I never will. The nuances of each brew- and even the unpredictable taste of a slightly over- or under-brewed tea- is what I savor.

Regardless of the cause, inaction can be cured. Start with a tea so incredible (or expensive) that you're almost afraid to brew it, like the Red Fujian above that I brought some home to drink over the holidays. You don't need a lot- a single cup will show how just engaging in the act and letting go of the outcome can inspire.

Repeat as necessary.

Southern Living

2010-11-27T16:40:00.001-05:00

I just returned from Thanksgiving- this year, hosted by my older sister who has basically adopted Louisiana as her ancestral home. She's been there for years now, and has seamlessly transfused our original Yankee blood with a slow-burning southern warmth, from her charming circle of friends to the incredible regional food coming out of her kitchen.

As we sat on her porch, mincing herbs from the backyard garden for the grand meal, I made some Darjeeling to sustain us throughout the preparation. I kept trying to focus on the remaining tasks (chop the Brussels sprouts, peel the sweet potatoes, go stir the gravy) but my body started to relax in the sunshine and I ended up gazing lazily into the cups, marveling at how much stronger, cleaner the light was here than in New York.

The next day, I was treated to tea made for me, and I couldn't help but ease more into the place and the moment.

It was a deep, full-flavored Kagoshima sencha, expertly prepared- and a perfect accompaniment to as many leftovers and local specialties (baked cheese grits, fresh pecans and fragrant, sweet Satsuma oranges from the farmer's market) I could get down before the flight back.

I've made sencha countless times, and had it well-made for me more than once. But there was something so effortless, so easy in that day's gracious hospitality; with the soft light filtering through the Spanish moss that blanketed the live oaks outside, the moment absolutely absorbed me.

Thank you, south Louisiana. Y'all have reminded me how to savor.

Hard to Swallow

2010-11-10T10:01:00.001-05:00

I'm sick of food writing.

Why are food blogs- happy or unhappy- all alike? The self-referential, self-absorbed prose; the overpixelated hyper-macro photographs; the gushing exultation of formerly humble ingredients like the apple or whole-wheat flour.

The professional food media is little better. One recent review I read exalted a chef's on-site slaughter of a pig allegedly raised on hand-fed pears; another babbled about "thoughtfully sourced pork, lamb, and beef" and discussed a restaurant's atmosphere one evening "as if primed for a clever Tweet."

Can we please remove social media from food? It's on the level of blogging from the toilet. Yes, everyone eats (and expels)- that's even more reason to not immortalize it.

There are so many food publications and blogs in which you can feel the writers drooling over their dithyrambic creation and then, after a furtive glance to ensure no one is watching, fluff their hair a bit just so.

Antidotes do exist, however. Those food magazines, straight in the trash. A sunrise with a lone cup of yu hua, or rainflower, a round, soft, almost mossy Chinese green tea. And the blurry, unintelligible images and incredibly mundane comments on Pizza in the Streets. Pasta spirals with jarred sauce and canned parmesan cheese in a metal mixing bowl; Yuengling with a chipped plate of Entenmann's chocolate donuts (and is that a spoonful of peanut butter?); a half-eaten pretzel discarded on a dirty sidewalk. It's all here.

Clearly, I adore tea, and talking about it. I crave it like heroin. The taste always takes me by surprise, whether earthy or floral, grounding or transcendent, stimulating or soothing. But ultimately, it is just water and leaves.

It's still beautiful. Little more needs to be said.

Do Not Foresake Me Oh My Darjeeling

2010-09-22T12:07:00.000-04:00

One of the countless introductions I've had since I moved to New York is to The Prisoner, a 1960s British TV series in which the main character, a former secret agent, is abducted after resigning from his job. He is held captive in a surreal village, given a number as identification, and constantly tormented and plied for information from an authoritative figure called Number Two.

My first roommate here- a design, music and general pop-culture savant- was the one who showed it to me. I remember thinking the opening sequence was cool, but quickly started to crack up throughout the hour-long episode. Everyone in village was dressed in bizarre, bright stripes, twirling big umbrellas while speaking in creepy aphorisms, and just seemed to be taking themselves so seriously. The prisoner himself (referred to as Number Six) was the worst offender, kicking, barking or snarling at every village accoutrement and inhabitant. There was one scene in which Number Six, invited for a chat with Number Two, smashes down a perfectly nice cup of tea that's been prepared for him without even taking a sip (I can't seem to find the clip, but trust me, it is hilarious).

I know my old roommate was annoyed at my failure to immediately recognize The Prisoner's brilliance. But after a few more episodes, I was hooked- and then I was the one shooting dark glares anyone who dared speak while watching. Perhaps my initial response was immaturity, or simply not enough exposure to the soul-crushing world of corporate employment; regardless, it's time now, over 10 years later, to pay due homage.

Number Six, asked whether he wants "Indian or Chinese" tea for his angry little party, chooses Indian. So what better way to offer tribute than with a tasting of such a black tea, steeped in the storied British tradition of domination?

Darjeeling is one of the most beloved Indian teas. In the mid-1800s, the English established tea gardens in this remote, elevated region of western Bengal; by the end of that century, these had expanded into plantations and tea processing centers. And as Darjeeling leaves are processed from different pickings (or flushes) throughout the season, the distinct types make for an intriguing side-by-side comparison.

I brewed up both, and began with the first flush (bottom right). This is an early spring tea, with a delicate, slightly astringent, floral taste. The second flush (upper left), which is harvested from the later growth on the bushes, has a fuller flavor, with lingering muscatel notes. I much preferred its more developed aroma and roundness.

You can even see the difference in the leaves: the first flush (left) maintain a touch of green color, while the second flush (right) appears completely oxidized.

But taste is a strange beast. Try both, and see which you prefer. Regardless, there's no need to smash any cups afterward- unless you're feeling particularly oppressed.

A Paean to Pound Cake

2010-08-05T21:07:00.006-04:00

Summer is not my season. The only word I can use to describe myself from June to August, to be brutally honest, is wilted. I feel listless, shiftless, useless for weeks on end. I can't even summon up the concept of cold, no matter how many lush cardigans or autumn serenades I sigh over.

But what this heat does bring is an ease. Shoulders relax, gaits slow; clothing is pared to an absolute minimum. And while I do tire of wearing the same stained wifebeater every single day (it's actually too hot to imagine any other outfit), there's something refreshing about feeling so simple and stripped down.

And though it's now that I enjoy experimenting with iced teas and infused herb and berry syrups, at this point in the summer, I tend towards straightforward cold brews (megami sencha is the standout this year) and more simple accompaniments- like a plum straight from the refrigerator, eaten over the kitchen sink. Or a single, plain slice of pound cake.

Pound cake is like the ancestor of all cakes. It stands proudly without frosting, filling or other decoration. It's perfect as soon as you turn it out of the pan; unadorned, it shines more deeply- and with more lasting intensity- than all those gilded, gussied-up confections.

I always love the classic, but this lightly spiced version, from one of the last issues of the venerable Gourmet magazine, is just as delicious. I initially made it back in early spring, and with the first bite, thought the flavors perfect for the burgeoning season.

And I can now verify the cake works just as well when it's 92°. The exotic, floral aroma of the cardamom and vanilla are even a little more intense every time I lift the cover to cut another slice- something, I will warn you, that may happen more than once a day.

Cardamom-Vanilla Pound Cake
Makes: 10 to 12 servings.

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, softened
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
2 vanilla beans, halved lengthwise
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 cup milk, at room temperature

1. Heat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Generously butter a 12-cup bundt pan and dust with flour, knocking out excess.

2. Whisk together flour, cardamom, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Beat together butter and granulated sugar in mixer at medium speed, scraping side of bowl occasionally, until pale and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Scrape seeds from vanilla beans with tip of a paring knife into butter mixture (reserve pods for vanilla sugar), and beat until combined well, about 1 minute. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition, then beat in lemon juice until combined well. At low speed, add flour mixture and milk alternately in batches, beginning and ending with flour mixture, mixing until just combined.

3. Spoon batter into pan, smoothing top. Gently rap pan on counter to eliminate air bubbles. Bake until toothpick inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 1 hour. Cool in pan 1 hour, then invert onto a rack and cool completely, about 1 hour more.

White tea, iced- or hot, if you're a masochist- is the best accompaniment. Its faintly smooth, sweet notes well complement the same in the pound cake. And since we're simplifying, look for a bai mudan (white peony) white tea, not necessarily the higher-grade silver needles. Bai mudan is a newer, much less expensive variety, but cold brewed, it's just as lovely.

Tuesday Tea Tasting: Amithé

2010-08-03T19:51:00.002-04:00

I'm sure it's happened to you: that feeling like you've accomplished nothing, the week quickly slipping from your grasp. It's not a pleasant sensation, but there is a painless remedy.

A Tuesday afternoon tea tasting.

Plus, my kitchen counters are slowly being taken over by clusters of little samples and packets, and I didn't get nearly enough sleep last night. So what better time to listen to Houses of the Holy three times in a row and brew up some offerings from Amithé, a new tea company I recently stumbled across.

First up, the signature Amithé ($17 for 1.5 oz.), a white tea strewn with rose petals that brewed up luscious, soft and sweet. Some claim white teas are redolent of perfume, and I can understand the comparison. But this one is so in the best way possible- think of sinking blissfully into a warm bathtub full of Chanel No. 5, not getting sprayed in the eye with a blast of Electric Youth. The tea gets even sweeter as it cools, which would make it perfect, iced, for any August picnic that stretches into dusk.

(Théo, left; Amithé, right)

Théo ($14.75 for 3.5 oz.) and I didn't along quite as well. An Earl Grey mixed with rose, jasmine and lavender, this is an ambitious blend, perhaps best for flavored-tea junkies. It's not cloying, as you might expect, but there were so many floral notes in each sip that I found it hard to concentrate and detect the base tea's essence. Maybe I'm just a lightweight. It certainly did look gorgeous as it was brewing- but then again, the most attractive ones are always the biggest troublemakers.

With a name like La Dame à Licorne ($17 for 2.5 oz.)- a little bit filthy, a little bit French- I was hooked before it even passed my lips. I kept trying to come up with descriptions as I sipped: was it earthy or grassy, slightly astringent or barely sweet? Then, suddenly, the cup was empty, and a sensation similar to what I imagine drives an alcoholic seized me. I'd never known this tea existed until two minutes before, but now I had to have another cup. This tea is so well-balanced and palatable; it's everything a Chinese green should be. At this point it may have been the tea talking, but those leaves really did look like miniature unicorn horns.

My final tea of the tasting was Fumoir ($21.50 for 7 oz.). Even while brewing, it smelled musky and dangerous, like someplace your mother would warn your teenage self to avoid. (She'd usually be right, but so what?) A gunpowder green tea, this full-flavored version is deliciously smoky- and if a nonsmoking vegetarian (ah, how boring we become with age) can be so bold, almost meaty.

Now it's turned into evening, I have a third cup of Fumoir in hand, and I'm not quite sure how it all happened.

But I suppose all the best parties end that way.

The Crosby Show

2010-07-28T13:18:00.000-04:00

We may still be trapped in the sticky, endless days of July, but that doesn't mean you can spend every single one on the beach.

Well, you can try. But the city inevitably calls me back. As much as I do love a thermos of mint iced tea (and my toes) wedged in the sand, sometimes it's nice to settle into a plush chair as pots of tea and a tower of sandwiches and cakes are brought out to you, silverware cool to the touch from the air conditioning.

A glass of champagne alongside doesn't hurt, either.

For an afternoon tea a bit less traditional, the new Crosby Street Hotel (79 Crosby St.) seemed a good choice. And overall, it was: the tea list is fairly extensive, and while the food is not very adventurous, it is well-prepared. I particularly appreciated the whole-wheat bread in the finger sandwiches; it's unusual to see anything but soft white bread at tea services, and it played nicely with the cool filling of creme fraiche and cucumber.

The scones were excellent: just sweet and firm enough to stand up to multiple slatherings of clotted cream and cherry jam. I can't recall ever eating them while listening to Chaz Jankel, either, which added another layer of delight.

But there were a few things off. While the service was very professional and attentive- when the waiter was around- long, long stretches passed without any sign of him. It's never pleasant to be hovered over, but an occasional check-in is appreciated. Less forgivable was the preparation of the tea. I truly cannot understand why a high-end establishment (and a British-owned one at that) would bring the tea to the table with the leaves still in the pot. I could time it so the first cup of Darjeeling was perfect; but the leaves had no place to go after that, so the next few cups were sadly overbrewed.

It's not difficult to brew tea, especially in a professional kitchen. There's got to be a timer and strainer in there somewhere. And this problem isn't limited to Crosby Street- unfortunately, I've ended up with the same bitter brew at almost every other hotel tea service.

Sigh. Will they ever learn?

The Crosby Street Hotel serves afternoon tea, $34; or champagne tea, $46, all day.

Such a Beach

2010-07-23T16:47:00.000-04:00

When you think New York City, you don't think of crashing waves, white-sand beaches littered with shimmering blue shells, or cool, salt-spray breezes tangling your hair.

And you certainly don't think of fish tacos and iced matcha.

Well, maybe it's time to.

Rockaway Beach is one of those gems of the city, so un-urban it's hard to believe a subway brought you there. And while I'm a firm believer in the beauty New York exudes every day, this spot is a particularly breathtaking example. (And this is coming from someone who grew up on the Atlantic Ocean.)

The beach may get a little crowded on the weekends, but if you can manage to trek out here during a sultry weekday afternoon, you will not be disappointed. Even if you don't go for a swim- which is tantamount to crime in this heat- it's worth the journey for the most authentic fish taco ($3) I've ever had on the East Coast, courtesy of Rockaway Taco (95-19 Rockaway Beach Boulevard, Queens): crispy, hot fried fish; crunchy, sweet and spicy bites of shredded cabbage and radish; a bright squeeze of lime and inevitably, all over your hands and face as you devour it.

Chase it with an icy, vibrant green cold matcha ($4; supplied by Matcha Source) from Veggie Island right next door, and you may never want to leave. This adorable coffee shop/organic vegetable market also has an extensive selection of house-made herbal iced teas ($2.50), such as black mint, nettle and sorrel.

Unfortunately, I'd put away three tacos at this point, so I had to vow to try them on my next visit- I didn't want to have to wait another 45 minutes before jumping into the water.

Although, looking back at the pictures, this meal was quite possibly worth a life-threatening cramp while swimming. There are certainly worse ways to go.

By Any Other Name

2010-07-13T12:21:00.002-04:00

I used to find roses incredibly corny; boring, trite and unimaginative in a bouquet.

But over the past few years, those wild, uninhibited varieties that envelop a decaying fence or other quiet green corner have slowly crept into my heart and taken root. There those sweet little roses stay, even if I rarely see or smell them during their brief summer reign.

So perhaps it's a severe case of garden envy: I've been consumed with thoughts about how roses would taste in a rhubarb pie, or scattered over pastry cream and brioche. I've often enjoyed the petals mixed with black tea, so why not in an accompanying sweet?

Without any blooms to gather, these sesame-rose cookies are a good place to start. Imagine a classic peanut-butter cookie- interpreted in rich, evocative Middle Eastern flavors and crowned with the haunting essence of rose-petal jam- and you'll get the idea.

Better yet, make them yourself. The tahini and jam are available from Sahadi's, one of my absolute favorite food stores. And I'm happy to share that the cookies won the store's (and my, actually) first recipe contest. They're tasting all the sweeter now with my iced tea.

Sesame-Rose Cookies
Makes: about 2 dozen cookies.

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
2/3 cup tahini
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 to 3 tablespoons sesame seeds
1/4 cup rose-petal jam

In small bowl, stir together flour and baking soda. Set aside. In medium bowl, mix tahini, butter, sugar, egg and salt together until well blended. Stir in flour. Cover dough, and refrigerate for 4 hours, or overnight.

Heat oven to 350°. Let dough sit at room temperature for about 10 minutes, then roll into balls (about 2 teaspoons each). Roll balls in sesame seeds, and place onto ungreased cookie sheets. Using the end of a wooden spoon, gently indent each cookie, taking care to press only about halfway through the dough.

Bake cookies at 350° for 13-15 minutes. Let cool on sheet 2 minutes, then gently re-form the holes the end of the with wooden spoon before removing to rack to cool completely.

Once cool, fill each cookie with 1/2 teaspoon jam. Serve, or refrigerate for up to 3 days.

A Peek Inside the Matcha Box

2010-06-21T12:31:00.002-04:00

I haven't been on a tea hiatus, as much as the paucity of posts here may suggest. I've been drinking it every day as always, but I suspect some sort of creativity impairment is going on. Brain sprain, lack of inspiration, toxic environments- any one of them can strangle even the smallest seeds of ideas, and in combination, they're rather formidable distraction.

But when you hear word that your favorite matcha supplier has set up shop a quick subway ride away, somehow those crushing forces start to lose their power.

Stepping inside the quiet little shrine of Matcha Box (33 Crosby St.), I was instantly inspired. The expertly-prepared bowl of thick matcha ($5)- which I've never had before- followed by an iced matcha ($3.50) may have contributed a bit, of course. The matcha madeleine ($2.50) didn't hurt, either. And when I got to meet Matcha Source's founder, Alissa White, in person, the elements of anticreativity finally crumbled.

Alissa kindly agreed to an interview, so a few days later, I went back to find out more about the store. Matcha Source is based in L.A., so Matcha Box is pop-up shop- and one that was only about six weeks in the making, she explained to me. Earlier in the year, that whole volcanic-ash mess left her stranded with an unplanned week in New York. She started thinking about a cafe here- which would introduce more people to matcha as well as highlight this special tea's accessibility- made one call, happened upon a space, and with the help of her brother Benji, started setting up shop for the month of June.

"It was completely unplanned, so the concept of a pop-up shop- temporary, spontaneous- appealed to me," Alissa said. And it struck me, as we sat just outside and absorbed the somehow intimate, still-neighborhoody feel of this stretch of Soho (only a block away from Broadway's throngs of tourists and shoppers), what could be more fitting? One of the most central concepts of the Japanese tea ceremony- which is basically a paean to matcha- is ichigo ichie, or a celebration of the unique and ephemeral nature of every encounter. While I may wish Matcha Box would stay forever, there's something special about its fleeting presence, and a welcome beauty (or wabi sabi) in its impromptu, imperfect setup.

That's what I kept telling myself, at least, while Alissa set up a tasting flight of matcha for me.

She uses Matcha Source's gotcha ($28 for 80g) in the iced matcha and matcha lattes ($4). It's an ingredient-grade matcha, but it shines in these simple, cold preparations. I assumed most customers would order these, and Alissa and Benji did tell me many did- but others do come to sit with a bowl of the traditional-style tea.

Alissa then prepared a bowl of both morning ($33 for 30g; $3 for a serving) and kama ($45 for 30g) matcha, so I could taste them side by side. I've had Matcha Source's morning matcha before- it's what I often make at home- but under her experienced touch, the tea was transformed into a vibrant green, light and refreshing brew that sang of natural sweetness.

And the kama, somehow, was even better: made with more matcha, the tea had a thick, velvety feel in my mouth with a complex but balanced taste of sweet, bitter and intense greenness that lingered long after I put down the bowl.

This is matcha at its finest- outside of Japan, at any rate. If you've never experienced it, you must make a journey to the Matcha Box.

