Mastering The Art of Serving Forth by Sarah Handelman

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Not Not French French Cooking Publication Publication Publication

“Remember, no one’s more important than people! In other words, friendship is the most important thing ... and it needs to be tended and nurtured.”

— Julia Child

“It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.” — M.F.K. Fisher

First, A Few Words — When I set out to publish this issue of Not French Cooking, the project started simply: Give the gift of a recipe. With the holidays upon us, I saw Serving Forth as a creative approach to giving — without the cost, stress or gift-wrap. But like all things you spend time with, I began to see how the ideas behind Serving Forth were positioned within our daily lives. In other words, this issue became much more than a way to excuse my dismal wrapping skills. I asked the contributors, How can we use the resources we have to make something wonderful and new? Their responses more than answered my question. The recipes here are anything but ordinary directions for making food. Memories, traditions, humor and love comprise the key ingredients and stories behind them. The Occupy movement and international riots have illuminated a growing, global separation — more than ever, we are divided by our politics, our beliefs and our sense of place. However, the holidays require many of us to temporarily park our personal battles and wars to join up at tables everywhere over food and drink. The contributors and stories of Serving Forth remind me that although we are in many ways divided, food — and the act of giving nourishment to others — brings us together. Swapping recipes has forever been a part of the foodmaker’s life. The measurements, directions, doodles and tears on those little notecards help us learn more about each other — where we come from, how we create and whether Crisco or butter prevails. Food is our way of finding common ground and forging ahead. While many of the recipes you’ll find here are quite personal, I hope you feel that they are for you to share and savor: We read that the simplest recipe for sugar cookies can inspire new traditions. We learn that secret recipes are sometimes worth sharing. Anyway, who can resist Grandma’s recipe for Sour Cream Cake, regifted by her granddaughter? More than a cookbook, I now see Serving Forth as a project that challenges and changes the roles of giving and receiving.

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Whether you try these recipes yourself or simply appreciate the thoughts behind these gifts, all of us at Not French Cooking hope they inspire you to serve it forth.

Sour Cream Coffee Cake Let’s begin with

by Sarah Myers

—To: Grandma—

My grandma was not an accomplished chef. Sure, the woman had cookbooks, and mixing bowls, and serving spoons. She had a hand mixer and a soup pot, even a blender that was used exclusively to make “Hummers” (2 parts ice cream, add some Kahlua, add some Bacardi, drink some Kahlua, add some more) every Christmas Eve. She had the supplies, but not the skills. But she did it anyway. She cooked with a recipe card in one hand, and a glass of Franzia red zinfandel in the other. She overcooked pasta and undercooked rice. She bought pies from the store. Which was okay. Because in her own way, my grandma was an excellent cook. Her meatloaf is the best I have ever had, squeezed from a tube and covered in ketchup. Her Jell-O molds are legendary. And no one made a Bundt cake like my grandma. For my grandma, who I could never do any wrong, I re-gift her recipe for Sour Cream Coffee Cake. Since she passed away ten years ago, I have been in charge of the cake at every family event. I use the same pan, the same recipe, but it never turns out quite as good. It’s beyond creaming the butter and sugar, the temperature of the eggs. Something was transferred from her hands and into that cake that cannot be replicated. Because no one I have met has loved like my Grandma.

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Sour Cream Coffee Cake Serves: 15 1 cup butter at room temperature 3 cups cane sugar 6 eggs 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon soda 3 cups flour 1 cup sour cream 2 teaspoons vanilla Topping: 3 cups of chopped toasted walnuts 8 tablespoons dark brown sugar 4 teaspoons of ground cinnamon Pre-heat oven to 300 degrees. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar together for 2 minutes on high. Add the eggs one at a time beating continually. In a small bowl measure the flour, salt and baking powder together. Add 1/2 the sour cream, vanilla and flour mixture slowly to the batter. Add the second half of the sour cream and the remaining flour mixture to the batter. Grease a bundt pan with cooking spray. On a cooking sheet, toast the 3 cups of walnuts in a 300 degree oven for 10-15 minutes or until browned. Allow the walnuts to cool and then chop. In a bowl, measure the chopped walnuts, cinnamon and brown sugar together and mix Putting the coffee cake together: Sprinkle a small amount of the topping in the bottom of the tube pan. Then add 1/2 batter to the pan. Sprinkle with 1/2 the topping then the other 1/2 of the batter. Finish with the rest of the topping. Bake at 300 degrees for 1 1/2 hours.

morrow casserole by Kristin Noe

—To: Julie —

When I was in college, I couldn’t cook.

