That's for Remembrance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.