It's only around for a few more precious days- until June 30- but keep in mind there will be a "fire sale," as Alissa told me, during the last week. So while the drink may disappear all too quickly, you can stock up on matcha and everything you need to prepare it (like the matcha set with tea, $69) once Matcha Box is gone.

And if you can't get to New York by the end of June, you can still order matcha online and learn to make it yourself.

However you end up drinking it, may you find matcha as inspiring as I do.

Matcha Box is open 4pm- 7pm Thursday and Friday, and 11am- 7pm Saturday-Tuesday; it is closed on Wednesdays.

Iced Tea for the Truly Lazy

2010-05-31T22:07:00.000-04:00

It's strange how much effort you can direct toward not doing something. Working, washing dishes, doing taxes, folding laundry, writing: all can be avoided if you really try.

And at the end of the process, after all that effort, you're left with...nothing.

Maybe I'm not being fair to my fellow man, however. It could be that I, not all humankind, am the expert procrastinator. I can only guess about other people; I know for a fact, however, that I'm really talented at not getting things done.

If this strikes a chord, though, then I have a drink for you. Even if it's above 90° for an entire weekend in May (or just feels like it), you will have the energy to make this iced tea. Yes, you can also work on not making it, but then you won't have a crisp, cool glass to toss back as you think about all the things you won't get done today.

(I do realize I'm posting this on the last evening of a long weekend- which means it's less likely you actually will have the time to devote to crafting delicious drinks by the time you read this- but I was rather busy doing nothing but drinking iced tea all day.)

Lazy Iced Tea

Pour 4 cups water into a large glass pitcher or jar. Tie 6 tea bags together with kitchen twine, and place into pitcher. Cover and refrigerate overnight, or at least 8 hours. Remove tea bags, pressing to extract liquid, and stir in half a lemon, thinly sliced. Mix 4-6 tablespoons honey with 1/4 cup boiling water, and stir into tea.

Refrigerating the tea overnight means you don't even need to bother with ice, which often ends up diluting the brew. It's already ice-cold and perfectly steeped, never bitter. And before you gasp at the bags, relax. I'd rather people use them and at least make homemade iced tea as opposed to buying an overpriced, oversweetened bottle of factory-made swill.

For this batch, I used the British standby PG Tips, which the company was gracious enough to send to me for sampling. Even though I'll still never stray from loose tea, I was surprised how clean and bold a flavor the bags produced. And drinking something originally known as Pre-Gest-Tee (for its alleged digestion-aiding properties) is fun- even shiftless chimps agree.

Laziness transcending species: definitely something for future study. I'll get to it.

The Good, the Bad and the Tea Leaves

2010-04-11T12:11:00.003-04:00

Everything moves in cycles, my mother never tired of telling me when I was growing up. It used to drive me crazy, but now, I often find myself agreeing with her.

It even applies to tea. Of course, there's the obvious analogy of the Camellia sinensis leaf cycle of bud, growth, harvest, processing. Beyond that, though, tea has been up and down for me lately.

The lecture I was lucky to attend a few weeks ago at the American Museum of Natural History was one of the ups. I haven't been to many tea-centric events, and it was a treat to spend an evening immersed in listening and tasting. The talk was divided into the history of the Silk Road- unfortunately, not too much on the specifics of the tea that was transported over it for thousands of years- and a more general lesson from Sebastian Beckwith of In Pursuit of Tea on the different types of tea, its cultivation and culture.

Much of the ancient Asian history was new to me (such as the role tea played for 13th and 14th Buddhist monks, not just as a stimulant for meditation, but also as an aid to Zen's practice of inner self-examination) but most of the teaspeak was not; however, judging from the sold-out audience’s fervent questioning at the end of the lecture, tea was indeed a hot topic for them.

The attendees' average age may have skewed toward the grandparently, but I was pleased- and surprised- to feel such enthusiasm from them. For a few hours, none of us tea freaks were out of place.

But the cup never stays half-full for long.

Last week, I stopped in my favorite tea store, Ito En, to replenish my precious uji gyokuro and okimidori sencha. I've tried teas from many other places, but nothing has ever quite measured up to its Japanese greens; when the clerk would open the carefully sealed bags, gently shake the leaves and invite me to take a deep sniff, I'd close my eyes and the essence of spring and green would absolutely fill my head.

I discovered Ito En in a Saveur article- on uji teas, I believe from early 2001- that I was reading while on a heaving, crowded subway on my way to a miserable new job. I had only been in New York for a few months and was still trying to adjust to the gaping humanity that exposed itself at every step; somehow, the author's description of the veiled leaves' delicate treatment transported me that morning, to a silent, tranquil place. I twisted for more room so I could I flip to the sources page in the back of the magazine, and found a Madison Avenue address that was just north of where I worked.

On my lunch break that day, I walked into Ito En, strode to the ancient wooden counter in the back, and asked for an ounce of uji gyokuro. The clerk gave me thorough instructions on proper brewing, and the next morning, before I steeled myself for another day, I made a cup.

And it was the best tea I'd ever tasted.

In the years since, I've gone back again and again, dragging pretty much everyone I know at least once. So when the clerk told me the store was closing down at the end of that week- two days ago- I felt stunned.

It will still be possible to order online, but the loss of my ritual, and sanctuary, cuts deeply.

Goodbye, Ito En. I'll miss you.

A Sip of History: The Silk Road and Tea

2010-03-22T21:41:00.001-04:00

It's almost effortless to buy tea today. It's sold practically everywhere, from supermarkets to drugstores, or- don't even get up from the computer- simple to purchase online.

But it wasn't always this easy.

Picture the Silk Road, an extensive trading route from China through central Asia to the Middle East, which was established roughly around the 1st century B.C. Caravans of horses and camels laden with goods stretched over 4,000 miles; bazaars and trading centers studded the path. Precious items and ideas flowed for millennia along the well-worn trails, but one of the most significant exchanges was that of tea.

It was another world from the flat, screen-dominated one most of us occupy, but you can get a taste of it now at the Traveling the Silk Road exhibit at American Museum of Natural History. Even better, explore tea's cultural and historic impact over cups of the same varieties that traversed this ancient route with Morris Rossabi, professor of history of City University of New York, and Sebastian Beckwith, owner of In Pursuit of Tea, at the "Silk Road and Tea" lecture and tasting, this Wednesday, March 24, at 6:30 p.m. (camels optional).

I hope to see you there. And for those of you not up to a 1,000-mile journey, I'll be posting a review and images after the event.

Tickets for Silk Road and Tea are $20 and available online; the Traveling the Silk Road exhibit runs through August 15.

Winter Picnic

2010-02-23T18:13:00.002-05:00

February hardly seems the time for a cup of tea outside. But on a brilliantly sunny afternoon in Central Park, what could be better? I've had enough of huddling inside this winter, and the city has been so softened by luscious blankets of snow that an alfresco cup was irresistible.

So the other morning, right after I woke up, I made chai, poured it in a thermos, and thought about what else to take along.

Something durable and portable would be required (especially if you end up on a little two-hour detour through sales racks at Saks positively vomiting bargains, on your way up 5th Avenue).

The solution: a classic granola bar. Whether hiking or hopping on the subway, these bars- adapted from one of my favorite cookbooks, the lovely Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Cooking- are ideal to take along.

They're chewy, gingery, not too sweet, and exponentially better than any packaged granola bar. And no matter where you end up trekking, the oats and nuts will keep you steady- and counteract the effects of drinking 18 cups of chai (or carrying 18 shopping bags).

Ginger Granola Bars
Makes: 16 to 24 bars.

1 tablespoon almond oil
1 1/4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 1/4 cups chopped toasted almonds, walnuts or sunflower seeds (or a combination)
1/2 cup oat bran
1 1/2 cups unsweetened crisp brown rice cereal
1 cup dried cranberries, coarsely chopped
3 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger
1 cup brown rice syrup
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt
1/2 teaspoon lemon zest (optional)

1. Grease a 10x12-inch pan with the oil. In large bowl, mix together oats, nuts, oat bran, cereal, cranberries and ginger.

2. In small saucepan, combine brown rice syrup, sugar, vanilla, salt and lemon zest. Heat over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture comes to a boil and thickens slightly, about 4 minutes. Pour over oat mixture and stir until thoroughly combined.

3. Spread into prepared pan and let cool to room temperature; the bars can be refrigerated for longer storage. Cut into desired serving sizes.

Even if all you can manage is a takeout cup, a snowsuit and a five-minute sit on a sunny bench, have some tea outside, soon. It's worth it.

Ichigo, Ichie: One Time, One Meeting

2010-02-06T18:37:00.001-05:00

I recently attended my first chanoyu, or traditional Japanese tea ceremony, at the transcendent East Village teahouse Cha-An (230 E 9th St.). It was sublime, but I've struggled greatly with how to best describe it.

After a few days, however, it's struck me: that's completely missing the point. Chanoyu is, at its essence, about letting go of the outside world and absorbing the moment. It's not about perfection or permanence: in fact, the two basic concepts, as established by the 1500s tea master Takeno Joo are wabi-sabi, or the singular beauty in imperfection, and ichigo ichie, a celebration of the unique and ephemeral nature of every encounter.

The only way to understand chanoyu is to experience it. Yes, I realize that sounds like some pseudo-yoga (or -Yoda) platitude, but it's true. Keep in mind the Japanese tea ceremony was developed and formalized centuries ago by Zen Buddhist monks, so it can get away with concepts that may sound ridiculously New Agey to modern ears.

The dichotomies are enough to make your head spin: The rituals of the tea master are so choreographed and simple, yet these ancient motions take decades to master; the setting is so minimal, yet the beauty it exemplifies is more stunning than the world's most opulent ballroom. But as soon as you leave the outside world behind, as you've implicitly done with your first, unshod, whispering steps on the tatami mat, and begin to focus on your immediate senses, all those thoughts fall away.

Your eyes adjust to the muted, paper-screened light and you begin to feel the heat of the small, intimate space rise. The only sounds are of the water softly bubbling in the cast-iron kettle, the steady stream pouring from the bamboo ladle into the bowl, and then the precise and insistent whisking of the matcha into a silky froth. You feel the texture of the clay as you cradle the bowl, and the weight of the emerald-green liquid inside; then finally, the warm touch of the tea on your lips before its deep, heady, vegetal flavor fills your mouth.

It's not doing the experience justice, but that's all I can write. You just need to go.

Cha-An performs a 30 minute tea ceremony for two to four people Sundays, by reservation only (212.228.8030; $15 per person, cash only).

The Best Afternoon Tea in New York City

2010-01-28T13:38:00.001-05:00

It's not where you think.

As promised with yesterday's blueberry coffeecake muffins recipe, here's where to go and linger over a perfect pot and pastries that you will swear have come from the gods: Locanda Verde (377 Greenwich St.).

I think I have found my spirit baker, and it is pastry chef Karen DeMasco. It's almost embarrassing to admit I've tasted- OK, inhaled- practically everything offered here, but it is all absolutely irresistible: lemon-rosemary scones, olive oil coffeecake, pistachio-huckleberry tart, apple cider donuts, pumpkin spice bread, even a straight-up buttermilk biscuit slathered with quince butter.

And hold on to your hot water, because Locanda Verde also has well-prepared, high-quality loose-leaf tea. That may not seem terribly exciting, but in all the tea drinking I've done here in New York City, it's shocking but true: most restaurants- the fanciest, high-end afternoon tea spots included- cannot brew a decent cup. Either they use dusty old teabags or pay no attention to water temperature and brewing time, resulting in a bitter, overpriced drink.

But you don't have to take it anymore. A selection of three pastries ($11) and a pot of loose-leaf tea ($4) here is about half of what you'd pay for a hotel high tea, and it is all prepared with outstanding care. The tea is from In Pursuit of Tea, one of the better large loose-leaf merchants (try the intriguingly lilac-scented nantou oolong, or the springy, vibrant lemon verbena), and the staff is trained to treat it right: the leaves are steeped for the correct amount of time, then removed before the pot is brought to your table.

And keep in mind, this is from a restaurant, not someplace promoting itself as a tea shop. Could this be an indication that chefs and owners realize tea is as precious and venerable an ingredient as organic, locally-sourced produce or sustainably-caught seafood? Let's hope so.

If you live so far from New York that tears are now mixing with your drool, be heartened: DeMasco's new cookbook The Craft of Baking has many of the treats served at Locanda Verde, and they're truly simple and satisfying to make.

All you have to do is bake some cookies or quick breads, plate them on cutting board, and brush up on how to brew a perfect cup. It will be almost as good.

Blueberry Coffeecake Muffins, And Why Tea Crushes Coffee

2010-01-27T15:33:00.002-05:00

I had started a brilliant diatribe about coffee drinkers versus tea drinkers a few days ago, and then my sister called last night to tell me about a recent trip she'd taken to a neat little tearoom and art exhibit in Houston, Texas. That really screwed everything up.

OK, so I had only written it in my head. But it was to be a straightforward post, or so it seemed to me until we spoke: coffee drinking is social; tea drinking is not. Coffee is loud and brash, like the president of a sorority holding court at lunch; tea is calm and subtle, like the class bookworm buried in Hardy over her sandwich in the corner of the cafeteria.

But my sister brought up what the owner of this teashop had said about tea being social, whereas coffee is not: tea's unhurried pace fosters intimate connection and conversation, while coffee's immediacy and hyper-specialization precludes anything but an isolated experience.

I'm not sure which side makes more sense. To me, tea seems the only drink for a quiet, solitary state- but that probably stems from an innate need for both tea and tranquillity, and thus a deliberate equation of the two.

And this doesn't mean I'm not going to share tea with any guests to my home- as you can see, I happily did with one of my dearest friends who was visiting for the weekend. It just means that even if I am drinking tea with someone over a lovely conversation, I've likely already had two cups that morning in complete stillness, while watching the sun rise and the steam curl off the surface of the water.

With tea, both experiences can peacefully coexist. And the benefit to a social tea is the excuse it offers to bake an accompanying treat, like these blueberry coffeecake muffins. Something sweet was needed to balance out those bracing cups of Assam, and tender, lemony cakes studded with pecan-brown sugar streusel and plump bits of dried blueberries was the only sensible choice.

Blueberry Coffeecake Muffins
adapted from Karen DeMasco's The Craft of Baking

Streusel:
1 1/2 cups pecans, finely chopped
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Muffins:
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
Finely grated zest of two lemons
1 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sour cream or yogurt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup dried blueberries

1. For streusel, heat oven to 350°. Spread pecans on a baking sheet and bake until toasted, about 5 minutes. Remove from oven, pour into a medium bowl and let cool. Mix in brown sugar, cinnamon, salt and melted butter.

2. For muffins, line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper cups. With an electric mixer, cream together butter, lemon zest and granulated sugar until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Scrape down sides of bowl, and add egg, then sour cream and vanilla.

3. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Add to butter mixture and beat on low until just combined.

4. Using a large spoon, fill muffin cups one-third with batter. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of streusel on each muffin, then top each with remaining batter. Sprinkle remaining streusel, then blueberries, evenly over tops.

5. Bake, rotating muffin pan halfway through, until just firm to the touch, about 25 minutes. Transfer to wire rack and let stand 10 minutes, then turn muffins out on rack to cool completely.

Too lazy to make them, or even a pot of tea? Then come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you where to take a friend for a transcendent serving of both. (Conversation optional.)

Sencha in Seattle

2009-11-23T21:24:00.001-05:00

I paid my first visit to Seattle- and to the Pacific Northwest, actually- a few months ago. The delay in writing about it is all due to fault with me, and none with the place itself.

The food was outstanding- I'd never seen so many vegetables, fruits, cheeses, grains all in season at the same time- tea was plentiful (although I did pack some to take with me, just in case), the weather was gorgeous, and the light, everywhere, was marvelous. My friend who I was visiting agreed when I exclaimed over how subtly different everything, from leaves to water to bricks, was illuminated. Her explanation was that the sky seems closer here.

She was completely right; the clouds seemed tantalizingly within reach, like a pile of meringues behind a pastry case.

Each morning, I'd tiptoe through her kitchen, silently preparing my first cup of tea, and slip outside to a dock steps from her door to watch the sun rise over Lake Washington. Curling around the cup, listening to the waves' hollow lapping under the piers, it seemed to me like nothing else was awake, except a snow-capped Mt. Rainier emerging like a mirage across the water and spiders slowly stretching in their glistening webs. After I finished my tea, on the way back to the apartment, I'd pluck dewy blackberries right off the vine and straight into my mouth, marveling at this world of green and blue well within city limits. And I finally understood how she could leave New York and call this place home for the past four years.

I tried to be diligent about tasting, taking notes and photos of all the other places I had tea over the long weekend, but I really was enjoying it- and eating- too much to stay focused. (Consuming donuts at every meal, three days in a row, didn't help my concentration either.)

So in lieu of a tea-room rundown, I wanted instead to capture the essence of the place, back here in my kitchen. As I somehow managed to stave off diabetes on the trip, I was leaning more toward savory than sweet.

It's been some time since I've made a traditional, slow-rise, knead-for-15-minutes-while-you-space-out-and-revert-to-a-trancelike-prelingual-calm bread. But with those local dried cherries and farro I stuffed into my suitcase (those two pounds of kippered salmon I carried back in my purse were consumed long ago), it was clear what to do.

Baking is a ritual that both comforts and commemorates- one of the most basic, and most satisfying. And so here is whole-wheat farro bread: how I remember Seattle.

Whole-Wheat Farro Bread
Makes: 2 loaves.

1 cup farro
1 tablespoon kosher salt
4 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon molasses
1 cup dried cherries
1 package (scant 1 tablespoon) active dry yeast
1 1/2 cups bread or all-purpose flour
2 cups whole-wheat flour
1 to 2 cups white whole-wheat flour

1. In medium bowl, combine farro and 1 cup boiling water. Cover and let sit 30 minutes, then stir in salt, olive oil, 4 tablespoons molasses and dried cherries. Cover and let stand an additional 30 minutes.

2. In large bowl, dissolve yeast in 1 cup warm water. Stir in 1 teaspoon molasses, then mix in 1 1/2 cups bread flour. Cover with a damp cloth, set in a warm place, and let rise 30 to 45 minutes.

3. With a wooden spoon, beat farro mixture into risen dough until completely incorporated. Gradually stir in 2 cups whole-wheat flour and 1 cup white whole-wheat flour into the dough, adding more flour as necessary and turning dough out onto a lightly floured surface once it becomes too stiff to stir. Knead for 15 minutes, adding flour only if sticky, until dough is smooth and supple. Lightly oil large bowl and turn dough in it to coat. Cover with a damp cloth and set in a warm place to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

4. Punch dough down and knead lightly for a few minutes. Divide in half, and shape into a free-form boule or pat into an oval, and place in an oiled loaf pan. Cover each with a damp cloth and let rise until doubled, about 45 minutes.

5. Heat oven (and pizza stone, if you have one) to 400°. Bake boule directly on stone or baking sheet, or loaf in pan, for about 45 minutes. Let cool on rack, turning bread out of pan (if using) after 10 minutes. Cool completely before slicing.

This bread is slightly sweet, from the molasses and cherries, but it's balanced out by the whole-wheatiness and chewy, nutty bites of farro. And while it is delightful all on its own, a toasted slice with butter or melted cheese along with your afternoon cup of tea is heavenly.

If you can't find farro, another grain like bulgur, brown rice or oats- or even chopped walnuts- would be an excellent stand-in. Or you can just plan a trip to Seattle to get some.