Most nights I got inventive with boiling water, while my roommate Julie was making roasted chicken with string beans and Boursin cheese potatoes, or a pork tenderloin with a mustard crust. So, imagine her surprise when one morning before an early football game I pulled a perfectly golden brown breakfast casserole from the oven. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so surprised or eat so fast. Julie and my other roommates immediately asked for the recipe, but to their even greater surprise I said no. As the girl who could now make one dish, I couldn’t give my prized recipe away. If I could make this taste good, chances are Julie could make it taste better, and at that time, it was the only thing I had to bring to the table — literally. For Julie, the most generous person I know, here is that recipe along with the promise that I will never keep another one from you (I can cook now!). Chances are when you find out what’s in it, you won’t even want it anymore. You can make better, and probably have.

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Morrow Casserole Ingredients: 2 pounds of sausage (optional) 1 large onion, chopped 5 cups of cheddar cheese, grated 2 cans of Cream of Chicken soup 2 cups of cooked long grain rice 6 eggs, beaten ½ cup of milk 5 cups of Rice Krispies Topping Ingredients: 1 cup of Rice Krispies 1 tablespoon of melted butter ¼ cup of Parmesan cheese Steps: 1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. 2. Saute sausage and chopped onion in olive oil. Drain well. 3. Mix sausage, onion and everything else together in a large bowl and pour into a 13” x 9” pan. 4. Top with topping. 5. Bake for 45 minutes.

Stir fry with Tofu + Quinoa Pad Thai with Prawns Rainbow Trout with Brocolli and Mash Mackarel with Salad by Leona Ekembe

—To: Caspar Rock —

To our super-healthy Wednesdays, To colour, To fun, To taste, To joy, To dancing, To music, To you.

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To To To To To To To To

combinations, colour, fun, taste, joy, dancing, music, you.

Buy

Got

In the fridge

Served with

Tofu

Soy sauce

Carrots

Quiona

Prawns

Chinese five spice

Pepper

Rainbow Trout Mackarel

Sesame Oil Ginger Chilli Garlic Onions

Noodles

Brocolli Spring Onions Shallots Mushrooms Tomatoes

Rice Mash Salad

Lemons Limes Eggs Cashew Nuts Sesame Seeds

Really nice added to a dressing for a little extra kick!!

This set of Wednesday recipes are for my friend Caspar. I wanted it to represent a quality of Casparâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drawings, and with the way we eat Stir fry with Tofu + Quiona - Pat Thai Prawns Rainbow Trout with Brocolli and Mash - Mackarel with Salad together on a Wednesday after yoga â&#x20AC;&#x201D; putting stuff together from my veg-box and cupboard, and always bringing new stuff into the mix.

whiskey whiskey sours sours by Jarrett Fuller

—To: Good Friends—

“It’s whiskey sours tonight!” Ryan would exclaim as he bounded through the door. It was three of us — Eric, Ryan, and myself — and we lived together our last year of school in the small first floor apartment in Building 80 of the Golden Bear Village apartment complex. It was in the far corner of the campus, but we made it feel like a home. The summer before, Ryan decided he wanted to bartend and started taking classes. Eric and I reaped the benefits of this decision, frequently becoming his drink testers. Some nights it would be Tom Collins, and other nights it was Lynchburg Lemonade. I always looked forward to Whiskey Sours. This was our weekly ritual: Friday nights were mixed-drink nights. After a busy week of classes and studying and working and tests, we’d come together around our small table and break our bread over drinks. The work we needed to do could wait; and on this night, we were having whiskey sours. Sipping our drinks, we’d talk about music and movies. We’d talk about classes and the professors we hated and how much work we had. We’d talk about how the winter before we all grew beards and didn’t shave for four months.

We’d talk about television. And politics. And love. And life. We’d talk about the future, where we thought we’d all be this time next year. Would we have jobs? Where would we be living? Would we still have these conversations every Friday night? It was late into the night. The rest of the world slept. Something profound happened to us on those nights in that dimly lit kitchen around that table, but I’m not sure we realized it. On those nights, I think we all felt a little less alone. This past Saturday, I made a whiskey sour for myself. Alone in my fourth floor apartment in New York City, it all came flooding back to me. I can’t open a whiskey bottle without thinking about those nights. The smell drifts out the opened bottle and I’m transported back to that beat-up, wood-veneered table that sat in the middle of our kitchen. As the smell of the whiskey reaches my nostrils, I can’t help but wish those nights still happened. Those are some of my fondest memories. In that kitchen, at that table, over those drinks, we were a part of something. The world fell away around us. Nothing else mattered. We knew — in those moments together — we’d be ready for whatever came next, because we’d be there to help eachother out. The table brings people together. There is an open chair pulled out for you to sit and take a break from the world you carry on your shoulders. Share a meal, split a drink, break some bread. Share your life with those around you. Share your joys and your sorrows. The world is falling apart faster than we can fix it. Maybe if we all gather around the table together, the world won’t feel so heavy. So this is for celebrating the people at the table with us as we strive for more meaningful relationships. Good conversation with good friends and good drinks is best. Pull up a seat, rest your legs. Spend time with the ones you love. Don’t worry about tomorrow and don’t let yesterday keep you down. Remember this moment. Let the world crash around you, let everything else fall away. Because tonight? Tonight, we’re having whiskey sours.

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Whiskey Sour 2 oz blended whiskey juice of 1/2 lemons 1/2 tsp powdered sugar 1 cherry 1/2 slice lemon Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

Presidential vegetable soup by Dwight D. Eisenhower

—To: All—

— 27

pumpkin chocolate chip bread by Brett Randle

—To: Stephanie—

If you’re anything like me, you’ve wondered whether you could somehow cram all the sweetness of the one you love into three 9x5” loaf pans. This is my attempt. Conceptually speaking, this bread is vaguely reminiscent of Honey, I Shrunk The Kids, except the product is delicious and actually worth the time investment. Most would treat the bread as a quick breakfast food. Or perhaps, you could serve it for dessert with ice cream, similar to brownies. But, if you’re anything like me, you’ll serve it up for breakfast. Then follow up breakfast with another helping, with ice cream — as dessert.

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Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Bread Recipe Source: Allrecipes.com Original Recipe yields three loaf pans 3 cups white sugar 1 (15 ounce) can pumpkin puree 1 cup vegetable oil 2/3 cup water 4 eggs 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon 1 tablespoon ground nutmeg 2 teaspoons baking soda 1 1/2 teaspoons salt 1 cup miniature semisweet chocolate chips 1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and flour three 1 pound size coffee cans, or three 9x5 inch loaf pans. In a large bowl, combine sugar, pumpkin, oil, water, and eggs. Beat until smooth. Blend in flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda, and salt. Fold in chocolate chips and nuts. Fill cans 1/2 to 3/4 full. Bake for 1 hour, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Cool on wire racks before removing from cans or pans

what is with this momofuking pie?! by Lauren Downing

—To: Christina Tosi— 32

From: Lauren Downing To: Christina Tosi Subject: Re: “cinnamon bun pie” Dear Ms. Tosi, I purchased your “momofuku milk bar” cookbook (the oh-so trendy, minimalist lowercase Helvetica your emphasis) to whip up a little something unique for an annual event called Fall Feast. A tradition going on five years, Fall Feast is an opportunity to 1.) get dressed up, 2.) get drunk and 3.) spread love and cheer with friends via homemade holiday dishes. Looking to evolve past my tried-and-true chocolate tart from RealSimple.com, I thought your recipes—bound up in a coffee table worthy little package—would do the trick (and would serve as a little pre-Christmas and postthesis present for myself ). Yet rather than love, I came to loathe your so-called “haphazard” and “down-home” desserts (which turned out to be more wd~50 than Betty Crocker) and nearly ripped my hair out (as well as your artful pages) in trying to decipher your ridiculous recipe format. Rather than drone on though, perhaps it would be more effective to recount my evening with your pretentious tome:

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5:05 p.m.: Oh great! She included an ingredients section for the entire book. Dad always said I should have a well-stocked kitchen. Best to read this first. Wait, what the hell? Glucose? Freeze dried corn? Amazon. com? Hmmm…Best to just to steer clear of the crack pie for now. Dammit. 5:15: Ooooh…cinnamon bun pie. Wait, isn’t this just a big cinnamon roll? No, it can’t be. This must be special. Let’s see what the Internet says about it. 5:17: Whaaaa? People think it’s dry and flavorless and they think the Pillsbury canned version is better? Meh, these idiots must have just done it wrong. I can certainly do it better. The Internet is stupid. Christina is obviously a genius. I mean, she worked at wd~50.” 5:17: <calling Jon> “So yeah, I’m just staying in to make a Momofuku cinnamon bun pie. What? No. It’s not just a giant Cinnamon roll. Just trust me. She worked at wd~50. Whatever. It will be delicious. You’re just like the idiots on the Internet.” 5:20: Okay, Christina. You sold me. Jon obviously doesn’t know who you are. I’m in your head now and I want to try your grandma’s cinnamon buns you spent two pages recounting and I now believe in this liquid cheesecake thing you do. Let’s do this. My friends will be SO impressed. Off to the store! 6:19: <returns from bodega> 6:21: Allllright. First up: the Mother Dough (page 222). <flipping> Here it is. ‘Makes about 2 lbs.’ Whatever. That has to be right. This will be totally worth it. I will so use this all the time. 7:15: Fuck all. That was the worst. That bitch better rise or I quit.<flipping back to main recipe> What now? Brown butter (page 28). Yummm. This will be easy. <flipping with arm stuck in page 152> Right, like I thought: just microwave some butter until deep brown. Tooootaly easy. 7:19: I didn’t even know butter could catch fire. Brown butter….pff. More like black butter. 7: 23: God this is going to take a long time. The dough doesn’t appear to be rising. I swear, I quit if it doesn’t rise. <flipping back> Liquid Cheesecake. I am, under no circumstances fucking this one up. 7: 41: Alright, got that mixed up. Now to put it in the pan. Wait, line the pan with plastic wrap? That has to be right, right? It’s not like I got this recipe from some idiot on the Internet. I mean, she worked at wd~50. 34

8:15: JESUS GOD. The liquid cheesecake is just a normal cheesecake with plastic wrap melted into it. Christina Tosi is a bitch. But I’m picking the plastic off of it anyway. 8:16: THE DOUGH ISN’T RISING. And my cheesecake is dead. I QUIT. 8:25: <picking the plastic out of the cheesecake> 8:40: <spreading 2 lbs of flat, oily dough over a pie plate> 8:43: <with sticky dough all over hands, still spreading dough> What’s so great about wd~50 anyway. She’s kind of a dickhead for mentioning it all the time. Who wants milk infusions anyway? You wanna know how to make a cereal milk infusion? Put cereal in milk, dispose of cereal. Gross. 8:47: <still spreading dough> Her scrunchie is stupid. Freeze dried corn is weird. She must be a fucking tyrant to work with. I’m boycotting all Momofuku franchises. 8:50: Fuck it. That’s as good as it gets. Now to spread in the Cheesecake and make some crumble <flips to page 155 for streusel recipe>. COME ON woman! I’m going to get carpal tunnel from all of this flipping! 9:14: GOD that’s ugly. Whatever, let’s get this bitch in the oven. My friends will appreciate the effort. <puts “pie” in the oven> 9:32: <watching Sex and the City season 3 on DVD> Wait…that must have been WAYYYY too much dough. <flips back to page 152> <checks recipe> ½ RECIPE OF MOTHER DOUGH. Oh goddddddddddddd. 9:33: Hey! That’s not so bad! It’s so pretty and browned. Maybe nobody will notice it’s so doughy. 9:54: <while pulling the gigantic, bready pie out of the oven, drops it all over the floor> 9:57: <eats eat pie off floor> 9:58: <pulls a hair wrapped around an old piece of brown rice out of mouth, dies a little on the inside> Since I did eat your concoction Miss Tosi, I can vet the Internet’s criticism: your cinnamon bun pie was not all that. In fact, I think there might just be a little bit wiggle room for improvement on this one. If I may, here is my revised cinnamon bun pie in 5 simple steps (with no flipping!):