For more gluteny goodness, check out YeastSpotting.

Coffee, Tea ... or Both?

2009-11-13T18:18:00.001-05:00

It's rarely a difficult choice: people are either coffee or tea drinkers. There may be a cup of the other enjoyed now and then, but your heart belongs to just one.

But you can actually have them both, and be able to look at yourself in the mirror the next morning.

The secret is cascara, a tea made from steeping the dried skins of coffee cherries, which today are normally discarded during processing. This tea is actually an ancient drink known as qishr, and the original way coffee was prepared beginning around the 9th century in Abyssinia (modern-day Ethopia).

Do you understand what this means? Before extra-foam triple half-caf grande soyaccinos, coffee was tea. I'm not being all teaist, either. It's just a fact.

Cascara is simple to make, but a lack of available information or research invited experimentation. Playing around with the dose, water temperature and steeping time, I found 5 grams per 1 cup of just-boiling water, brewed for 8 minutes, to be ideal.

The few other guidelines I turned up recommend a 7-minute maximum brew, but as you can see (photo, below), this produced a much fainter- in color and flavor- cup of tea. It didn't seem that an additional minute would make much of a difference, but it brought out the deep, cherrylike sweetness in way that made the botanical connection suddenly hit on your tongue: Coffee comes from a fruit.

I'm not advocating it as a traditional tea substitute, but for any espresso addicts in search of a transition drink, this could get you off the junk. It's much closer to a fruit or berry tisane than a true (Camellia sinensis) tea, but it's a start.

Plus, it's made from what is usually considered trash. How eco is that?

If you still don't believe me, here's a little video of the whole process from the Square Mile Coffee Roasters, in London, which is where this batch is from.

Along Came a Cider

2009-10-26T17:17:00.001-04:00

I went apple picking recently. And it's already vaulted into my List of Favorite Things: the light but palpable fragrance of ripe fruit in the cool air, the sharp crack of the apple stem as you twist it from the tree's jealous grip, and of course, the succulent crunch of that first bite.

Ending up with a peck of apples for $8 wasn't bad, either. I've eaten one a day, devoured apple crisp and applesauce oat bran muffins and still, somehow, crave more.

I wanted to incorporate tea into an apple dish, however, instead of just serving it alongside. Why not brew the tea directly in apple cider? a little nagging voice whispered. It usually offers me far worse advice, so I didn't see any harm in trying a novel method- and let me tell you, not much tastes better in the slanted autumn afternoon light than a cup of this cider tea.

It takes mere minutes to prepare, and it makes your kitchen smell like a spice merchant being seduced by Aphrodite. (You'll know what I mean when you make it.)

You can use any strong black tea, but I chose a fragrant, spicy apple-flavored tea (pictured below) from David's Tea that I'd been wanting to try for awhile.

It's a blend of black and green leaves with chunks of dried apple and bits of cinnamon and almond. Brewed alone, I found it a bit too sweet (one of the reasons I usually avoid flavored teas), but when combined with the natural tartness of apple cider, it worked beautifully.

Spiced Apple Cider Tea

In medium saucepan, bring 2 cups apple cider to a boil. Turn off heat and add 1 tablespoon tea; let steep three minutes, then strain into large measuring cup. Pour cider back into saucepan and stir in 1 cinnamon stick, several cloves and a few slices of crystallized or fresh ginger. Bring just to a boil and simmer 10-15 minutes. Serve hot.

Garnish with a few slivered almonds or cloves, and make sure each serving has a piece of crystallized ginger- a sweet and spicy reward for finishing the cup, although little incentive will be necessary.

Apple iCrisp

2009-10-23T09:48:00.007-04:00

As I was getting the ingredients together for this apple crisp, I was talking on the phone to my mother, who had just happened to be pulling one out of the oven. I wondered at the coincidence, but reminded myself that she was the one who introduced me to baking- and to tea, in fact- so it shouldn't have been much of a surprise.

But when I told her I was trying new recipe, from Alice Medrich's luscious cookbook Pure Dessert, and it had apricots along with the expected apples and oat topping, I could hear her recoil. A barely audible "ew" made its way over the line, and I tried to reassure her that it would be even better than a traditional apple crisp.

I was right. But I don't blame her for her reaction; she spent decades attempting to feed me and the rest of my incredibly picky family, and the battle scars that make her shy from foods like apricots, almonds, roasted garlic, cabbage and cream cheese are deep. Still, she managed to nourish us all and make it seem effortless- and pass on to me an inveterate respect the food I eat and drink. I can't express in words my gratitude to her; a ramekin of this apple-apricot crisp, and a cup of smooth, soothing Darjeeling, is all I can offer.

I know she'd love it. You have to be inhuman not to.

Apple-Apricot Crisp

Topping:
1/2 cup all-purpose or white whole-wheat flour
1/2 cup rolled oats
Scant 1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts
1/2 cup sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/8 teaspoon salt
Filling:
Grated zest and juice of 1 orange
1/2 cup dried apricots, coarsely chopped
About 1/4 sugar, depending on the tartness of the apples
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
6 crisp, flavorful apples (I used Macintosh and Cortland)

1. Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and heat to 350°F. Liberally butter a 2-quart baking dish.

2. In medium bowl, stir together all topping ingredients until well blended. Set aside. For filling, in a medium saucepan, combine orange zest, orange juice and chopped apricots. Bring to a simmer and cook a few minutes, until apricots are soft. Set aside.

3. In large bowl, stir together sugar and cinnamon. Halve and core the apples, then cut into equal-sized chunks. Add apples to bowl and toss with sugar and cinnamon. Stir in apricots and juice from the saucepan. Scrape mixture into buttered baking dish and spread evenly. Crumble topping evenly over apples.

4. Bake until crisp is browned on top and the juices are bubbling and thickened, 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours. Serve warm or cold.

Apple crisp is a messy dessert, but an appealing one- and when you leave the skins on the apples, not only can it get in the oven faster, the fruit also takes on a beautiful rosy blush. This recipe also showed me that the natural sweetness of apples requires little additional sugar, especially in combination with fresh orange juice and bright bursts of chopped apricot.

One of the other important culinary lessons my mother imparted is that the ideal breakfast is very open to interpretation. Having just finished off the dish of this crisp with a few cups of tea, I can assure you I've learned it well.

She's No Lady Mendl

2009-10-19T15:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you just need high tea. Yes, it's fussy, affected, disturbingly anglophiliac and drags having a cup of tea out to a two-hour affair, but there's still something delightful about it.

And so a languid Sunday afternoon was spent at Lady Mendl's (56 Irving Place), where a lovely five-course tea ($35) slowly unfolded in a plush, cozy space.

The restaurant is named for Lady Mendl (née Elsie de Wolfe), a prominent, turn-of-the-century interior decorator whose motto was, "Never complain, never explain." Far from just another high-society aesthete, however, Lady Mendl practiced yoga, dyed her graying hair blue, and lived in an openly gay relationship- not quite who you'd picture sitting docilely, pinkie extended, through afternoon tea.

The menu here is very traditional: an appetizer of a mushroom-goat cheese tart was followed by delicate finger sandwiches of smoked salmon with dill cream cheese, and cucumber with mint creme fraiche; tiny, moist scones, served with clotted cream and a rich raspberry jam, were next.

By the time the crepe cake- oozing with layer after layer of vanilla pastry cream- and then tender shortbread cookies and strawberries dipped in chocolate arrived, I was feeling a bit overindulgent.

But that's what the tea is for. The selection is decent, although a bit too skewed toward black and herbal teas for a sencha addict's tastes. With the brazen spirit of Lady Mendl in mind, I chose a pot of Russian caravan, and the smoky, deep Chinese tea was a welcome counterpoint to such rich food.

It was brewed perfectly, and served with grace. I'm curious as to whether they treat green and white tea as well- I suppose I'll just have to go back next week.

It's Chai Time

2009-10-16T12:56:00.000-04:00

It's 41° outside, and the constant, tiny daggers of rain for the past two days have made the thought of going anywhere absolutely preposterous.

Conditions like this spawn countless fair-weather (or rather, inclement-weather) tea-drinkers. That's fine with me; if you're not man enough to chug three steaming bowls of matcha when it's 95° and you're already pouring sweat at 8 a.m., that's your issue. I believe tea should be a part of every day regardless of the temperature, but then again, I've been accused of being stubborn or opinionated by almost everyone I know. Good thing I balance it out with such humor and charm.

And I don't think I'm above improvement. I made a big pot of chai earlier this week, and after a few unbiased, independent tastings, it became clear a recipe edit was needed. Playing off the classic chai that initiated TeaSpot, my new version is bolder and richer- thanks to a more concentrated spice infusion and smaller-leaf assam tea, as well as a bit of heavy cream- and shockingly (for me), less sweet.

Replacing the granulated sugar with honey conjures a subtler but more intriguing sweetness, and if you can find lavender honey, a warming vision of Provençal summer that gently spreads across your tongue and throughout your body. (Especially welcome as I sit here with two wool sweaters and a cashmere hat keeping me company.)

New Chai Tea

In a medium saucepan, combine 1/2 cup milk and 1/2 cup heavy cream with 3 cups water. Lightly crush 1-2 cinnamon sticks, 6-8 cardamon pods, 6-8 cloves, a small pinch of black peppercorns and a hunk of fresh ginger, peeled, and add to milk mixture. Heat over medium-high until simmering, then cover and remove from heat. Let steep 15 minutes, then gently reheat to simmering and add 4-5 tablespoons assam tea. Cover and remove from heat; steep 4 minutes. Strain and stir in 1-2 tablespoons honey.

The very concept of a "new" recipe, especially for a drink as ancient and open to interpretation as chai, is a bit silly. But there's never anything wrong with working on your improvisation skills.

Gourmet, R.I.P.

2009-10-05T10:28:00.005-04:00

I was on my third cup of tea this morning when this arrived in my inbox: insanity.

I know nothing is safe, or even really sacred, in today's world. But the shuttering of such a culinary bible makes the stinging slap of this recession feel fresh. I'm stunned, hand to cheek, as I look through the September issue, which is one of the most gorgeous publications I've ever seen- and I read a lot of food magazines.

The only fitting tribute is to make something from its lush pages, photograph it, and then eat it. And I will, as soon as I sort through the 20 recipes I marked.

Are digital media- like this very blog- in part to blame for the demise of print? I'd certainly like to think not. The immediacy of the web is appealing, but how can anything compare to holding an affordable piece of art, like Gourmet, in hand, and gently paging through spread after luscious spread? Seeing it on screen just isn't the same.

This is such a blow to the entire food world, and right now, the only constructive spin is that there's going to be a gaping void needing to be filled. But to follow the loss of such a reigning authority, it's going to have to be something superlative.

A Study in Lemon and Poppy Seed

2009-09-29T20:10:00.003-04:00

I know things have gotten a little preachy here recently, but anyone who loves food needs to read all eight pages of this Michael Pollan article. (And I do believe he himself falls a bit into the food-celebrity trap- maybe not for being flashy, but for the rabid dedication he inspires in his devotees. Is it possible I can continue to distrust people just because they're popular?)

It's a keen portrayal of the sad state of cooking in America today, how we're spending less time preparing food and more passively watching others do so. There is one quote that really struck me, from Sartre-charmer Simone de Beauvoir, talking about elevating the art of baking as a “revelation and creation; and a woman can find special satisfaction in a successful cake or a flaky pastry, for not everyone can do it: one must have the gift.”

Beauvoir wrote this in The Second Sex in 1949, but 60 years later, I'm still attempting it, almost every day, in my little dishwasherless city kitchen. Most recently, creativity was inspired by these lemon-poppy seed shortbread cookies from the lovely Lottie + Doof blog.

As I've said before, shortbread is an ideal vehicle for showcasing flavors, and these simple little cookies do so like champs. I used white whole-wheat flour to add a deeper, nutty flavor, and to pretend that they're actually good for you.

Lemon-Poppy Seed Shortbread
adapted from Claudia Fleming's The Last Course

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons lemon juice
1 1/2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups white whole-wheat flour, sifted
1 1/2 tablespoons poppy seeds
1/2 teaspoon salt

1. Using an electric mixer, beat the butter and sugar until creamy and smooth, about two minutes. Add the lemon juice, zest and vanilla and beat well.

2. In a bowl, whisk together flour, poppy seeds and salt. Add dry mixture to butter mixture and beat until combined. Form the dough into a disk, wrap and chill for at least 3 hours or up to 3 days.

3. Heat oven to 300°. Roll the dough between two sheets of wax paper to a 1/4-inch-thick rectangle. Return dough to refrigerator for 30 minutes. Cut shortbread into squares or use desired shape cookie cutter, and place 1 inch apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. (Do not reroll scraps, if using cookie cutter.) Prick shortbread with a fork and bake until pale golden all over, 23 to 25 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

Well, they're good for your spirit, at least. And if you have them with a quiet green bowl of matcha, they're practically healthy.

Toast Points

2009-08-23T09:31:00.001-04:00

Pound cake is delicious.

Toast is delicious.

Therefore, toasted pound cake will be delicious.

I remember learning about the transitive property in geometry class- incidentally, the only math class I ever got even a B in (probably because it involved letters, not just numbers).

When you add heat to certain foods- I'm thinking of the fat and sugar variety- something interesting happens. For example: Cheese, good. Grilled cheese, murder-worthy. So while this blueberry-yogurt pound cake I adapted from the July Martha Stewart Living (I'm a bit behind on the reading, too) was quite delicious on its own, toasting it was transformative: the moist, velvety sweetness gains an almost savory dimension, and the coarse grains of sugar on top caramelize into a beautifully crunchy crust.

I didn't think I could love pound cake more- it's one of those confections, even straight-up, that gets shoved into your mouth increasingly quickly. There's no frosting, you think, so it's not like eating regular cake. And it's designed for tea, an elegantly simple sweet requiring no sauces or utensils.

The thick, bold grassiness of a megami sencha was a perfect foil to the richness and the intensity of the warm blueberries, which burst, juicily, in every bite. But there's something about the green tea-blueberry formula that makes me think any other sencha would be equally as delightful.

Blueberry-Yogurt Pound Cake
Makes: 1 cake.

1 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 1/2 sticks (12 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 cup plain yogurt
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 eggs, at room temperature
1 cup blueberries, washed, tossed with 1 tablespoon flour
1 tablespoon turbinado sugar

1. Heat oven to 325°. Butter one 9 x 5-inch loaf pan and set aside.

2. In small bowl, sift together flour and salt. With electric mixer, cream butter, yogurt and sugar together until pale and fluffy, about five minutes. Beat in vanilla.

3. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Reduce speed to low and beat in flour mixture until just combined. Gently fold in blueberries, and pour into prepared pan. Tap on counter to distribute batter evenly, then sprinkle with turbinado sugar.

4. Bake for 65 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pan on wire rack for 30 minutes. Remove from pan, and let cool completely before slicing and toasting.

If you've never made pound cake before, let this one be your motivation. It's quite simple to make- as long as all the ingredients are at room temperature (leave the butter and eggs out for about an hour before you start baking) and the butter and sugar are thoroughly creamed, that smooth, rich texture will result.

Feed Thyself

2009-08-07T14:49:00.001-04:00

Dear TeaSpot,

I never believed this could happen to me. I forgot to blog for an entire month!

Love,
Me

I've also neglected to cold-brew iced tea, bake anything dangerous or delicious, and form complete, grammatically correct sentences. Don't worry, I haven't exactly been pounding Snapple and Chips Ahoy; more like re-balancing my intake and output. Of everything.

After so much time, even taking a decent photo of a cup of tea in the 7 a.m. sunlight can seem an arduous process. But tea isn't about suffering; in fact, it's about the complete opposite. And I've never stopped enjoying its quiet yet essential role in my every day.

I've also been thinking a lot about the role tea plays for its other adherents, and it seems, at least in most media, to be one of effect: There's no lack of articles extolling its health benefits, or even how to boost its value.

But when any food is considered solely as a vehicle for its nutrients, or evaluated primarily as preventive medicine, something strange happens. What we consume is such a fundamental part of what makes us who we are, and that gets lost if we look to products like green-tea pills and tea extracts. Yes, it's possible to isolate catechins in a laboratory, study their antioxidant effects and attempt to create a live-forever supplement. That doesn't mean it should be done.

I'm all for reading labels, and using nutritional science to understand what you're putting into your body. But food is not medicine. It's food. It provides, it nourishes, it comforts.

You don't need to analyze tea- just enjoy it. So sit down, shut up and drink a cup of matcha already. It's what I've been doing every single morning for the past month, and it's been sustaining me.

Strawberry Gets Its Piece

2009-06-23T17:34:00.000-04:00

Cherry pie has paeans devoted to it; the last slice of apple pie, at least from my family's Thanksgiving table, is handled more carefully than an antique diamond brooch, hidden in the refrigerator, and fought over when discovered missing the next morning (there is little better for breakfast, and it does pay to get up the earliest).

But what of the strawberry?

As the first ripe fruit of the season, it deserves tribute: a simple, fresh strawberry pie, the kind you could imagine your grandmother pulling out of the oven one June afternoon in 1949.

Of course, she would have probably paired it with a neat glass of absinthe, but it pairs just as well with a tart cup of strawberry tea (which I was lucky enough to be introduced to by some friends in Poland one spring; it's just dried strawberries, and it tastes like spring in liquid form). It can be difficult to find here, but even adding some sliced strawberries atop your favorite tea will make a worthy accompaniment.

Strawberry Pie
Makes: 8 servings.

Pate brisee (pie crust), fully baked in a 9-inch pan
6 cups strawberries
1 cup sugar
4 tablespoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup water
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1. Wash strawberries, removing green tops. Drain, and cut any large berries into halves or quarters. Measure out 4 cups into a medium bowl and set aside. Puree remaining 2 cups strawberries in blender or food processor.

2. In medium saucepan, whisk together sugar, cornstarch and salt. Whisk in water, then stir in pureed berries, lemon juice and butter. Bring the mixture to a simmer over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, and cook 1 minute more. Remove from heat.

3. Into cooked pie crust, spoon half of reserved berries. Pour half of hot berry mixture over, gently shaking pie pan to coat berries evenly. Cover with remaining berries, then top with remaining hot berry mixture.

4. Let cool at room temperature for 30 minutes, then cover and refrigerate at least 4 hours before slicing.

The Decisive Moments

2009-06-15T10:36:00.002-04:00

We work in union with movement as though it were a presentiment of the way in which life itself unfolds. But inside movement there is one moment at which the elements in motion are in balance. Photography must seize on upon this moment and hold immobile the equilibrium of it...

Composition must be one of our constant preoccupations, but at the moment of shooting it can stem only from our intuition, for we are out to capture the fugitive moment, and all the interrelationships involved are on the move...[T]he only pair of compasses at the photographer's disposal is his own pair of eyes.

Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment (1952)

I have terrible eyesight, but I've always loved photography.

It's made focus and lighting more challenging, certainly, but that has just fostered a more dedicated work ethic (which is in dangerously short supply for every other area of my life). A recent conversation inspired me to pull out some of my old photography textbooks and hundreds of black-and-white prints from school, and in going through them, a motif reappeared that struck me as pertinent to the art of making images as that of making tea.