Buy Pillsbury canned cinnamon roll kit. Grab your lover by the hand and pull the paper till the can makes a satisfying pop. Mash the dough into a pie shape (or not) and bake. Spread half the frosting over the pie thing and eat the other half with your fingers. Eat pie, lick fingers, repeat. This, Miss Tosi, is what cinnamon rolls are all about. Somewhere between your grandma’s kitchen and (yep, you guessed it!) wd~50, you forgot that baking is all about love and the joy of making. I’m sure you will continue to have wild success in your career and I have no doubt you will pen many more editions of this book, but please do all of us a favor and spare us your culinary pretentions and hard line wisecracks in those future editions. I’m not your employee; I’m just a gal who wanted to bake. And bake I did. The next day, I made my RealSimple.com chocolate tart and it had everyone licking their plates. Imagine that, I didn’t even intern at wd~50! Wishing you a merry and very Momofuku Christmas! Lauren from New York

A recipe for success by Jordan Parshall

—To: All Those Who Are Seeking Success—

First of all, I’m well aware there are different kinds of success. Defining what we mean by success is necessary to reach it. Remember that when asking yourself if you’re successful yet. Also, remind yourself that success, unlike beauty, is not in the eye of the beholder. (It’s in the eye of the beholden?) You set your goals and your standards for yourself. Considering all of that, I am in fact a picture of success. I don’t believe success should be for the few, though, (call me a socialist) so I am thrilled to use this arena to introduce you to my Recipe for Success. I’m not so vain to think it’s the only one, but I am vain enough to think it’s good enough to share. Warm wishes on your trek to success!

— 39

— —

“Necessories for the Adorable Man (or Woman)” is just an example of dressing for success.

Dress for Success

See yourself the way you’d like to be seen. Present yourself in the clothes you’d like to receive as presents. Seriously though. Even on a budget you can choose key items that have that extra something to make you that much more excited to change out of your onsie and get off of your couch. The trick is deciding what single items excite you like that. Some people need a classic and tasteful accessory that offers a sense of comfort and esteem. Others add a dash of animal print to an otherwise sterile wardrobe to feel dangerous and exotic. The point is to find a look that suits you (don’t forget to check out your rear end in the mirror at the pant store because nobody wins in illfitting pants) and to feel happy in your clothes.

Ingest for Success A happy stomach makes a happy human. I have no scientific or statistical evidence to support that statement. And it isn’t an ancient proverb I accidentally butchered while translating to English (at least not that I know of ). It’s based purely on empirical data gathered by me, about me, every day of my life. I’m now using that information about myself and extrapolating it to include all humans. So, a key to success? Make your stomach happy. Make others’ stomachs happy. Make all the humans happy. Mini cherry cheesecakes are a quick, easy, and delicious method for all this happiness. 2 (8oz.) packages cream cheese, softened 2 eggs 1 tsp. vanilla ½ C sugar Nilla Wafers Pie filling of choice (who are you kidding? Cherry is the best) Mix softened cream cheese, eggs, vanilla, and sugar until creamy. Put a Nilla Wafer in the bottom of cupcake paper. Fill half full with cheese mixture. Bake at 350 degrees, 12 to 15 minutes. Cool on wire racks. Spoon pie filling (cherry, I hope) on top. Store in refrigerator. Makes approximately 24 cupcakes.

Coalesce for Success As I’ve addressed in the previous two tips, making yourself happy and making all the humans happy are important components to success. So, connecting yourself with the other humans is necessary for that. Create a community full of people you enjoy, respect, value, and who feel all of those things about you in return. There’s no shame in wanting your positive feelings toward someone to be reciprocated. There is shame in concentrating too heavily on winning over the unwinnable, however. Those folks are probably jerks. Anyway, pick yourself some winners and foster a community. Come together to eat, play games, watch moving pictures, etc. I’m already envious of how much fun you and your friends will have. I only get through it knowing my friends and I are having just as much fun because we’re awesome.

the veggielog by Ray de Mesa

—To: Joseph Beeman and All My Hungry Friends—

I was just cooking myself breakfast a few minutes ago when I remembered about this project of yours. This meal is so yummy and reminds me of childhood and family. It also makes me very happy to be Filipino. This is a recipe for a traditional Filipino breakfast. The name of the dish depends on what type of meat is used, but since I am vegetarian, I always use veggie sausage. Thus, I have named it a fake name: Veggielog. It is comprised of four parts: garlic-fried rice, eggs (usually over easy), some kind of meat, fresh-sliced tomatoes.

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The Veggielog First, you will need a small pot to make rice and a frying pan to fry. if you have a rice cooker, you should use the rice cooker. I do not have a rice cooker, but the frying pan I use is my very handy and versatile Paula Deen skillet. To make the garlic-fried rice, you’ll need: jasmine rice, onions, and garlic — the most important ingredient! Measure 1 cup of rice and 2 cups of water. Add to the pot and let it boil for about 15 minutes. This 1:2 ratio of rice:water is perfect for those, who are like me, who like their rice soft and a bit sticky. While the rice is boiling, chop up some garlic. Three cloves is probably fine, but if you love garlic like me, you can increase this number to the demand of your garlicky appetite. Then, you can chop up some onions. Not too many. Maybe just 1/5 of a small yellow onion — so it doesn’t overpower our very important ingredient. Next, heat up the pan or your Paula Deen skillet. Add some oil; I use olive oil, but Filipinos definitely do not use olive oil. Throw in the garlic and onions and wait for the caramelizing goodness to greet your nose. Add Salt&Pepper to taste. Hopefully by this time, the rice will be ready. You should now add the rice to the pan and proceed to fry the rice with the garlic and onion. The frying should last about 2 to 3 minutes. Once it ready, put this rice in a cute large bowl or plate. Now for the eggs. 2 eggs usually suffice, but you can also fry as many eggs as you wish. The pan is still oily, so no need to add more oil. Make your eggs the way you like them, but I highly recommend making them over easy. Once they are easied, place them in your large bowl with the rice, or plate (if you’re using a plate). Then comes the meat. Filipinos usually use some kind of cured meat, such as beef or pork, or even fried fish, but I diverge from this tradition and use my favorite Trader Joe’s Italian veggie sausage. Yum. Slice up your sausage and fry. Then toss it into your bowl or plate. Last is the tomato. As you can imagine, this breakfast may seem a bit oily, so the tomato is essential to offset the queasiness you may feel after ingesting so much oily food. This is the function it serves me, anyway. So slice up some fresh tomatoes and add to your bowl and/ or plate. Tada! you are now ready to enjoy your traditional Filipino breakfast. I actually was enjoying my own bowl as I was happily writing this to you. 44

basic sugar cookies by Katrina Tauchen

—To: Jon and Rebekah—

Holiday traditions bloom so easily when you’re a kid. Whether it’s advent calendars or ice skating, handmade gifts or hot chocolate, most of us could probably put together an impressive list of foods, smells, sounds and activities that make us feel like Christmas, simply because they’re tied to the way we’ve always celebrated. But somewhere along the road, we all grow up. We move away from home, get jobs, get married, and the time comes to start building traditions of our own. Some attempts turn out better than others, but if we’re lucky, we land on something that sticks. For the past three years, my husband, Jared, and I have taken part in a cookie-baking extravaganza with our good friends Jon and Rebekah. We’d meet at our apartment one night in December and commence the planning, mixing, baking and decorating of hundreds upon hundreds of Christmas cookies, of all different kinds, to give as gifts to family and friends. It was always a massive undertaking (the first year took us well past 1 a.m.), but it quickly became one of my favorite holiday traditions. This Christmas finds Jared and I living in North Carolina instead of mid-Missouri. Jon and Rebekah won’t be coming over for our annual cookiepalooza this year, but I do hope the tradition continues in spirit. When Jared and I pull out the snowflake cookie cutters and begin rolling out dough, we’ll be thinking of our baking comrades back home — and hoping they’re doing the same.

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This recipe, a slight adaptation of a Real Simple favorite, is for Jon and Rebekah, and it’s the basic sugar cookie dough behind some of our best-decorated masterpieces over the years.

Basic Sugar Cookies 2 1/2 cups flour  1/4 teaspoon baking soda  1/2 teaspoon kosher salt  1 cup unsalted butter  3/4 cup sugar  1 egg  3 teaspoons vanilla In a medium-sized bowl, mix flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside. Using electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until smooth. Add egg and cream until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and mix until combined. Turn mixer on low speed, gradually add dry ingredients and mix until fully incorporated. Form dough into disk shape, wrap with plastic wrap or parchment paper and refrigerate for at least one hour. Roll out dough on floured surface until it’s about 1/4 inch thick. Cut out your cookie shapes and place them about an inch apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes (or until edges turn golden brown).