Much like Kodak's point-and-shoot cameras- from the Brownie of 1900 through the Instamatic of the 1960s- digital cameras have transformed the art of photography; or cheapened it, as purists have argued for over a century. Cameras that require minimal training or technical knowledge to operate have long wrested picture-making from the elite, which is both a great thing (liberating art enables more to partake) and a dangerous one (in the proliferation of mediocrity).

In traditional processing, which I first learned 15 years ago, you must spend hours and hours in the darkroom, in that soft, dark, unearthly red light. It's been awhile since I've developed photos, but I can instantly summon the feeling that would wash over as I rocked the blank paper in the tray of developer and after that endless minute and a half, watched the image regenerate, myriad shades of gray filling in as if by an unseen brush, some remaining faint, others deepening into inky black.

The decisive moment, as Cartier-Bresson described above, is fractions of a second before the snap of the shutter, but for me it was also right before that photograph was developed to the edge of where I wanted it, just before I would place into the stop bath so as to fix it indelibly. It was before the photo was finished processing, before the chemicals were washed off, before the paper was hung to dry; but just at that moment, suspended in that shallow tray of water, the blacks and grays saturated and gleaming, that I would never see such beauty.

Outside the darkroom, the same process happens with the cup of sencha I prepare each morning: It takes about as long as developing a photograph, and the sense of that moment, just as the leaves have been caressed by the steaming water for the right amount of time and the color has intensified to a bright emerald green, is as arresting.

The equipment itself is insignificant when you look at it this way. Cartier-Bresson, one of modern photography's most seminal influences, used a 50-mm Leica. Emotionally, I'll always be more attached to an old-fashioned print than the images from my cheap little digital camera, but as long as I can still harness that moment of beauty, it's done its job. And whether your morning cup is antique porcelain and prepared by a Japanese tea master or disposal paper from the water cooler in a florescent-lit office, if you've grasped that ideal, nuanced balance in the brew, each sip will be a work of art.

It's the process, and attention you devote to it, that matters.

A Sunday Morning Suggestion

2009-05-31T06:11:00.002-04:00

Sunday mornings seem more indulgent than Saturday's. Perhaps the looming threat of the week inspires decadence for breakfast, and the need to eat it while still in pajamas.

Although then what excuse can I use for cookies on the couch for breakfast every other day of the week?

I'll come up with something, as soon as I finish another luxurious spoonful of this chocolate croissant bread pudding. The recipe is adapted from Nigella Lawson, and who better to instruct us in a culinary life of hedonism?

It's an effortless start to your day, and will reward you with possibly the most comforting dish to ever come out of an oven. It is rich, but it manages to quiver somewhere between savory and sweet. And just like that '80s movie misfit who is transformed into the most popular kid in school by upgrading from glasses to contacts, chocolate croissants will never be looked at quite the same way again.

Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding
Makes: 6 servings.

3-4 day-old chocolate croissants
3 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg
3 egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups milk
2 cups heavy cream

1. Butter a 6-cup overproof dish. Cut croissants into 1-inch-thick slices and arrange in dish. In large liquid measuring cup, whisk together sugar, egg, yolks and vanilla. In medium saucepan, bring milk and cream just to a boil; pour a few tablespoons into egg mixture, whisking. Slowly pour in remaining liquid and blend thoroughly. Pour over the prepared croissants and let sit for 10 minutes.

2. Heat oven to 325°. Bake bread pudding for about 50-55 minutes, or until softly set.

A breakfast this extravagant requires a strong tea, and I found the tannic notes of a black (such as Assam or a Tanzanian) preferable to a green, for once. Assam in particular plays well with the chocolate notes swirled throughout the pudding.

All you need to do now is scoop out another serving, and get back in bed.

It's Chinatown

2009-05-26T22:02:00.003-04:00

I'll never forget that first sip.

It was a pot of milky, sweet black sesame tea and I was sharing it with my small New York crew at St. Alps Teahouse, on Mott St., in Chinatown.

As the first cluster of inky, gelatinous balls hit my mouth, I recoiled from the tiny table. It was such an unexpected sensation- something chewy in a drink- and I couldn't quite wrap my head or palate around it.

But the very next day, at work in midtown, I was seized with an irrepressible urge around noon. I surreptitiously gathered my bag and coat and hopped on the train to Canal St., raced the several blocks east to the shop, ordered a cup of mango green bubble tea and then hustled right back to the subway. It took over an hour and a half, but as I gulped down bubble after bubble, I was strangely soothed. And addicted. Almond and coconut milk tea, taro, passionfruit; with the exception of plum (strangely reminiscent of a McRib), I loved every flavor I tried.

Now, bubble tea is all over the city (and St. Alps is under new management), so I don't often trek to Chinatown. But when I do make the special trip, it's always worth it. My new go-to is Ten Ren Tea Time (79 Mott St.), a claustrophobic cafe adjoining the venerable Chinese tea company shop. The flavors seem fresher, the balls chewier, and it's the only spot I've found that offers a matcha-based bubble tea, which has a lovely balance of strong, vegetal green tea and syrupy sweetened condensed milk.

On my most recent visit, I even tried a new flavor- jasmine- and was pleased to find my old love for bubble tea still aflame.

If only I could make it last more than two minutes.

So This Lemon Walks Into a Bar

2009-05-23T09:23:00.002-04:00

Lemon bars are that rare anachronistic dessert yet to be exploited by the foodsionistas like cupcakes and soft-serve ice cream.

There's no cult around lemon bars: Celebrities aren't spotted accessorizing their plates with them, and celebrity chefs don't serve them. There's something inherently old-fashioned about their sticky-fingered ways that refuses to permit deconstruction or reinvention.

Perhaps that's why I've always loved them so, especially for breakfast with a cup of tea. But what about with tea inside? The naturally sweet, floral profile of chamomile seemed a good match for all that tangy citrus.

Of course, some would argue that now I'm exploiting a classic. The only response that comes to mind is bite me. Then you'll see.

Lemon-Chamomile Bars

Crust:
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup all-purpose flour
Topping:
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
2-3 tablespoons chamomile tea
Powdered sugar, for garnish

1. Heat oven to 350°. Line an 8 x 8 baking pan with nonstick foil. In pot used to melt butter, mix butter, sugar, vanilla, salt and flour and mix until just incorporated. Press dough evenly over bottom of pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until crust is fully baked, well browned at edges and golden brown in center.

2. While crust is baking, prepare topping: in medium bowl, whisk together sugar, flour, eggs and lemon zest. In small saucepan, bring lemon juice and chamomile tea to a boil; immediately turn off heat and let steep for two minutes. Press through a strainer into topping mixture, and stir until incorporated. Pour onto hot crust.

3. Return pan to oven and lower temperature to 300°. Bake 20 to 25 minutes, or until topping no longer jiggles in center when the pan is tapped. Remove from oven and let cool completely on rack.

4. Lift out of pan and cut into squares. Serve at room temperature or refrigerate for up to one week.

The crust hits your tongue first, with a buttery crunch of caramel, then your teeth sink through the lush, pillowy layer of tart lemon. The chamomile is in there, too, with a gentle, applelike sweetness that comes up like a unexpected breeze behind you.

If you pair it with a cup of chamomile tea, it's even more pronounced. I rarely do that when cooking with tea, but this has convinced me that I've been missing out by not tasting the tea alone and as an ingredient.

The potential here is endless- orange bars with Earl Grey, lime bars with jasmine pearls, and maybe even demand for me to open New York's first lemon bar bar.

Ding Dong, Tea Calling

2009-05-13T17:20:00.000-04:00

I usually dread the trip from New York to Boston. It's not much more than 200 miles, but it can be spectacularly uncomfortable at best, and longer than a flight to Europe at worst (12 hours, but that's a story for another time). But it was mother's day this past weekend, and during the celebration I discovered a treat worth traveling for: a Hong Kong Ding Dong from the Bread & Chocolate Bakery Cafe (108 Madison Ave., Newton).

My mom has taught me much about tea, and chocolate. And luckily she's still up for culinary exploration, so we headed to this bakery- which features a unique take on that classic childhood indulgence- as soon as I arrived. For $3.50, you're handed a hefty square with a glossy, bittersweet chocolate coating and telltale squiggle. I was a bit wary, recalling all the ho hos and ding dongs that have disappointed me over the years (and there have been countless, not always in dessert form).

But this is some fine chocolate, and tender, moist green-tea cake underneath. Even the sticky marshmallow filling is homemade, and it renders this cupcake so far from anything packaged or mass-produced that calling it a ding dong seems an insult.

It's more like a petit four on steriods, and simply mouth-crammingly delicious. And I like to think it's helping to introduce tea to those who would turn their nose up at a bowl of matcha under any other circumstances.

It may not be in its purest form, but sometimes purity is really overrated.

Nero Twittered While Rome Burned

2009-05-07T22:55:00.002-04:00

We all have our coping mechanisms in the face of dire situations. When I'm confronted with threats, be they porcine- or poverty-based, what do I do?

I make tea with Evian.

Of course it's foolish. But it's still cheaper than going out to dinner. And due to my unattainable dream career of scientist (thanks, organic chemistry), I have a soft spot for experiments.

This one's even easier than the drugging and mating of Drosophila melanogaster (fruit flies) that I did way back when it was very illegal for me to do either. It was just a simple blind taste test: the same tea brewed in filtered tap water vs. bottled.

I used an Umegashima sencha- a green I'm very familiar with- in equal amounts and steeped for the same amount of time. It was no contest.

The version made with Evian was outstanding, and instantly identifiable. It tasted incredibly bright and smooth, albeit with that trademark, mineraly aftertaste of the plain water. My good old NYC tap water, in contrast, produced a murky, dull cup, with the grassiness of the sencha far more muted.

I've heard many tea experts claim that my city's water is stellar for a municipal supply, and I'd always believed it until now. Ah, well. At least I can finish the bottle for the rest of the day's tea, and pretend that everything is just fine with every sip.

Safe and Sakura

2009-05-02T12:31:00.003-04:00

Cherries are a magnificent thing. What else makes flowers like these above, and a dessert like this below?

OK, so technically these are from two different types of cherry trees, but I couldn't help being inspired on a recent walk through the soothing, feathery pink petals at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. It's an annual ritual, and one of my absolute favorite things to do in the city. The best way I know to pay homage to something is in the kitchen, so when I got home I pulled out an old standby cherry crisp recipe that I wrote down years ago.

Due to an uncharacteristic bit of culinary planning, I always have sour cherries that I've pitted and frozen on hand. They're too good to enjoy only for their brief, weeks-long summer season. You could of course use fresh, if they're available, or the darker, sweet cherries- just adjust the amount of sugar used with the fruit.

Sour Cherry-Pistachio Crisp

1 3/4 pounds pitted fresh or frozen sour cherries (if frozen, thawed at room temperature for 30 minutes)
1/2 cup chopped unsalted pistachios
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour
1/3 cup old-fashioned oats
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
Salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
Pinch cinnamon

1. Heat oven to 375°. In medium bowl, stir together pistachios, flour, oats, baking powder and 1/4 teaspoon salt. In a separate medium bowl, beat butter, brown sugar and 1/4 cup of the granulated sugar with an electric mixer until creamy. Stir in pistachio mixture until just combined. With fingers, work into coarse crumbs; set aside.

2. In an 8-inch baking dish, stir together cherries, remaining 1/2 cup granulated sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and a pinch of salt. Sprinkle evenly with pistachio topping. Bake until golden and juices are bubbling up, 50 to 60 minutes. Let cool one hour before serving.

In Japan, the blooming of sakura (flowering cherry trees) is a nationally heralded event, so it just seemed right to pair the crisp with a sencha, the classic Japanese tea. When you have that clean, vegetal sip after a bite of the glistening, sweet-tart cherries, you'll see that there's no better way to pay tribute to spring.

The BBG's cherry blossom festival is going on all weekend, so don't miss your chance for a once-a-year walk through the very essence of pink. And if you make the crisp before you leave, it will be at the perfect temperature when you return.

It may be as ephemeral as the blossoms, but that just adds to its beauty.

The Sweeter Side of Germans

2009-04-28T20:37:00.000-04:00

German chocolate cake is delicious. It's the food that got me to realize that coconut and pecans were not my enemies.

It makes sense, then, that German chocolate cookies would be just as revolutionary. And even easier to eat.

The origin of this iconic pairing isn't as obvious as it seems: Ask a real German, and you'll be met with cries of "Was ist das?" (believe me, it happened yesterday when I was hanging out with a few). German chocolate is actually the creation of the U.S.-based Samuel German, who produced a baking chocolate sweeter than semisweet in 1852- forseeing the hunger of legions of prediabetic Americans, no doubt.

I'm never one to turn my nose up at sugar, but I do like my chocolate on the dark side. So, inspired by this recipe from Taste and Tell, I used a bittersweet type (71% cocoa) for my cookies. I wouldn't dream of telling an American what to do, however, so feel free to replace it with an equal amount of German or semisweet chocolate.

An accompanying glass of iced mint tea is the only real requirement.

German Chocolate Cookies
Makes: 2 1/2 dozen.

6 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon firmly packed brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/3 cup shredded coconut (unsweetened)
1/3 cup finely chopped pecans

1. In small bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and salt. In small pot, over very low heat, melt chocolate and butter until smooth, stirring constantly. Set aside to cool.

2. With electric mixer, beat eggs and brown sugar on high speed until mixture is pale and thick, about 5 minutes. Add cooled chocolate mixture and vanilla and beat until just combined. Scrape down the bowl and beat again for 10 seconds. Add flour mixture and mix on low until just combined. Do not overmix. Fold in chocolate chips. (Dough will look very liquid, but it will harden in the refrigerator.) Chill at least 6 hours or overnight.

3. Heat oven to 375°. Line baking sheets with parchment paper. In small bowl, stir together coconut and pecans. Quickly roll tablespoons of dough into a ball, then coat with coconut-pecan mixture. Place about 1 inch apart on baking sheets, flattening balls slightly. Bake for 11 to 13 minutes, rotating pans halfway through, until tops of cookies are set and begin to show a few cracks. Let cool 3 minutes on sheets before removing to racks to cool completely.

I don't think I can convey how difficult it was to not inhale these while I was taking pictures. The toasty, full flavors of shredded coconut and chopped pecans are like edible precious jewels adorning the soft, rich chocolate inside. Overall, these cookies are less sweet- due to the higher cocoa percentage and unsweetened coconut- than a traditional German chocolate cake, but I'd argue that they're even better. In cookies, like women, sometimes it's best to trade sweetness for a little depth.

The State of Tea

2009-04-24T19:57:00.004-04:00

A wild Camellia sinensis leaf falls off a tree 5,000 years ago, and drifts into a cup of hot water next to the Chinese emperor Shen Nung. The fragrant liquor that wafts to his nose invites a sip, and the worldwide dominion of tea is born.

Regardless of whether you believe the legend, it's hard to dispute tea's permanence- even in the face of the lackluster Coffee and Tea Festival, which I walked through on Sunday. It may have been just end-of-show fatigue, but the event seemed emptier, the exhibitors quieter, than in previous years. It was depressing to think that the current economic climate- which, while dire, is not all that significant from a thousands-year perspective- is to blame. Tea has lasted through upheavals of empires, world wars, and nearly every major human milestone. How could it possibly fade into obscurity now?

Of course, I am as prone as a heroine in a Thomas Hardy novel to fits of melodrama, and it seemed a bit premature to draft a tea obituary. So I decided to stick around for a seminar on the green teas of China, Korea and Japan by Yoon Hee Kim, president of TeaClassic. I figured that drinking those in particular always elevates my mood, so learning more about them could be as effective.

It started out a bit basic for a green-tea junkie, but Kim was a captivating speaker, not so much for the planned presentation but for her entertaining anecdotes and descriptive side tracks. Her passion for tea truly revealed itself at those moments, and I was moved (and annoying enough) to wrangle an invitation to come back to the TeaClassic booth and taste some mao feng, a Chinese green she had spoken lovingly of.

The tea was everything she promised: round, smooth and clean. It was an honor to share a pot with such a tea master, and made sweeter by her generosity. I'm so often drawn to the solo, quiet contemplation that a cup of tea brings, I sometimes forget how equally ideal it is for a more magnanimous serving to others.

Buoyed by my unexpected gift, I headed to Amai tea house (a festival participant a few years back), which was closing that day, to get a first and last taste. The dragonwell was lovely and the mini yuzu cupcake a tender, citrusy delight, even if the towering buttercream had a tendency to find a way up my nose with each bite. (I don't like it when frosting gets overly architectural, but I was still bereft when the final dollop of it ended up on the counter instead of the cake.)

It was a bittersweet snack. Why did it have to be so good if I could never taste it again?

When I got home, I read that Tafu, too, was closing the following day. Why, tea god, why? That was one of the only places in Manhattan to get a bowl of matcha that was practically a religious experience. The green-tea lattes were better than crack (and almost as expensive).

I need to get through this. And during the week, I've thought about how the recession can take many, many things away. But I like to think that even if we all end up sitting under a tree, just waiting for that leaf to fall in our cups, tea will be there.

Cocoa Nuts

2009-04-20T19:07:00.003-04:00

Why is it so funny when people get mad?

Everyone except me, I mean.

I know laughing isn't always the best option in a tense situation, but it's my default one. Because ultimately, what really requires an explosive reaction? I can think of many good circumstances that do, but far less bad ones (your pet-sitter misplacing your cat, someone accidentally burning your house down, anyone wearing Birkenstocks).

If that ratio is askew in your life, then just make this hot chocolate, and take a sip. It's scientifically impossible to be in a bad mood when you meet such a luscious, soothing drink. The coconut milk base was inspired by a NY Times recipe back in February, and the unexpected addition of Earl Grey from Tea Spot's live tea-hot chocolate tasting at City Bakery right around the same time. Truly comedic anger- which this city endlessly provides- was the catalyst.

Coconut-Earl Grey Hot Chocolate

In glass measuring cup, mix 1/2 cup boiling water and 2 tablespoons cocoa powder until dissolved. In medium saucepan, over medium heat, combine
1 1/4 cups coconut milk, 1/4 cup brown sugar, 2 teaspoons Earl Grey tea and a pinch of salt; bring to a boil and simmer 2 minutes, until sugar is dissolved. Stir in cocoa mixture and 1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, chopped, until smooth. Serve immediately or chill several hours.

The fact that it's nearly May yet still cold and gray enough to demand hot milk doesn't hurt, either. (Although extensive experiments indicate it's just as fragrant and delicious served chilled.)

Whatever your motivation, the citrusy bergamot of the tea and rich, sweet coconut milk whisper of warmth and calm as the chocolate slides over your tongue like a silk-lined mink coat. Realizing that you're consuming two stellar foods- tea and hot cocoa- simultaneously only adds to the sense of perfect balance.

And if a cupful of this doesn't provide five minutes of relaxation, you may be beyond help.

Hear Tea, Hear Tea

2009-04-18T13:56:00.003-04:00

Attention all tea lovers: it's time for the fourth annual Coffee and Tea Festival.

So put down your cups and head to the event, going on today and tomorrow at the Metropolitan Pavilion (125 W 18th St.). This one will be my third, and I'm looking forward to the unusual teas and treats from new vendors, along with a healthy dose of seminars. It's where I first tasted an Indian green tea (who knew?), learned how to prepare matcha correctly (thanks to the founder of Matcha Source), and listened to the history of the traditional Korean tea ceremony.

There's going to be a presentation on green teas, including those from Korea, which I'm really looking forward to.