CHERRY PIE disappearing acts and cherry pie by Sarah Handelman

—To: Family—

To anyone who entered, the dining room of his sister’s house would have smelled like a normal kind of good: Beef. Potatoes. Young green beans, chopped and buttered. Salt and pepper to taste. But to Charlie, the fragrance was every favorite dinner wrapped into one early evening. The smell from the kitchen was slow to build, and as the warm Sunday dragged on, the collective offering of the ingredients grew rewardingly, like chopped wood that piles up for big fires. Michaela had been planning this dinner for some time. She promised Charlie that it would be perfect. “I know Mom and Daddy will have a good dinner for you before you leave,” she said on the phone from Fort Benning. “But this one’s going to be special. Everything you want.” Michaela had been bugging her baby brother for weeks about what to make for his last night before shipping out, but Charlie wasn’t picky. He liked what all the boys like — meat and potatoes. Last fall, Charlie’s thoughts of meals kept him going as he drudged through mud and slop and drills. Damp October wrapped around him like cold, wet leaves. In early roll calls, the only sound louder than the screams of sergeants was the collective chatter of the battalion’s teeth. To stay warm he imagined biscuits with gravy thick enough to squeeze each rib, and all those spices he never learned the names of but loved. Every night in those bunks was a starless sleep. The fear they all repressed during drills stirred their unwilling, unconscious bodies. In dreams, they shouted random lines from letters sent by their families. They twitched and jittered like anxious dogs in thunderstorms. And Rizcheck — that fucker who was so quiet during the day — was the only one who could sleep through his own blood-curdling screams. When Charlie knew sure-as-Hell he wouldn’t get a night’s sleep, he’d close his eyes and force himself to drift to his family’s dinner table. Anything would taste good. No, he wasn’t picky. Not one bit.

Charlie would get to Fort Bennings the day before shipping out, and there’d be a lot to do. Michaela’s husband Justin was gone on his eighth tour, and she already had Baby Jim to look after. His sister would make anything he asked for, but he didn’t want to be a pain. “What about pot roast?” Charlie finally suggested during the phone call with his sister. That was pretty simple. Just let it stew all day. “Okay,” she said. “Pot roast it is. And potatoes? I know you’ll want potatoes. How do you like them?” Yes, potatoes — baked potatoes. The questions kept coming, and Charlie dutifully answered. But dessert was easy. He always wanted his mother’s cherry pie: the one with the sugary, golden crust that wove in and out like a picket fence. He told Michaela he’d ask their mother for the recipe. Charlie hadn’t meant to make his mom cry when he finally got around to asking. She was so angry with him for making her cry. But he wanted to take the card to Michaela in Fort Bennings. And 24 hours later, when Charlie would finally be shipped out, he’d fold up that recipe and take it with him to war. He didn’t want to be sentimental, but he liked to imagine carrying that card in the hidden pocket of his fatigues. He figured if he wasn’t allowed to tell his family where he was going, he could at least keep those instructions close. Charlie watched as his mother quickly found a tissue, blotted under her eyes and slid the metal container of recipes out from a far corner on the counter. The afterthoughts of fruit stickers covered its metal lid. She flipped open the box, and Charlie watched her manicured fingers shuffle through what looked like a hundred creamy, blue-lined index cards. He wanted to remember this. He had been trying to remember it all lately. It was a way of combating the sinking boredom that, until recently, had been mounting by the day. For months, he’d heard nothing from his sergeant. Charlie wondered if they’d forgotten to deploy him. He was torn up by all the things he needed to do and see and say before he left, and not wanting to do or see or say anything. He felt like his dog must feel, when he wants to go outside but it’s too goddamn hot. Word finally came. He’d fly to Georgia, stay with Michaela on the base and leave the next day. The goodbyes happened like fast, deep sleep. Charlie felt his mom’s lips on his cheek and his dad’s uncommon embrace. His head was a haze. There wasn’t enough time to think, and he didn’t think thinking right then was too good of an idea anyway. All this long waiting was finally amounting to something, he thought, as he boarded the plane towards Fort Bennings. Just one day at Michaela’s house, and the next day he’d be gone.