To get in the mood and keep my palate clear, this morning I made a pot of this bracing Korean-inspired herbal infusion, from the March 2009 Gourmet. Even though the tea takes an hour to brew, it requires minimal effort and perfumes the whole house as it's steeping.

Korean Ginger Tea
Makes: 8 cups.

In a large saucepan, mix together 8 cups water, 1/2 cup peeled, chopped ginger and 2 cinnamon sticks. Simmer, covered, 1 hour. Strain into teapot or pitcher, and top each serving with pine nuts and honey to taste.

Chill any leftovers- the combination of fresh ginger and cinnamon is just as refreshing ice-cold. (I've been up for a long, long time already today.)

Short and Sweet

2009-04-12T12:14:00.008-04:00

Halloween may reign as the king of candy holidays, but Easter isn't far behind. While I'll never tire of jamming as many Reese's peanut butter eggs as possible into my mouth, it's nice to have something a little lighter for post-brunch teatime. And what better than shortbread?

Ginger Amaranth Shortbread
Makes: 2 dozen cookies.

1 1/2 cups white whole-wheat flour
1/2 cup amaranth flour
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 cup butter, at room temperature
2/3 cup natural cane sugar
1/3 cup minced crystallized ginger

1. In small bowl, whisk flours, salt and ginger together. In large bowl, with electric mixer, cream butter until light and fluffy, about 1 minute. Add sugar and beat until mixed, then add dry ingredients and beat until just blended. Stir in crystallized ginger.

2. Gather dough into a ball, then flatten into a disk. Wrap tightly and refrigerate for 1 hour, or overnight.

3. Heat oven to 350° and line baking sheets with parchment paper. On lightly floured surface, roll dough out to 1/4-inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes and transfer to baking sheets. Freeze for 10 minutes, then bake cookies for 10 minutes or until edges begin to brown. Let cool on sheets; store any leftover cookies tightly wrapped at room temperature.

These tender, spicy cookies are from Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Cooking, which makes a very convincing case for whole grains in baking- something I've turned my white-flour nose up at for years.

I was missing out, because the unusual flours in this recipe turn out nuanced flavors- from toasty to nutty- that beautifully set off the double-ginger kick.

And how could I pass up a chance to bust out the bunny and flower cookie cutters?

This shortbread is delightful with a strong tea, such as English breakfast or a sencha. That way, you can quiet any misgivings about consuming more sweets with how healthy a treat this is.

And get right back to appreciating spring.

The Biggest Little Lavender Chocolate-Chip Cookie

2009-04-09T22:11:00.001-04:00

I do lots of things fast- eating (and digesting, believe me), reading, forming indelible opinions, getting deeper into debt.

But there's plenty I do slowly, like addition (or anything involving numbers, actually), getting dressed, and yes, cooking. It's my dirty little secret, but turning out a homemade dish or two often translates into three hours in the kitchen.

It's OK, though, because it's that much easier to pound tea when I'm just a step away from the stove.

But this dessert is really, really fast, even for a kitchen sloth like me. There's no individual servings to be shaped, barely five minutes of mixing, and only a skillet to rinse out at the very end.

Oh, and it makes the entire room smell like springtime and chocolate.

The original recipe was from an ancient Martha Stewart Living (circa 2002), and I've made it for countless occasions because it's so simple, delicious and versatile- it pairs beautifully with any type of tea. Somehow, the novelty factor of baking one gigantic cookie in a cast-iron skillet still hasn't worn off.

Lavender Chocolate-Chip Cookie
Makes: 8 servings.

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup packed light-brown sugar
2 teaspoons dried lavender, lightly crushed
1 large egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups (about 6 ounces) semisweet and/or dark chocolate chunks

1. Heat oven to 325°. In medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda and salt. In large bowl, with electric mixer, beat butter, both sugars and lavender until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg and vanilla; mix until fully incorporated. Add flour mixture and beat until just combined. Stir in chocolate chunks.

2. Transfer dough to a 10-inch iron skillet and press to flatten, covering bottom of pan. Bake until edges are brown and top is golden, 40 to 45 minutes. Don't overbake; cookie will continue to cook several minutes out of the oven.

3. Transfer to a wire rack to cool, 15 to 20 minutes. Cut into wedges and serve warm, if desired.

This was the first time I added lavender to the mix, and the combination of it with the dark chocolate was even better than I'd imagined: every softly chewy bite revealed a layered and fragrant brown-sugary richness. And if you have a piece with a cup of jasmine pearls, a Chinese green tea, the delicate floral notes of each really bloom.

Even if you're a chocolate chip cookie purist, try this version just once. And if you've never ventured beyond Chips Ahoy (I judge and pity you), you too can make this.

Sencha Showdown

2009-04-07T14:23:00.000-04:00

As I've mentioned over and over, Japanese greens are my favorite teas. But it never hurts to get a refresher (although that didn't seem to produce a pony on my birthday, and I must have reminded my parents that's what I wanted every single day for a decade). While gyokuros are forever at the top of my list, senchas do wind their way into many of my mornings.

Sencha is Japan's everyday tea as well as the country's most popular, commanding 80% of its tea production. Even beyond sencha, though, all Japanese teas are remarkably uniform- compared to Chinese or Indian, for instance- because the sole processing method on the leaves is steaming via hot water (as opposed to other techniques like pan or wood firing, or hot air).

You'd expect such monoteaism to lead to boring, indistinct cups, but that's really not the case. It just means that to fully appreciate the differences between senchas, you need to slow down and concentrate on subtleties- incidentally, a behavior that summons calm and relaxation. And unless you're a Buddhist monk, you probably could use some of that.

So I set up a tasting this morning of two senchas new to me, both from Ito En and just a few weeks old: hoshino hatsutsumi (above photo, right), and organic kagoshima (left). As the picture shows, the two brewed up the same light, yellowy green hue.

I did note a subtle difference in the leaves- while both have that rich pine-green color, the kagoshima (left) is flatter, the hoshino hatsutsumi (right) finer and more needlelike.

And the difference in taste, once I closed my eyes and focused just on what my mouth and nose were telling me, was remarkable. Where the hoshino was bright, lightly grassy and touched with astrigency, the kagoshima was incredibly smooth and round, with a velvety texture and even, pervasive sweetness.

What was most surprising was how much I loved the kagoshima. I did have a cup a few days ago and found it a pleasant tea, although not very striking. But I was tasting it in the middle of doing a thousand other things (and not even sitting down), so I missed that delicate, balanced flavor.

So this reminder is as much for me: pay attention to your next cup of tea. It won't take more than five minutes, but it will have a lasting effect on the rest of your day.

Walnut Bread Rx

2009-03-31T14:39:00.004-04:00

Walnuts are tricky.

They're one of the healthiest foods you can eat- positively loaded with omega-3s- but much like green tea (an even more potent elixir), they're often snubbed for their too-bitter taste.

But it's all in the quality, and presentation. If you start with the freshest nuts, or tea leaves, and treat them right, they will reward you with a deep, rich flavor and subtle sweetness.

This French walnut bread, or pain au noix, is proof. Another of Nancy Baggett's no-knead loaves, the recipe is from Serious Eats, and wouldn't change a thing. (Just make sure your dough is very stiff throughout the process- I think mine was a little too moist, so it didn't crown into that classic boule shape.) Regardless, the bread turned out incredibly flavorful, with a pleasant chewy texture and none of the denseness that can plague whole-wheat loaves. Using a Dutch oven to bake it is a simple method for a toothsome, gorgeous reddish-brown crust- plus, you get to say "Dutch oven" when people ask how you made it, and that's always funny.

Brew up your favorite green tea (try a delicate, creamy Uji Gyokuro) to have alongside a few slices, and the antioxidants coursing through your body will be almost palpable. And on top of those health benefits, you'll gain that delicious sense of superiority as you eat your toast with melting puddles of butter and honey, thinking, "My breakfast is better than yours."

For more gluteny goodness, check out YeastSpotting.

Why Cabbage Is King

2009-03-25T17:03:00.000-04:00

When you're slumped on the couch watching an interview with Alice Waters while double-fisting Doritos and Reeses' Big Cups, it's time for an intervention.

Overindulgence requires a return to equilibrium, so I brewed up a pot of golden oolong- a toasty, well-balanced Chinese blend- and grabbed the jar of kimchi I made over the weekend.

Kimchi
Makes: 12 servings.

1 medium head white or Napa cabbage, separated into leaves
1/4 cup coarse salt
10 scallions
1 tablespoon hot red pepper flakes
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup minced garlic
1/4 cup sugar

1. Layer cabbage leaves in a colander, sprinkling salt between layers. Let sit in the sink for at least two hours, until leaves are wilted. Rinse and dry leaves.

2. Mix together scallion, red pepper flakes, soy sauce, garlic and sugar in a large bowl. Add cabbage and toss to blend. Serve immediately or pack into glass jars and refrigerate.

It may not be the most authentic version of this Korean staple, but you can blame Mark Bittman for that- it's his recipe, from How to Cook Everything Vegetarian. But it is quick, simple, and surprisingly full-flavored for something so effortless; cooked with a bit of rice, it makes for a bold one-pot meal that has spicy, salty and sweet in every bite.

And somehow, more healthy than Doritos and Reeses.

Add some avocado slices on top, and you'll want to finish off the entire pot along with your oolong (which, I just noticed, is incredibly versatile, as it's equal friends with salty and sweet foods).

Or maybe that's just me overdoing it again.

Kimchi Rice

Heat 2 tablespoons sesame oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add one scallion, chopped, and saute 2 minutes. Stir in 1 1/2 cups Japanese (sushi) rice and saute 2 minutes, stirring; add 1/2 cup kimchi, chopped, and cook 2 minutes more. Stir in 2 1/2 cups water, bring to a boil, then cover and lower to a simmer. Cook 20 minutes, then turn off heat and let sit for 10 minutes. Sprinkle with soy sauce before serving.

It's the Yeast You Can Do

2009-03-17T21:40:00.004-04:00

One of my dearest friends, the first time we hung out, suggested making a few loaves of honey whole-wheat bread. Most people probably wouldn't consider that the start of a lifelong relationship, but I did.

I hadn't made a real bread since home ec class in junior high, but as soon as that warm, comforting aroma hit my nose, I swore I'd get back into it.

The transformation of yeasted bread is amazing. The process seems so basic, but it's still dramatic no matter how many times you witness it, from lumpy mass to golden, soaring loaf:

I've pretty much kept to my vow, and even if my kitchen isn't always stocked with fresh bread, the freezer is. And I still make honey whole-wheat a lot, but my new favorite is this Scottish oatmeal bread from Serious Eats. The recipe is excerpted from Nancy Baggett's Kneadlessly Simple, a book I now desperately need based on how well this one turned out: subtly spiced, with a bright trace of orange zest, and a lingering, nutty taste from the oats.

I may be falling in love with currants, too, which stud this loaf with bursts of tangy sweetness. They're like the thinking man's raisin.

Try a slice while the bread is still warm, with butter, or if you have any left the next day, toasted with ricotta and honey. Make a pot of English Breakfast tea- a strong black-tea blend- to drink alongside, and you'll wonder why it's taken you so long to make your own bread, you loafer.

(And happy birthday, Dad. I'd make a loaf just for you, but since you're the only person whose "will not eat" list is longer than mine, I think everything but the flour would be refused. Don't worry, I have another kitchen treat in mind.)

Loaf of Darkness

2009-03-13T16:55:00.001-04:00

When you get a package in the mail from your sister like this:

And inside, all you find is a note commanding you to bake with and blog about a bag full of this:

Then you do. (My sister is a not a force to be taken lightly.)

So you make this:

And have a slice with some delicate China white tea, to offset the cocoa rush.

And you realize maybe she really is older and wiser.

I'd never heard of black cocoa powder before, but it turns out it's a variety that's been super alkalized, or ultra dutched (both of which sound like something you'd overhear frat boys bragging about on a Monday morning). Any type of Dutch cocoa powder gives a smoother, milder taste than natural cocoa powder, and it really shines in a simple dessert like chocolate pound cake.

This one is adapted from Laura Brody's Chocolate American Style, and trust me, you will swoon over the first bite. You'll find yourself coming up with all sorts of excuses to have just one more slice- like it being your mother's 60th birthday, for instance.

Black Chocolate Pound Cake
Makes: 10 to 12 servings.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for pan
1/2 cup black cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
2 sticks (16 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for pan
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup sour cream or yogurt
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Confectioners' sugar, for dusting (optional)

1. Heat oven to 350°. Coat the interior of a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan with butter, then dust bottom and sides with flour, knocking out excess.

2. In a small bowl, sift together flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, salt and baking soda. Beat butter and granulated sugar in a large mixing bowl until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Reduce speed to low and add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each and scraping down the sides of the bowl as you mix. Beat in half the flour mixture, then sour cream and vanilla. Mix in the remaining flour mixture until just combined.

3. Scrape batter into prepared pan and smooth top. Bake for 60-65 minutes, until cake has risen and begun to pull away from the sides of the pan. Remove from oven and let cool on wire rack for 20 minutes. Turn cake out of pan onto rack, and let cool completely before slicing, dusting with confectioners' sugar if desired.

But it really is! Happy birthday, Mom. I'm trying hard to save you a piece, but I learned it (how to inhale chocolate, that is) from watching you.

West Village Wandering

2009-03-12T21:47:00.002-04:00

I always get lost in the West Village- it doesn't matter if I'm going to a pizza place I've been to 17 times before, or a friend's apartment who's lived there for 17 years.

So I go the neighborhood only armed with a specific destination, and today, it was McNulty's (109 Christopher St.), a tea and coffee shop that looks like it's from the 1800s.

Oh wait. It is.

The wood-paneled room is warm and worn, like a favorite chair from your grandparent's house, and as soon as you step through the doorway, the floral, musky scent of coffee and herbs envelopes you. The extensive offerings of loose tea are on display in heavy glass apothecary jars, and once you make your selection, they're carefully weighed on a giant brass scale. For someone who still lacks a cell phone, it's a comforting place (see, there's far worse Luddites than me).

Avoiding the preponderance of flavored and fruited teas, I picked Iron Goddess (Tiguanyin; $6 for 1/4 pound) and something labeled China white tea ($6 for 1/4 pound). It looked a lot like white peony (see photo below, left), but my asking if so was met with a denial, a bit of grumbling and no further description.

I've heard many good things about the attentive service in this shop, but none of these employees were exactly angling for a tip.

Maybe my new fangled photographic-making machine threw them off?

Still, McNulty's is worth a visit, especially if you drink blended teas- there's too few businesses these days that can boast of being a century old. And if the aroma is any indication, I bet the coffee is pretty spectacular too.

The Only Bar You'll Ever See Me Near

2009-03-06T17:05:00.004-05:00

It's the soft kind.

The kind that makes your kitchen fill with the dreamy smell of sugar caramelizing and chocolate and peanut butter slowly melting into each other. That's the kind of bar I like.

I came across these milk chocolate-peanut butter bars in Carole Bloom's The Essential Baker while looking for cake recipes and with a slew of guests due to arrive. (I'm excellent at being in denial.) There was no way a cake would be ready quickly, but I thought these would keep everyone happy along with their welcome afternoon tea. And I had all the ingredients on hand, except for the peanuts- which I do think the bars would benefit from, but I wasn't about to run out for just peanuts.

Keemum, a medium-strength Chinese black tea, is a natural pairing for chocolate desserts: The tea's own flavor is often described as chocolaty, with a pleasant, roasted aroma. Trying it just with a bit of the bars' milk chocolate- strictly for research purposes, of course- highlighted this, so I brewed up a big pot to have at the ready for everyone.

And if you can find it, use a dark milk chocolate- preferably at least 41% cocoa- for an increased depth of flavor. As it's a bit less sweet than traditional milk chocolate, it's easier to inhale more of while you're baking.

Milk Chocolate-Peanut Butter Bars
Makes: 16 squares.

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup creamy or chunky peanut butter
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons firmly packed light-brown sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 ounces milk chocolate, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup roasted peanuts, coarsely chopped (optional)

1. Line an 8-inch square baking pan with nonstick foil, or grease with butter. Heat oven to 350°. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt.

2. With an electric mixer, beat butter on medium speed until fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add peanut butter and cream together well. Mix in sugar until blended. Mix in eggs one at a time, beating well after each, then mix in vanilla. Add flour mixture in two additions and beat just until blended. Stir in chocolate and peanuts.

3. Scrape batter into pan and smooth evenly. Bake for 35 to 38 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out slightly moist. Let cool 15 minutes before cutting into squares.

Keemum is delicious straight up, but do try it at least once with a bit of milk and sugar- it really draws out the chocolate tones in the tea, transforming it into a confection in a cup. You'll need that after the bars' inevitable disappearance.

Get Thee to a Green Tea Shortbreadery

2009-03-03T12:50:00.003-05:00

What is it that's so appealing about shortbread?

It's not a glamorous cookie, and I doubt it- unlike cupcakes or artisanal truffles- could ever spur a frenzy of trendy shortbread-only shops.

But its quiet, understated elegance is as stunning as that classic little black dress amid overblown silks, ruffles and sequins at a formal event. In a sea of achingly sweet, gooey and overloaded desserts, shortbread rises to the top with simplicity and purity.

The trifecta of butter, flour and sugar is complete on its own, but shortbread is a welcome canvas for bold flavors like vanilla, ginger, lavender or chocolate. Or tea, of course.

Traditional shortbread is barely sweet, and with the addition of matcha's grassy, deep flavor it's even less so. But you'll have no complaints after the first bite: the exterior of this green-tea version offers the slightest hint of resistance before the crumbly, moist cookie melts on your tongue, the granules of sugar on top yielding welcome bursts of sweet.

Green Tea Shortbread
Makes: 16 wedges or squares.

12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and still warm
5 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon matcha
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups minus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
Turbinado or demerara sugar, for sprinkling

1. Grease a 9 1/2-inch tart pan with removable bottom, or line an 8 x 8-inch baking dish with nonstick foil.

2. In medium bowl, stir together butter, granulated sugar, matcha, vanilla and salt. Add flour and mix until just incorporated. Pat dough evenly into prepared pan and let rest at room temperature at least 2 hours, or up to overnight.

3. Position a rack in lower third of the oven and heat to 300°. Bake shortbread for 45 minutes. Remove pan from oven, leaving oven on. Lightly sprinkle the surface with turbinado sugar, and let cool 10 minutes.

4. Carefully remove shortbread from the pan. Use a thin, sharp knife to slice into wedges or squares and place pieces slightly apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake for 15 minutes, until lightly toasted, then let pieces cool completely on rack.

Don't skip the extra toasting step- this step (and recipe) is adapted from Alice Medrich's Pure Dessert, and the lady knows what she's talking about: it really concentrates and highlights the buttery taste.

These tender treats are ideal served with any tea, but a Japanese green (this is an ideal time to try a delicate Uji if you never have) will open up the matcha flavor just like one of those early spring cherry blossoms.

How Chutney Changed My Life

2009-02-26T12:13:00.001-05:00

Long before I knew my life's calling was to drink tea and eat outstanding food all day, I was still taken aback by a few certain meals. What made them memorable was the quality, of course, but also the novelty. When a dish incorporated ingredients I'd never tried- or even thought I didn't like- it was all the more revelatory.

My first trip to England is forever cemented in my palate for this reason. Despite all the tales of culinary shock horror, I was delighted at every table, from my first cup of sweet, milky black tea (which was shocking in its collective consumption) to luscious spoonful of clotted cream. I was also schooled by one particular sandwich at an organic cafe in London; this was in the mid 1990s, when the word "organic" had yet to be uttered by even the most devoted American foodie.

Perhaps a grilled cheese on crusty, whole-grain bread with a fine mist of sweet, shredded carrots and slathering of fresh mango chutney doesn't seem so exotic today, but at the time I'd never tasted anything even remotely like it. One bite of the oozing, pungent cheese and chunky chutney, and everything just made sense: Salty needs sweet for each to shine.

I've been hooked on mango chutney- and tea- ever since that trip, but it's always beneficial to keep exploring. So I finally made this apricot variety, from Madhur Jaffrey's World of the East Vegetarian Cooking (one of my first cookbooks). I just wish I hadn't waited so long- the rich, sweet-tangy taste, studded with plump currants, may be my new favorite.

Even with just some glistening amber dollops on crackers and cheese, it elevates a cup of tea to something fit for a queen.

Apricot Chutney
Makes: 1 1/2 cups.

1/2 pound dried apricots
2 cups hot water
5 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
1 x 1 1/2-inch piece fresh ginger, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons red-wine vinegar
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1/4 cup dried currants

1. Place apricots in a heavy, medium-size saucepan and pour hot water over. Let soak one hour.

2. With an immersion blender or in food processor, blend garlic, ginger and 2 tablespoons of the vinegar until smooth. Spoon into saucepan along with remaining vinegar, sugar, salt and cayenne. Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer, stirring frequently, for 40 minutes.

3. Stir in currants and cook another 15 to 20 minutes, until the chutney becomes thick and glazed-looking. Let cool, then pour into a glass jar and store, refrigerated, for several weeks.

Or, if you want (and I think you do), make a grilled cheese with a sharp English cheddar, some finely shredded carrots and thick layer of chutney spread inside. Serve with a hot black Indian tea like Darjeeling for a nod to those clever colonizers, and stir in a bit of honey and lemon.

It may be the best lunch you've ever had.

Cure in a Cup

2009-02-25T17:35:00.002-05:00

Even avowed non-tea drinkers (those poor, misguided morons) will usually have a hot cup when sickness strikes.

One of my favorites for a cold or sore throat is fresh ginger tea; for stomach problems, fresh mint tea. I've seen a brews that combine them both, though, so even though I feel fine today, I decided to test some combinations out- which I can attest is easier when you're not suffering from any energy-draining ailments.

The one I liked the best is based on an ancient Indian concoction that usually contains fennel seeds in the mix.

(I am aware fennel is allegedly a very effective antidote to indigestion, but I think that's only because you feel less nauseous by comparison after you stop eating it and tasting that nasty flavor.)

It's simple: a warming brew of ginger, sweet cardamom and fragrant mint is tempered by a few spoonfuls of honey.

And that all seems too overwhelming from your sick bed, just stir some honey and mint into a mug of bagged tea. I'll forgive you in your weakened state.

Ginger-Mint Tea

In a small saucepan, over medium heat, toast 8 crushed cardamom seeds until fragrant, about a minute. Pour in 2 1/2 cups water and a 3-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and sliced and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in several sprigs fresh mint and 2 teaspoons honey. Let sit 5 minutes, then strain into cups, adding more mint for garnish if desired.

Just a few sips will soothe, even the object of your affliction is external- a significant other, a relative, the IRS, or an employer (or, more likely, the Department of Labor). And if that describes all the same person, your problem might be beyond tea.

The Tea-Tree Connection

2009-02-22T13:02:00.003-05:00

It's cold, wet and gray here today, but there's an upside: I can drink an endless amount of tea and spend the afternoon reading between cups without feeling obligated to do anything more active.

And what better to read than an interview with Charlie Baden, blendmaster for Celestial Seasonings tea?

The first tea I ever tried- probably around age 10- was some variety of Celestial Seasonings. My mother was addicted to it; I grew up thinking Red Zinger was an exotic type of fruit and Morning Thunder was a tea you could order in any restaurant.

I always choose loose tea over bagged now, but when I go home to visit, I do find Celestial Seasonings teas consistently fresh tasting (which is difficult to say about almost any other mass-market bagged tea). The company also has a fascinating history, transforming itself from a small company (which sold wild herb blends gathered by hand in Colorado's Rocky Mountains in the late 1960s), to a worldwide recognized tea brand today- all decades before anyone was slapping "artisanal" and "locavore" labels on their food products.

And talking with Charlie really makes me wish I could introduce myself as a blendmaster at parties.

Tea Spot: How long have you been Celestial Seasonings' blendmaster?

Charlie Baden: I began my career with Celestial Seasonings in the summer of 1975. Working in production I developed an interest for the art of tea blending and was promoted to the position of blendmaster in 1984.

How did you first get involved with the company? Did you have a prior background in tea or horticulture?

Honestly, I was just looking for a job. Fortunately the opportunity arose at this start-up herbal tea company named Celestial Seasonings. [As it was] the 1970s, I saw it as a product with high potential [and] a career worth looking into. I had no prior background in tea but grew up in an agricultural environment, on a Maryland farm growing commodities such as soybeans and tobacco.

What was the first tea you ever tasted? Did you like it initially?

First tea? That would be Red Rose tea, freshly brewed, loaded with sugar and poured over ice. Really couldn’t taste the tea, just the high sweetness level from the sugar. It was refreshing on a hot, muggy, summer day. Just an interesting tea fact – 80% of the commodity black sold in the USA is consumed iced.

I know it's nearly impossible to narrow it down, but if you could only have one tea, which would it be?

Although I truly enjoy a high-quality jasmine pearls green tea or silver needles white tea, my everyday enjoyment comes from Celestial Seasonings English breakfast. I drink six to eight cups a day to keep me energized and loaded up with antioxidants for increased health benefits.

Not surprisingly, considering Celestial Seasonings' eco-conscious origins, the company has launched a new campaign to promote planting trees worldwide. Do you believe it will reach the one-million-trees goal?

We feel confident the program will be a success. The program began in January and we are already halfway to our goal! We are providing our tea drinkers with two simple and fun ways to plant trees and take part in this important cause: They can simply purchase a box of their favorite Celestial Seasonings tea or visit our site to plant a virtual tree now through March 31. We know our tea drinkers will get behind this important effort to help us plant more than one million trees ... in developing countries throughout the world. [Our partner] Trees for the Future has assisted thousands of villages in Asia, Africa and Latin America by planting more than 70 million trees so far- restoring sustainability and productivity to over 25,000 acres of land that had previously been degraded and abandoned.

That's something we can all drink to.

And it makes me feel better about how many cups I've had so far today. If Charlie's on eight a day, a couple more this afternoon can't hurt me.

White Like Tea

2009-02-20T12:41:00.003-05:00

I'm often inflicted with the "I could do that better" disease. I see something in a store or taste something at a restaurant, and immediately think about how I can make it at home for a fraction of the price (but unfortunately, a multiple of the time it would take to just buy it.)

My $5 cup of earl grey hot cocoa at City Bakery was a recent inspiration- delicious, no doubt, but the tea flavor was faint at best. And I'm never one to turn down a chocolate experiment in my kitchen.

The base drink needed to be less assertive, to allow tea's subtle essence to surface. So instead of bittersweet, I turned to my standby white hot cocoa recipe.

Before you gag in disgust, keep in mind that I never touched white chocolate until a few years ago. I always turned my nose up at it, due to an association with a particularly prissy girl I went to school with (which meant from ages 6 to 18, in a town as small as the one I grew up in). She adored white chocolate and wouldn't shut up about how it was the best type of chocolate, especially if she spied you cramming Reese's or M&M's into your mouth. I successfully ignored her all that time, but it did make an impression- just not the enlightened one she was hoping for.

I'm so old and wise now that I can admit that I was wrong to write white chocolate off completely. Clearly, young taste is questionable (think about who you had a crush on when you were 15); only now I can appreciate its creamy, sweet taste and its quiet place in the choco-spectrum.

And when it comes to flavored hot cocoa, white chocolate just blends better with tea- dark chocolate dominated any tea I paired it with, no matter how bold a brew on its own.

Green Tea-White Hot Chocolate
In medium saucepan, heat 2 cups milk with a dash of vanilla extract over medium-high, stirring. When steaming, whisk in 2 1/2 ounces white chocolate, coarsely chopped, until melted and smooth. Remove from heat and sift 2 teaspoons matcha over the top; whisk vigorously to blend and serve immediately.

If you don't have any matcha, shame on you, but you can still make this- just heat 2 teaspoons of sencha with the milk until steaming, then remove from the heat and cover for 10 minutes. Strain the milk and continue with the recipe, but realize that the green-tea flavor and color will be diminished (you can see this version in the top photo, upper right).

With the matcha, however, it's like drinking the sweet essence of spring. It may not turn you away from the dark side of hot cocoa forever, but it's a delightful change of pace.

I Know the Muffin Man

2009-02-18T09:45:00.000-05:00

"The Muffin Man" was always a favorite song in my house growing up. I'm not sure why, because (contrary to popular belief) I wasn't raised in Victorian England, and no one was prancing down the lane delivering fresh baked goods.

But there were always plenty of muffins at home, thanks to our dear friend Thomas. I have yet to make my own English muffins, but I do make plenty of American-style ones. And in an attempt to soothe the savage sugar cravings, I decided on a variety, originally from Martha Stewart Living, that can actually be called healthy. The sweet comes more naturally from applesauce and dates, two of my favorite foods.

Now I really do sound like I was born in 1890.

Applesauce Oat Bran Muffins
Makes: 1 dozen.

2 cups unsweetened applesauce
2 ounces dates, pitted and chopped (1/2 cup)
1 cup wheat bran
1/2 cup low-fat buttermilk
1 large egg
2 tablespoons honey
3/4 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons ground flaxseed
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon old-fashioned oats

1. Heat oven to 375°. Grease a 12-cup muffin tin with oil. Place applesauce and dates in a medium saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until mixture is reduced to 1 1/4 cups, 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool completely.

2. Transfer applesauce to a large bowl, and stir in bran, buttermilk, egg, honey, ginger, and vanilla. Let stand for 10 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, whisk together flour, flaxseed, baking soda, salt, allspice, and 1/4 cup oats. Stir into bran mixture.

4. Spoon batter into prepared tins, filling to the brims. Sprinkle remaining 1 tablespoon oats over muffins. Bake until a toothpick inserted into center of 1 comes out clean, 21 to 23 minutes. Let cool completely in pans on wire racks.

These muffins aren't cupcakes-disguised-as-breakfast- whose ubiquity here I still blame on the incomprehensible glorification of Sex and the City and Magnolia bakery- so don't expect that sort of saccharine-fueled mental or dental decay.

Rather, they're full-flavored, spicy and moist, rendering any jam or butter completely unnecessary. Eating one will make you feel virtuous, but not in an annoying way- more like in a Little House on the Prairie way.

And you get to one-up those rusted-pot coffee-drinking pioneers by pairing it with mao jian ($4 per ounce), which may be the first Chinese green tea I could grow to love. It has a light, natural sweetness as opposed to the earthy flavor of many Chinese greens, and a soft edge of floral notes, like a strong white tea.

And I'm loathe to admit it, but mao jian would probably go equally well with a cupcake.

Sumac Attack

2009-02-16T11:19:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I spotted a stand at the Union Square farmer's market with several steaming cauldrons. I'm usually overloaded with kabocha, potatoes and parsnips (my newest love), which makes me reluctant to stop for a drink, even on a frigid February day.

But this wasn't spiced apple cider, it was tea. And a type I'd never heard of before.

Sumac tea? Without even closing my eyes, the chaos of gray was covered by a vision towering, voracious trees that covered the hillside beneath my parents' house. The leaves turned a brilliant red each October, outshined only by the plump, clustering crowns of fuzzy fuchsia berries. It grew like a weed, and was treated with as little respect.

But staghorn sumac berries yield a vibrant, tart brew, as Native Americans knew for centuries; it's still colloquially referred to as "Indian tea" in some areas. And not surprisingly for such a deep-colored fruit, sumac is full of antioxidants and vitamin C. Even lugging 15 pounds of root vegetables and the subway entrance right in front of me, how could I resist?

Once again, this is an herbal tea- not a true tea- but it was absolutely outstanding. Even mixed with apple juice to counteract the tartness, the very essence of scarlet still shone with every tangy, warming sip.

It was gone in seconds. And I'm already planning my own sumac harvest the next time I go back home.

Chew Me, Baby

2009-02-14T16:36:00.003-05:00

Nothing will be better received this Valentine's Day than a crumb-coated slice of blackout cake with your after-dinner tea (I'd recommend mint, if you've been overindulging as much as I have while baking).

Well, maybe a few other things. But this one will last until tomorrow and even the day after.

Blackout cake was invented in the 1950s by the famed Ebinger's bakery, a longstanding (and sadly, long closed) Brooklyn dessert institution. I wasn't around to taste the original, but after licking the bowl clean, sweeping all the crumbs off the counter into my mouth and "tasting" about 1/2 cup of the thick, rich custardy frosting, I think I've done it justice.

If you're reading this, you may be feeling lonely today and a bit sorry for yourself. Enough. That's even more reason to make blackout cake- you don't have to share it. And you even get to completely crumble one of the layers, during which you can constructively (or destructively) reminisce about love gone wrong.

Don't think me cruel. If a cake is too much to handle today, then just make my hot fudge sauce. It's quick and dirty. I know you can do it.

Blackout Cake

Cake:
3/4 cup cocoa powder, preferably Dutch-processed
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup vegetable shortening
2 cups sugar
3 eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup milk
Filling and Frosting:
1 1/3 cups sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cups milk
6 ounces unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Heat oven to 350°. Butter and flour two 9-inch round cake pans. Cut 2 circles of parchment paper or wax paper to fit bottoms of pans; butter paper.

2. Sift together cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda and salt into medium bowl. With a mixer on medium speed, cream butter, shortening and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Beat in vanilla.

3. Reduce speed to low and beat in cocoa mixture until well incorporated. Mix in flour alternately with milk, beginning and ending with flour. Beat just until combined. Divide batter evenly between pans.

4. Bake cake for 30-35 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into center comes out almost clean. Cool in pans on wire rack for 15 minutes. Turn out onto wire racks to cool completely.

5. Filling: In medium saucepan, whisk together sugar, cornstarch and salt. Whisk in milk and bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. reduce heat to medium low and cook, whisking constantly, for 2 to 3 minutes more, until very thick. Remove from heat and pour into bowl. Add chocolate; stir until melted and custard is smooth. Cover with plastic wrap, lightly pressing plastic against surface to prevent skin from forming. Stir occasionally until custard cools to room temperature. Refrigerate 2 hours or overnight.

6. Using long, serrated knife, cut cooled layers horizontally in half. Reserve 3 halves for finished cake. Crumble remaining half with hands into fine crumbs and set aside.

6. Place 1 cake layer on cake plate or serving platter. Spread with one-fourth of the custard. Top with another cake layer and custard. Top with remaining cake layer; cover top and sides of cake with remaining custard. Coat side and top of cake with reserved cake crumbs.

7. Cover loosely and chill for at least 1 hour, or until ready to serve.

Remember, there's nothing wrong with loving dessert.

Brew Me

2009-02-12T18:50:00.000-05:00

A post on the ever-informative Not Martha about an electric tea kettle- with five precise water temperatures for varying types of tea- has been stuck in my mind.

Sometimes, in my nonvirtual life, I'm a copy editor. So what I'm about to say may be shocking.

Accuracy isn't always the most important thing.

(Actually, it's probably more surprising than shocking, unless you too are a sometimes copy editor.)

If you really think about it, though, it's true. Text can be over-edited; words so scrutinized that the emotion and life behind the piece is completely lost. Maybe that's why the concept of electronically precise brewing for something as ancient and as basic as tea just seems off to me.

I do still own a rotary phone, though, so perhaps I'm not the most impartial reviewer of electronic products.

The correct water temperature is crucial for the type of tea you're making (see these brewing guidelines). But my method is usually a finger in the water: If it's too hot for me to do that, it's too hot for green tea.

But there is a more lyric- and less painful- method to calculate water temperature, eloquently codified in Lu Yu's Cha Jing, or The Classic of Tea. Written in China around 770, this is the oldest book on tea. Author Lu had a fascinating life: after a peripatetic youth (involving an orphanage, an escape from a Buddhist monastery and a traveling opera troupe), he decided to embark on a tea quest to definitively compile its history, production and techniques in one book.

The publication of Cha Jing led to Lu's widespread recognition- and two requests for appointment to the imperial court (both of which he turned down)- as well as his posthumous designation as the patron saint of tea.

So even though he wrote during the stone ages, this man knows what's he's talking about. Water still behaves the same. Here are the Cha Jing's descriptions, which use visual cues to indicate temperature:

"column of steam steadily rising": a pillar first appears from the surface, 170°-180°F (for green teas)
"fish eyes": large bubbles first break the surface of the water, 180°-200°F (some greens, oolongs)
"string of pearls": tiny, champagne-like streams of bubbles circle to the surface, 190°-200°F (some oolongs, black)
"turbulent waters": a full, rolling boil, 200°-212°F (pu'er)

I adore the poetry of his method, but my favorite thing about Lu is how he blew off the emperor- twice- so he could make tea in peace, far from the restrictions of society and politics of the day. Really, how else can tea be enjoyed?

Tea is suitable to be a beverage for its chill nature, especially for those who prefer moderate, plain living. In case of thirst, melancholy, headache, weariness of eyes, or trouble in limbs and joints, a few of sips can be sweet dew from heaven. Cha Jing, Lu Yu

You said it, Lu.

Nice Assam

2009-02-11T11:43:00.001-05:00

My relationship with black tea is a bit bumpy.

Even though it's the first kind of tea I was exposed to, I often find it too assertive and lacking subtley. I sip it much more reluctantly than I do a green tea. But I'm incredibly open-minded, so I keep trying.

In my kitchen, black tea usually ends up getting mixed with other flavors. It doesn't mind- it's bold enough to not lose its integrity. One of my absolute favorites is a Gujarati recipe that combines the bright flavors of lemongrass with Assam tea, rendering a soothing but invigorating brew.

Assam, located in the lush, tropical northeastern corner of India, is the largest tea producing region in the country, and has been for centuries.

When the tea-thirsty British tromped into Assam the early 1800's, they found rumo(u)rs of cultivation in the region to be true. Even though they failed to realize it initially- the Assam tea bushes were different than the Chinese type that the British assumed was the only true tea producer- the indigenous tribes had been tending and consuming a wild variant of tea for centuries.

You can see why even before the first sip: It brews up a gorgeous burnt sienna, with a nuanced aroma. The luminous liquid has an almost malty flavor and a smoothness I rarely taste in black teas. When mixed with a vibrant floral kiss of lemongrass, something magical happens.

Leelee Chai

Thinly slice the bottom 6 inches of 2 stalks fresh lemongrass and combine with 4 1/4 cups water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower heat, cover and simmer gently for 20 minutes. Strain the water into a teapot and stir 5 teaspoons Assam tea; cover and steep five minutes, then strain and discard tea. Serve plain, or with milk and sugar.

Not surprisingly, I've always chosen the sugar route. But I was brave this morning and for my second cup, poured it straight up.

You'd assume (much like those know-it-all British) that combining the tannins in such a vibrant black tea with the astringency of citrus would result in a mouth-puckering taste, but it's actually not so at all.

Even without the creamy-sweet roundness of milk and sugar, the fresh, springlike bouquet of the lemongrass unfurls in the steam from the fragrant tea, then in each smooth sip.

And if you're as sick of winter as everyone else seems to be, this is a welcome reminder than warmth is on the way.

Don't be an assam. Give it a chance.

Honeybush, Can You Get Me Another Cookie?

2009-02-10T17:35:00.001-05:00

I am officially disgusted. My freezer has NO. MORE. ROOM.

After I wrapped up my latest sweet creation to tuck away in there, I opened the door to a packed-solid mess: five pounds of sour cherries I lovingly destemmed, washed and pitted during their fleeting two-week season in June; a bag of pistachio-rosewater cookies; about two dozen orange-pistachio crescents and an equal amount of brown sugar-almond cookies; even a few gingerbread-chocolate chunk monsters left over from the holidays. And that's not even counting any of the breads!

It's sad like the economy, but in reverse. I need to stop baking.

For a week, at least.

Luckily, tea doesn't take up very much room. And I already finished making these chocolate-chip cookies, so I'll just have to make room somehow. They probably won't last long; this version is an addictive take on the classic, from Elizabeth Faulkner's Demolition Desserts. She likes to play around with sugars, and what results is a delicate tug-of-war between the crunchy, floral demerara and the deep, spicy muscavado varieties. Add in toastiness from chopped oats sauteed in a bit of beurre noisette, soft centers full of rich chocolate chips and crispy edges where the sugar bits are just on the edge of caramelizing, and you'll forget you ever worried about any dumb little recession.

Chocolate Chip Cookies Version XS
Makes: about 4 1/2 dozen.

1 1/4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
2 sticks (16 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed muscavado sugar
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons demerara sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped, or 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips

1. Pulse oats in a food processor for 15 to 20 seconds, until the texture of sawdust, but with some recognizable oat flakes. In a small pot, melt 4 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat and cook for about 3 mintues, or until it browns slightly. Add the oats and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 to 2 minutes, or just until you smell a toasty fragrance. Spoon the oats onto a plate to cool.

2. In a large bowl, with a wooden spoon, cream together the remaining 12 tablespoons butter and muscavado sugar until smooth. Add demerara sugar and vanilla and stir briefly, just to mix. Add egg and stir to combine.

3. Add in toasted oats, then sift together flour and baking soda over the dough. Add salt and stir gently to combine. Mix in chocolate; cover bowl and refrigerate dough for at least 30 minutes.

4. Heat oven to 350°. Place 1-inch balls of dough 2 inches apart on two ungreased baking sheets. Bake cookies about 10 minutes, rotating pans halfway through. Let cool on sheets for 2 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool completely.

Needless to say, the sugar consumption has been getting a little out of hand around here. So I've been turning to herbal teas to help settle things down, especially The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf's African Sunrise ($8.20 for 20 teabags)- a smooth, bright blend of honeybush leaves, orange peel and vanilla.

OK, so it's bagged, but it's higher quality than you'd expect- while on a glucose up spike I even broke one open just to make sure. Amazing name aside, honeybush is high in minerals and allegedly has nutritious and calmative properties.

I could definitely fall asleep right now, after the two cups I just had. Or maybe that's just the sugar leaving my bloodstream.

Bar Won

2009-02-06T11:03:00.001-05:00

How satisfying is it to have something you've wanted for years?

I'm not trying to be all smug about it, but finally making these kitchen sink buttercrunch bars is making my life feel complete.

Originally from Lisa Yockelson's Baking by Flavor cookbook, these jumped out at me while I was collecting recipes for the holiday 2002 issue of the magazine where I worked. It was a special publication, which meant it was produced much faster and cheaper than the regular issues. But no matter how I hinted, wheedled, then finally begged, none of the chefs had time to test the recipe.

Heath bars, almonds, chocolate chips; the ingredients stayed in my mind all these years, almost taunting me. Can you imagine how delicious we'd be all mixed together? they teased.

Only seven years later, I've taken matters into my own hands.

I needed to bring something to a Superbowl party a few days ago. While I couldn't care less about anything on TV, much less a sporting event, any excuse to bake something new is a welcome opportunity. And this would ensure that I couldn't eat the entire pan myself.

Those little voices were right. These bar cookies are crunchy yet tender, with rich toffee and almond notes chorusing among the chocolate. Don't deprive yourself and wait as long as I did to make them.

Kitchen Sink Buttercrunch Bars
Makes: 20 bars.

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
3/4 cup packed light-brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
4 packages (1.4 ounces each) Heath bars, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
3/4 cup coarsely chopped almonds, toasted
3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1. Heat oven to 350°. Line 9 x 9-inch baking pan with nonstick foil, or grease and flour lightly.

2. In medium-sized bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, salt and nutmeg. In another medium-sized bowl, mix together melted butter and both sugars with a wooden spoon. Mix in egg and vanilla and almond extracts until blended. Add in flour mixture and stir until just combined. Stir in Heath bar pieces, almonds and chocolate chips; batter will be dense. Scrape into baking pan, spreading evenly.

3. Bake 25 minutes or until set. Transfer pan to a cooling rack; let cool for 30 minutes, then cut into bars. Let cool completely, in pan, before recutting and serving.

For my tasting, as I cut the bars up for the party, I tried a Kenyan sencha ($7 for 25g) which I'd never heard of until last week. Japanese-style green tea from Africa is a bit like wine from Massachusetts or olive oil from Texas: it's fascinating as a concept, but does the taste measure up to the novelty factor?

In this case, yes. The tea brews up a lovely tawny golden color, with a light, mild smoothness that you wouldn't expect from sencha. The resemblance to Japanese sencha is faint- think first cousins rather than sisters- but it's a lovely tea in its own right. It cut through the bars' brown-sugar, candy-coated sweetness perfectly, enabling me to have a few more.

Take one last, longing look. While it is incredibly satisfying, fulfillment is also incredibly fleeting.

You Got Chocolate in My Tea

2009-02-05T13:28:00.004-05:00

A little shock is good for the system.

That's why this post is coming from the inside- inside the City Bakery (3 W 18th St.), which is holding the 17th annual celebration of the second best drink in the world.

We all know it's no tea, but at the restaurant's month-long Hot Chocolate Festival, a different flavor is available every single day, from caramel, lemon and passion fruit (yes please) to beer, banana peel and bourbon (no thanks). And today's, god save the queen, is earl grey tea hot chocolate ($5).

Does the combination work? Well, it is the best hot cocoa I've ever had out- it's like drinking liquid pleasure- but that characteristic earl grey flavor is a bit overwhelmed by the rich creaminess of the chocolate.

Still, sipping it right now- between bites of City Bakery's unique salty-sweet pretzel croissant ($3.75), of course- I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be. (It being 17° out makes staying here, hands wrapped around the warm cup, even more enticing.)

Bundle up and get over here for possibly your only chance at drinking tea and hot chocolate simultaneously. Because after today, this flavor is gone.

A Good Tea Is Hard to Find

2009-01-30T13:04:00.001-05:00

It's kind of sad how surprising it is to find truly good tea.

But when you do, after just a few sips, all that frustrated longing, disappointment and heartache fades; delight starts to warm you, inside and out.

It might only last for five minutes- but you can always make another cup.

So far, every sip I've had of David's Tea offerings has had this effect. It's a year-old Canadian company whose age belies its almost paralyzing selection- over 100 teas, ranging from pure, premium estate blacks and greens to flavored oolongs, herbals and unusual blends.

I first tried the sencha ashikubo ($9 for 25g; pictured right), a Japanese green which is dried over wood fires, giving a pleasantly roasted, milder taste than expected. Even though I love that traditional grassy-green sencha punch, this tea would be ideal for someone who thinks they don't like Japanese greens.

And if they still don't after a cup of this, I am always available to deliver a real grassy-green punch to help change their mind.

The quangzhou milk oolong ($9 for 25g; pictured left) is a knockout in its own right.

It brews up a luminous gold color, with a surprising scent of heated milk.

Names are so often little more than a marketing tool, but this tea lives up to its moniker: the taste and texture are somehow creamy, with a perfectly balanced sweetness and faint floral undertone.

Subsequent brewings don't diminish the impact, either. After the first cup, this oolong's leaves really open up and give almost as much flavor to the third. It's grown in China's Wuyi Mountains, which turn out my favorite oolongs, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised at how much I adore it. But it really is a very special tea.

Just look at all the loose leaves below (clockwise from top, Turkish delight, quangzhou milk oolong, sencha ashikubo): they're fresh, incredibly fragrant and you can tell they've been treated well. They can't wait to get in your cup.

David's Teas even has me reconsidering my tea snobbery when it comes to tea blends- how is it possible to resist, with names like pumpkin spice, gunpowder taffy, lime bang, bear trap?

Just what I need, more fuel for my addiction. Damn you, David.

Doughnut Ask, Doughnut Tell

2009-01-29T10:13:00.002-05:00

Some teas are gentle; others feel like a punch in the mouth. And, like people, sometimes they masquerade as the other.

Such is the case with megami sencha, a Japanese green which has a clear, bright jade appearance and lighter mouthfeel than other senchas- but a bold, almost astringent taste. I love the contrast, but it does need something alongside to balance it out. What better than something hot, sweet and fried?

I'll justify making these Japanese hiking doughnuts any way I can.

I got the recipe years ago, from my absolute favorite cooking magazine Saveur. Unfortunately I didn't save the accompanying story, in which the author related how she and her husband had been hiking at Mt. Fuji, and while stopping to rest along the trail, met an old Japanese couple who offered these doughnuts. One bite, and the author knew she had to have the recipe, so despite the language barrier, gestured that she would love to know how to make them and gave the old woman her email address. On the way down, her husband scoffed she would never, ever see that recipe.

But over a year later, an email from one Mrs. Nishiwaki turned up, with the recipe for the elusive treat.

(Oh ye of little faith. I would have made and eaten the entire first batch myself, telling that doubting Thomas he was welcome to fish out any blackened remnants from the oil.)

I can see why the author was so enchanted with these doughnuts: They're crispy and moist on the outside, sweet and lightly lemony inside, and if you eat them fresh, the oil warms your fingers and turns the powdered sugar coating into a heavenly paste that you have no choice but to lick off.

For junk food, they seem almost good for you, with a dense crumb but an interior lightness- well, until you eat more than five. After that, you may have to reconsider any hiking plans.

Japanese Hiking Doughnuts
Makes: about 15.

3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup plain yogurt
2 eggs
Juice of 1 lemon
1 heaping tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon vegetable oil plus more for frying
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Pinch salt
1/4 cup confectioners' sugar

1. Put granulated sugar, yogurt, eggs, lemon juice, honey and 1 tablespoon of the oil in medium bowl and stir until smooth. Gradually sift flour, baking powder and salt over yogurt mixture, beating with a wooden spoon until batter is smooth. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate until batter is chilled, 30 to 60 minutes.

2. Pour oil into a wide medium heavy-bottomed pot to a depth of 2 inches and heat over medium heat until temperature reaches 300° on a candy thermometer. Working in batches to avoid crowding with the pot, carefully spoon a scant 1/4 cup of the batter into hot oil and fry, turning occasionally, until doughnuts are deep golden brown all over and cooked through, 5 to 7 minutes per batch. Transfer doughnuts with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain. Dust with confectioners' sugar.

If you can manage to save any, you really can pack these for an outdoor excursion. Just let them cool completely before wrapping them up, to avoid sogginess.

And do keep in mind that you will burn the first batch; it's a well documented phenomenon, from crepes to blinis, that the first one has to be discarded because it never turns out quite right. Just take a deep breath, a sip of sencha, and then throw the burned ones out the window.

Someone always benefits from your mistakes.

Brioche, Meet Babka

2009-01-28T15:26:00.003-05:00

You know that climactic scene in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle when the protagonists finally sit down to their table full of burgers, start jamming them into their drooling maws, and Kumar almost immediately stops, mid-bite, and starts to sob with joy?

(Wait a second. What do you mean, you haven't seen Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle? It's a film classic, way better than Casablanca, Chinatown and all those other pretentious movies everyone pretends to have seen a million times. Go order it on Amazon, then rent it so you don't have to wait to watch it. NOW.)

That's exactly how the first bite of this cinnamon-swirl babka made me feel.

It's based on the outstanding brioche recipe from Alice Medrich's Pure Dessert, and I've been wanting to make it ever since I got the cookbook. But you know how things can sidetrack you (unfortunately, nothing involving a hitchhiking Neil Patrick Harris). It took just a bit of cajolement from a sugar-fiend sister and the next morning, we were sinking our teeth into bite after pillowy bite.

Brioche and Cinnamon-Swirl Babka
Makes: 10 small loaves or one large babka

3 cups bread flour
20 tablespoons (2 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, cold
1 envelope active dry yeast
1/3 cup plus 1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 cup warm water (105° to 115° F)
5 large eggs, cold
1 tablespoon sour cream or yogurt
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
For babka:
3/4 cup packed muscavado sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1. Place the flour into a mixing bowl, cover, and freeze for 30 minutes. Place cold butter in mixing bowl and beat with the paddle attachment only until creamy and smooth; there should be no hard lumps when you pinch it between your fingers. Scrape the butter onto a small plate and refrigerate (proceed with the dough right away; a long delay will reharden the butter).

2. In the clean mixing bowl, dissolve yeast and 1 teaspoon of sugar in the warm water. Attach dough hook and add remaining 1/3 cup sugar, eggs, sour cream, salt and flour. Mix on low speed until all ingredients are blended, scraping down the side of the bowl as needed. Knead the dough on medium speed for 5 minutes; it will be very soft, moist and sticky and very elastic, and should be wrapped around the dough hook.

3. Add the cold butter in small pieces, letting each incorporate into the dough before adding more. Scrape the dough into an oiled bowl and cover. Refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours. (Brioche can be prepared plain, at this point: place small balls of dough in buttered brioche pans; let rise for two hours, until doubled. Heat oven to 350° and bake until tops are deeply browned, about 20 to 25 minutes.)

4. For babka: In a small bowl, mix together muscavado sugar, cinnamon, salt and butter.

5. Scrape the cold dough out onto a floured surface. Roll out to an 18 x 12-inch rectangle, about 1/2-inch thick. Spread the sugar-cinnamon mixture evenly over the dough, leaving a 1-inch margin on one long side. Moisten the margin with a little water. Beginning at the long side opposite the margin, roll up the dough, pressing firmly at the end to seal the seam.

6. Turn roll seam-side down and cut into 18 slices, each about 1 inch wide. Toss slices gently into an oiled Bundt pan, without arranging them; just ensure they all come to about the same height. Cover pan with a damp cloth and let dough rise in a warm place until doubled, about 2 hours.

7. Heat the oven to 350° F. Place Bundt pan on a baking sheet and bake until top of babka is deeply browned, about 50 to 60 minutes. Let cool in pan on wire rack for 20 minutes. Invert pan to turn babka out, then let cool another 10 minutes before slicing.

It's hard to improve on brioche- that rich, soft slice that holds more butter than you'd think scientifically possible- but with veins of spicy muscavado sugar and fragrant cinnamon running through it, it's elevated to divine territory.

And having your babka with a simple cup of Darjeeling- or any not-overpowering black tea- makes for a breakfast of the gods, even in such an imperfect world.

Little Miss Flaky

2009-01-27T12:27:00.004-05:00

Finding the perfect croissant is a lifelong pursuit. They may be everywhere, but unfortunately, most just aren't that good.

When you do discover one, you treasure it. And you eat it as often as possible, even if it's from a bakery that's a 20-minute walk from your apartment. No matter how long it takes you to get there, the buttery, toothsome croissants at Almondine (85 Water St., Brooklyn) will make it worth it.

On my most recent morning visit, I decided to try a new one- the almond-raspberry croissant ($2.65)- with a cup of Mighty Leaf English Breakfast tea ($2). The pastry was sublime; the rich but not-too-sweet almond frangipane topped with a layer of raspberry jam brought to my uncultured American mind a PB and J fit for Louis XIV.

And the tea, for a bag, wasn't bad either. But if you're going to be turning out croissants like this, why can't you pay as much attention to the accompanying drink? When I go to Almondine in the summer, I just bring a thermos of my own looseleaf brew and take the pastry to eat in the nearby Empire Fulton Ferry Park, nestled between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

Still, the tea they served did the trick this day. And with all those creamy, glazy traditional French pastries, chocolate-chip cookies as big as your face and warm, freshly baked multigrain loaves ($4.75), Almondine won't disappoint.

Slappy New Year

2009-01-23T10:49:00.003-05:00

I've needed to restock my tea supply for over a month now. My freezer may be full of sugary treats, but I was running low on what to wash them down with. It's just been so very cold, and with that pesky economic collapse it's hard to justify dropping $50 on dried leaves.

But even so, on a recent day that could only be described as feeling Jack Frost's wintry slap (I'll admit I lifted that from weather.com, circa 2005), it was still worth walking 20 blocks to Ito En (822 Madison Ave.) for the tea I discovered.

Stalling so I could thaw out, I asked if there was anything new in stock, and was introduced to obukucha ($10 per ounce).

This Kyoto tea consists of a shincha, or first sencha harvest of the spring, which is aged in clay pots- unusual for Japanese greens, because the whole point is to have them as fresh as possible- until a few weeks before New Year's. It's served to celebrate the upcoming year with a taste from the old, and to usher in good fortune (something we all could use at the moment).

Even though it was almost a year old, the scent of the aged leaves, when I stuck my nose deep into the bag, was intensely sweet and grassy. I could hardly wait to get home to make a cup.

It brews up a pale florescent green, like the stems of those first brave snowdrops that unfurl through the thawing spring ground. And the smell is almost more nuanced than the taste, which is the roundest, least-brassy Japanese green I've had: Close your eyes and imagine the pale sun hitting bales of hay in a barn on a March morning. (Trust me on this one, even though the closest barn is probably 200 miles away.)

I had to keep making more to attempt to describe the flavor- every time I looked down, the cup was empty. It's that smooth.

The only thing this tea possibly needs is a stack of these simple, crispy almond brown-sugar cookies (adapted from the December 2008 Gourmet) beside it.

Almond Cookies
Makes: about 100 cookies.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed light-brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon almond extract
1/2 cup slivered or whole blanched almonds (2 1/2 ounces)

1. Whisk together flour, baking soda and salt. Beat together butter and brown sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer until pale and fluffy, then beat in egg and vanilla. At low speed, mix in flour mixture until a dough just forms. Stir in almonds.

2. Divide dough in half. Using a sheet of plastic wrap, form each piece of dough into a log about 9 inches long (about 1 1/4 inches in diameter). Refrigerate, wrapped in plastic wrap, until very firm, at least 4 hours. Freeze 30 minutes to facilitate slicing.

3. Heat oven to 350°F with racks in upper and lower thirds. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Cut 1 log of dough crosswise into slices less than 1/8 inch thick with a thin sharp knife, rotating log after each slice to help keep round shape. (If dough gets too soft to slice through nuts easily, freeze briefly.) Arrange cookies about 1/2 inch apart on baking sheets.

4. Bake cookies, switching position of sheets halfway through, until golden brown all over, 12 to 15 minutes. Transfer cookies on parchment to racks to cool. Repeat with remaining dough.

There's still a bit of the obukucha left at Ito En, so if you want to enjoy 2009, I'd suggest getting yourself some as soon as possible.

The Loudest Ones Are Having the Best Time

2009-01-22T06:35:00.002-05:00

It can be obnoxious to everyone else, but when you're the ones laughing out loud for a few hours straight, it translates into a good time- for you, at least, as it did on a recent snowy afternoon at Naidre's (502 Henry St., Brooklyn). The Carroll Gardens branch of this cafe is an unassuming but welcoming space, even for a misanthrope like me.

The tea selection wasn't enormous- I could have found more in my refrigerator at home, a few blocks away- but it strayed pleasantly beyond the basic English Breakfast. I had the triple green tea with jasmine ($1.25), which was a blend of what looked like sencha, Dragonwell and jasmine pearls. The water was too hot (repeat after me: water boiling for black; just steaming for green), but the tea was still made with care- the loose leaves were bagged and tied to order, and if I had asked, I'm sure I could have had the bag separate. But I was being annoying enough.

The tea was good, though, and finding any cup of loose leaf for under $2 in this city is notable. The extensive food options were intriguing as well, even though I was still coming down from a crescent-cookie coma and didn't want anything. I did see a disgustingly delicious-looking mac and cheese float by, and the vegetarian reuben sandwich that my friend ordered wasn't too shabby, either. I could only force down a bite, but anything that contains a slab of fried tofu topped with fake bacon is going to ensure another visit.

Remember that part at the end of The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy has her big epiphany about not needing to look further than her very own backyard for her heart's desire? That wasn't just the Seconal talking. Sometimes it really is right there.

An Earl Grey Remix

2009-01-20T07:29:00.004-05:00

I hate to throw food away, so when faced with the leftover orange-peel syrup from those delightful little pistachio crescents, I knew what had to happen: flavored tea.

I usually don't sweeten tea- if you buy decent loose leaf and brew it correctly, you shouldn't need to either, because it won't be oversteeped or bitter. Unless, of course, you're addicted to sugar and have to have several batches of cookies, brownies and cupcakes stockpiled in your freezer at all times. Ha ha ha. We'll leave those freaks aside for the moment, though.

The bright, strong flavor of an orange syrup needs an equally bold tea, so I went for a black variety. After trying a few different brews, it was Earl Grey that stood out.

But Earl Grey already is flavored, blockhead, you're no doubt shouting at your screen. Yes, but the flavoring is bergamot oil, which is derived from the highly aromatic bergamot orange. According to Alan Davidson's comprehensive Oxford Companion to Food, Earl Grey is actually one of the oldest blended teas, coming onto the scene in the 18th century. Perfect time for an update, then. The tea's citrus overtones are pleasantly intensified by adding the orange syrup; together they create a warm, welcome fragrance.

And if you throw in a few fresh orange slices into the hot cup, you'll have a wakeup that can get you through any bleak winter morning.

If you don't have leftovers from the crescent cookie filling, then can you at least get your lazy duff off the couch long enough to cut the peel off an orange, chop it finely, and simmer it for 30 minutes in a mixture of equal parts water and granulated sugar (try 1/2 cup of each)? Yes, you can.

Ancient Orange

2009-01-18T16:42:00.003-05:00

The December 2008 Gourmet had a holiday cookie spread almost too gorgeous to eat. Even though those days are blissfully behind us, I've slowly been working my way through them, somehow ignoring the little voice that came up with the brilliant idea of going a whole week without eating sugar. I'll get to that. Next week.

These rich crescent cookies are the magazine's take on ghotab, an almond-filled, deep-fried classic Persian pastry. I've never had one of those, but after tasting this, I don't think I need to: the flaky, buttery dough is faintly sweet, and somehow tender yet firm enough to cradle the fragrant, chewy, citrus-nutty filling (just like I like my Persians).

The powdered sugar that gets all over your fingers as you eat them might be the best part. And when you think that they're not deep-fried, it's like you're having something healthy in comparison. Whatever. Just serve the cookies with steaming little cups of mint tea and no one will be complaining. They're practically designed to go together.

I know the recipe looks long, but I actually streamlined it a bit, and you can do much of it in advance. Plus, making the candied orange peel will make the entire house smell like the citrus grove empire you've always dreamed of owning. Oh wait, maybe that's just me.

Orange Pistachio Crescents
Makes: about 2 1/2 dozen.

Dough:
2 2/3 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 large egg yolks
3 to 4 tablespoons ice water
Filling:
1 large navel orange
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup water
1/2 cup coarsely chopped pistachios (2 1/4 ounces)
About 1 cup confectioners' sugar, for coating

1.Dough: Whisk together flour, sugar and salt in a large bowl (or pulse in a food processor). Blend in butter with your fingertips or a pastry blender (or pulse) until mixture resembles coarse meal with some roughly pea-size butter lumps. Beat together yolks and 3 tablespoon water with a fork and stir into flour (or pulse) until incorporated.

2. Gently squeeze a small handful of dough: If it doesn’t hold together, stir (or pulse) in 1 tablespoon more water. Do not overwork dough or pastry will be tough.

3. Turn out dough onto a lightly floured surface and gently gather together. Divide in half, forming each into a 4-inch square. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill until firm, at least 1 hour or up to two days.

4. Filling: Cut off peel, including white pith, from orange with a sharp knife and finely chop. (Reserve fruit for another use.) Put peel in a 2-quart heavy saucepan, then fill with water. Add salt and bring to a boil; boil, uncovered, 10 minutes. Drain.

5. Bring granulated sugar and 3/4 cup water to a boil in saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring until sugar has dissolved; cover for one minute to wash down any sugar crystals from side of pan. Add peel to syrup and gently simmer, uncovered, until peel begins to turn translucent and syrup is reduced to about 2/3 cup, 20 to 30 minutes.

6. Drain peel in sieve set over a bowl, reserving 3 tablespoon syrup. Stir together peel, reserved syrup and pistachios. Let cool (can be refrigerated for two days).

7. To make cookies, heat oven to 375°F. Roll out 1 piece of dough on a floured surface with a floured rolling pin into a 15 x 12-inch rectangle. Cut out 16 to 20 rounds with a 3-inch round cookie cutter. Put a scant teaspoon filling on each round, then brush edge lightly with water and fold pastry over filling to form a half-moon. Press edges to seal. Shape each into a crescent by pushing a finger against middle of flat side.

8. Bake 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet until golden, 15 to 20 minutes. Let cool 2 minutes on the sheet, then gently toss warm cookies in confectioners' sugar to coat generously. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool completely. Repeat with remaining dough, rerolling scraps once.

Why do all the things that are such a pain to make have to taste so, so delicious?

Pecan Do It

2009-01-12T13:05:00.001-05:00

I'm not a competitive person. I just don't see the point.

If someone wants to let their ego rule the day- and if it's that satisfying to their immaturity- go right ahead, push to the front. I don't need to evaluate my accomplishments in terms of yours.

The only exception comes when faced with a culinary challenge. I've been tricked into making apple pies and brownies, chocolate-chip cookies and scones, all at little more than a few words' suggestion that someone else's- or heaven forbid, a prepackaged version- is better than mine. Even though I know what's happening, I can't help it; the compulsive baker takes over and I find myself up at 1 a.m., measuring out sugar and greasing pans, muttering This'll show them tomorrow as I mix up a batter.

At least it's not a self-destructive habit- the only damage is to my sleep schedule. And since I'm compelled to share the finished goods (out of generosity, not anything as base as gratification), it's less selfish than typical competitive behavior.

Still, the most intense challenges tend to come not from an innocent outside remark, but from within, like when I spotted this pumpkin cheesecake with praline sauce on the last page of the November 2008 Food & Wine. Give me a break, I thought, noting the total time of six hours, plus overnight chilling. Who would be asinine enough to waste that much time making a cheesecake?

A month and a half later, the presumptuousness of such a recipe still had me foaming at the mouth- or was it salivating at the thought of those caramel-covered pecans oozing down the side of a slice? I didn't care if it took over a day. I needed to prove that this recipe wasn't worth it.

You know how this one turns out.

I ended up buying a can of pumpkin and a bag of pecans later that morning and before I knew it, I was waiting the directed two hours for the puree to dry and figuring out which tea would go best with the spicy, brown-sugar flavors. I certainly had the time to think about it.

Pumpkin Cheesecake
Makes: 12 servings.

1 15-ounce can (1 3/4 cups) pumpkin puree
8 whole graham crackers, broken
1/2 cup (2 ounces) pecans
1 tablespoon light-brown sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for greasing pan
1 1/2 cups (14 ounces) cream cheese, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup heavy cream, at room temperature
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1. Set a rack over a counter and line the rack with 2 layers of paper towels. Spread pumpkin puree over the paper towels and let drain for 2 hours, until puree is fairly dry.

2. Preheat oven to 350°. Butter the bottom and side of a 9-inch springform pan. In a food processor, pulse graham crackers until finely ground. Add pecans and brown sugar and pulse until finely ground. Add melted butter and pulse just until incorporated. Press crumbs onto the bottom of prepared pan. Bake crust for about 5 minutes, just until fragrant and lightly browned. Let crust cool completely.

3. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer fitted with paddle, beat cream cheese until very smooth. In a small bowl, whisk granulated sugar with salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and allspice. With machine on, add spiced sugar to cream cheese and beat until creamy, scraping the bottom and side of bowl. Carefully add drained pumpkin puree and beat until smooth. Add eggs one at a time, beating well and scraping down bowl between each addition. Beat in heavy cream, lemon juice and vanilla until batter is smooth.

4. Pour cheesecake batter over the cooled crust and bake at 350° for 12 minutes. Lower the oven temperature to 225° and bake the cheesecake for about 1 1/2 hours, until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the center registers 150°; the center will be very jiggly but not liquidy. Let cheesecake cool on a rack, then cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

5. Run a hot knife around cheesecake and loosen springform ring. Carefully remove ring and transfer cake to a plate. Using a warm knife, cut into pieces and serve with the Pecan Praline Sauce (recipe below).

A note on the recipe: I adapted it a bit from F&W's original, which I believe had some serious timing issues. I also halved the praline sauce and found it still ample for the entire cheesecake, but by all means double it and challenge yourself to put it on everything, if you're like that.

Pecan Praline Sauce
Makes: 1 1/2 cups.

3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter
6 tablespoons dark-brown sugar
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (4 ounces) pecans

1. Preheat oven to 350°. In a large saucepan, combine butter and brown sugar and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until smooth. Stir in heavy cream and salt and bring to a boil. Simmer just until slightly thickened, about 3 minutes. Let the caramel cool.

2. Spread pecans on a rimmed baking sheet and toast for about 6 to 8 minutes, until lightly browned and fragrant. Transfer pecans to cutting board and let them cool. Coarsely chop the nuts, stir into cooled caramel and serve sauce. Leftovers can be refrigerated up to one week (and tastes fabulous on vanilla ice cream); rewarm gently before serving.

As soon as I tasted that rich, creamy, tangy-pumpkin bite along a plain black tea (something not too overpowering, like Darjeeling, works best) the next day, I knew it was worth it. Damn you, you delicious, interminable cheesecake.

But I still think I won.

Plant One on Me

2009-01-06T11:42:00.002-05:00

I have to take back everything I've ranted about, at least in terms of takeout chai tea. (Everything else is still fair game.)

I've finally found a chai ($2.25) that is creamy, spicy and sweet- and made with decent loose-leaf tea- at the Lower East Side's Doughnut Plant (379 Grand St.).

Make no mistake, this chai is served up sweet. But after that initial insulin-spiking bite of doughnut, it won't seem so at all, and a faint peppery and citrus-rind afterbite offers further balance in the cup.

The tea was even more remarkable to me because I was all ready to finally write the Doughnut Plant off. It just has such a "my doughnuts are more artisinal than yours" New-Yorky vibe, and that's annoying. And at around $2.50 apiece, they're no bargain.

But the eggless, yeasted, secret-family-recipe batter does yield some outstanding doughtnuts. I didn't want to like them, but I just couldn't help it. And I had to get something to go with my tea. The fresh orange had that sunshiny burst, so welcome in winter, of citrus at its peak; the pistachio was studded with crunchy, plump nuts.

But it was the creme brulee doughnut ($2.75) that stole my heart.

You could actually see a worker in the back torching the tops of rows and rows of them, which were bravely weathering it, like troops of an elysian army, for their big chance out on the counter. I managed to wait until I got home to dig into mine, because I had a feeling about this one.

Words escaped me with the first bite: I just felt the crackly, burnt-sugar top and softly yielding dough exterior give way to an unctous, vanilla-bean-flecked pastry cream filling. I couldn't describe it with anything other than a low moan.

It was gone in seconds, but not before it conjured up a treasured childhood treat that I didn't realize I'd been missing so much all these years: little sugar-glazed doughnuts- I have no memory of the name, but they came frozen in a long, flat black box- that my sister and I would inhale whenever we had a babysitter. Then I suddenly remembered the time we came up with the brilliant scheme of just turning the temperature up to 500° on the toaster oven to make them cook faster. At least we weren't as dumb as the babysitter, who opened up the oven door and tossed an entire pitcher of our waiting accompanying limeade on the flaming pastries.

Such a tragic waste.

That's all behind me, however, and now I know where to get a chai and creme brulee doughnut whenever I want to.

The Best Cookie of My Life

2008-12-31T17:29:00.000-05:00

It really was.

And it was so unassuming, almost lost amid an army of neon macaroons, fluffy pastel marshmallows, lime mousse cakes, buche de noels and chocolate-dipped candy canes (festooned with impossibly small gingerbread-men sprinkles, of course) at the Taj Boston's (15 Arlington St.) annual Christmas brunch buffet.

But this almond thumbprint cookie, filled with raspberry jam, is what put the other sweets to shame.

It was everything a dry, crumbly, packaged Pepperidge Farm cookie dreams of being: tender, moist and sweetly flavored from the almond, with a burst of bright berry sunshine in the middle. One bite, and it made me gasp.

(The four plates of savory food beforehand might have had something to do with feeling unable to breathe, but it was just all so good- sushi, seaweed-sesame noodles, aged goat cheese, sauteed salmon, mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and baby beets, pumpkin-cheese tortellini, the best mattar paneer ever to pass my lips- how could I resist?)

I'm a seasoned buffet glutton, but it was actually verging on painful to cram in any dessert at all. I did need something to go with the tea I ordered, however, since I had already made short work of the almond thumbprint cookie.

So I loaded up a few more small plates, brought them back to the table and started food styling for the photos while I waited for the tea to arrive.

"Don't you dare talk trash on your blog about this tea, just because it's bagged," my sister whispered to me as the waiter arrived and started pouring it from a tall silver pitcher.

I assured her I wouldn't. And I really won't, because as I explained, where- and with whom- you have a cup of tea is what makes it pleasurable (or not). The strong, black English breakfast blend that we sipped from the ivory china cups was surprisingly well brewed, but even more important, it was capping off the best meal of the year, enjoyed alongside those I love most dearly.

It was a welcome reminder of what, in the end, is all that matters.

May your 2009 be filled with tea in good company. And cookies.

Cardamom, Take Me Away

2008-12-29T10:24:00.002-05:00

I've been reading a few books lately that take place in Kashmir, and descriptions of a local green tea, brewed with spices and nuts, keep enticing me.

I'd never heard of kahva, or Kashmiri tea, before, but I found a simple recipe for it in Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian cookbook, which I've been slowly working my way through for years now.

Even if the closest you've gotten to Kashmir is wearing a soft, warm sweater and lying on a rug listening to Led Zepplin, just the first sniff into a cup of this gently spiced tea will transport you.

Kahva

In a medium-sized pot, combine 4 cups water with 12 cardamom pods, lightly crushed, 4 teaspoons blanched slivered almonds and 4 teaspoons sugar. Bring to a boil, remove from heat and let sit, covered, for 3 minutes. Add 4 teaspoons Kashmiri green or gunpowder tea, stir, and cover again for 2 minutes. Strain into glasses and serve hot.

You can add a pinch of saffron or cinnamon to the tea too, if you like, both of which are regional variations. And though these rosewater-pistachio cookies aren't a traditional accompaniment, I don't think anyone will mind eating them alongside.

Pistachio Rosewater Cookies
Makes: about 2 1/2 dozen cookies.

1 1/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup canola oil
3 tablespoons rice or soy milk
4 teaspoons rosewater
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 teaspoon finely grated lime zest
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
1/4 cup cornstarch
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup shelled pistachios, coarsely chopped

1. Heat oven to 350°. In medium-sized bowl, whisk together sugar, oil, rice milk, rosewater, vanilla, lime zest and juice. Add cornstarch and whisk until dissolved.

2. Mix in flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon until well combined. Refrigerate dough for 30 minutes, or overnight.

3. Roll dough into balls about 2 teaspoons in size and dip tops into chopped pistachios. Place on ungreased baking sheets, nut-side up, and flatten slightly with two fingers.

4. Bake for 13-15 minutes; remove from oven and let sit on sheets 5 minutes. Remove to rack to cool completely.

They're even vegan (another recipe from the amusing Veganomicon cookbook), so you can pretend they're healthy. I know I need at least a brief respite from all the delicious butter and salt I've had over the past week.

The 12 Days of Teamus: Day 12

2008-12-22T07:10:00.001-05:00

For the last day of this series, I thought a lot about the ultimate tea gift. A year's supply of Uji Gyokuro; a cordless, laser-guided, instant-read thermometer to get that exact water temperature; a handcrafted Japanese birch-veneer tea canister?

Nothing seemed just right.

I realized, then, what my favorite gift is: the first cup of tea I have in the morning. I'm lucky enough to be able to make and enjoy one every day.

So set your alarm five minutes earlier on Christmas morning and make yourself a cup of your favorite tea. Drink it quietly before you do anything else, and just revel in the smell of the leaf brewing and the gentle tickle of the steam on your lips before you close your eyes and sip.

Do it every day, and it will be an endless gift.

The 12 Days of Teamas: Day 11

2008-12-21T08:45:00.004-05:00

Who could resist this porcelain Winter Wren Tea Set ($98) from Anthropologie, consisting of an adorable chunky pot and four diminutive, beak-emblazoned cups?

There's something so relaxing and '70s about this design. And it's the kind of gift that will no doubt be appreciated, especially when wrapped up with some loose tea.

I know I would love to open this gift, if only I could scrounge up three friends to have over. Setting up the stuffed animals at the table and pouring tea for them just seems so second grade.

The 12 Days of Teamas: Day 10

2008-12-20T08:45:00.002-05:00

Just when you thought a Christmas gift couldn't get any more ridiculous: A single cupcake stand ($64) from the amazing studio of Whitney Smith pottery.

This hand-thrown, pale-pink glazed stand and bell-jar lid- topped with one little, tiny, perfect bird- is almost cute enough to eat. Can you imagine finding this under the tree?

And if you sneak a tea-flavored cupcake inside before you wrap it up, then you probably can get out of gift-giving for the next three years, at least.

The 12 Days of Teamas: Day 9

2008-12-19T08:45:00.003-05:00

This one may seem a bit over-the-top, but think about it: A cup of tea gets cold pretty quickly unless you're chugging it. So this knit mug cozy ($20) from Ruth Cross is actually a necessity.

Admit it, it's ridiculously fetching.

It's crafted out of a soft alpaca-wool blend, it comes in your choice of black, gray, white or berry, and nothing will keep your recipient's darling little hands (and cup of tea) happier.