But when Michaela and the baby met him at the airport, Charlie knew the waiting was far from over; It had turned into witching-hour waiting. Yeah, that’s what it was, he thought. The worst kind. Trigger-happy waiting. “Maybe I can get you to mow the lawn,” Michaela joked as they pulled up to the taupe-colored, cookie-cutter house on the army base. She was good at not talking about what would happen tomorrow. She’d had practice. Inside the house, Charlie helped his sister write a grocery list for the evening’s dinner. Michaela had woken up early to prepare the roast. “The beef’s pretty much taken care of, I guess,” she said as she dug through her purse for the keys. “But I picked up skim milk instead of 2 percent, so I’m gonna go back and get that. And I thought it’d be nice to get some eggs and bacon for breakfast tomorrow. And green beans. I thought I’d make those too. And Kira’s got two-pounds worth of cherries her mom just gave her, and she said we could use ‘em because I didn’t want the canned stuff for the pie. You don’t want the canned stuff, do you? I’m gonna swing by her house on my way back. Where did I put my keys? I just had them.” “Don’t forget this.” Charlie handed Michaela the recipe card that had already traveled 1000 miles from its corner in their mother’s kitchen. “Oh, I won’t,” she said. Michaela left Baby Jim with Charlie while she ran errands. Together, uncle and nephew played on the soft, white carpet in the living room. In a quick movement, Charlie scooped up Jim and held the baby against his chest. Charlie closed his eyes, breathed in Jim’s smell — powder, sun and Johnson’s shampoo — and mentally filed it among the best smells on earth. Holding Jim tight, but gently by the stomach, Charlie raised him overhead. Slowly they flew across the living room. Jim laughed and squirmed from the top of his uncle’s outstretched arms. Charlie held firm, never taking his eyes off the boy, who looked like a baby blimp happily drifting across the sky of ceiling. They continued to play when Michaela returned. As Charlie helped Jim grip the baby rattle, he listened to his sister as she conjured the tell-tale sounds of the cherry pie: Paper bags of sugar crinkled from the kitchen like tangible white noise. Between the baby’s gurgled laugh, spoons and beaters drummed on bowls. Michaela’s hands sang in whooshes as they spread flour across the countertop. The rolling pin hummed methodically as her jewelry unevenly clacked against its wooden surface. Every few minutes silence interrupted the clamor of glass dishes and mixing. Charlie imagined that his sister was double-checking the recipe card. 53

That evening, when they sat down to eat, the siblings were quiet. They were unpracticed at being alone together for so long. But everything that Michaela made was delicious, and Charlie told her so. “I’m sure it’s not as good as what Mom made for you,” she said. “No, it really is good. It’s better. I wouldn’t lie.” This was true. “Well, I believe you then, but you’d better slow down, or you’re not getting any dessert.” Outside, the metallic whir of planes competed with the buzzing of fat, lazy flies. It was nearing eight o’clock, and the sun danced through the dining room’s slotted blinds. Baby Jim wiggled in his high chair and swatted his overstuffed fingers at the light that flickered across the table. Michaela used her white napkin to wipe off Jim’s drooly mouth. She looked tired. By this time tomorrow, Charlie would be so far away from it all, and flying close to what he’d spent his whole life dreaming about. He hadn’t felt scared yet. He’d always been sure. But as Michaela heaped more green beans and another potato onto his plate, he wished that he’d been chewing slower lately. That night Charlie watched his sister tuck Jim into his crib. Blue clouds of soft blankets and pillows padded the boy, whose cheeks were still rosy from the warm bath they’d given him. Jim released an elated, tired gurgle while Michaela sang a lullaby. It was the same lullaby their mother had sung to them. Charlie hadn’t heard it in so long. He forgot it was a song he knew. Tonight, as the easy words chimed from Michaela’s throat, it was hard not to think about everything he was leaving. Before they said goodnight, the siblings shared a slice of cherry pie at the kitchen table. They didn’t say much. Mostly, they talked about cute Baby Jim and how much he looked like Justin, his daddy. Michaela was pleased with the dessert. “I’d never tried to make Mom’s recipe on my own before. I think it turned out okay. It’s tarter than hers is, but I like it. I really do.” “Tart’s nice though,” said Charlie before taking the last bite. “I don’t like that really sweet stuff.” Sour cherries stung at the roof of his mouth. With each bite, the buttery crust crumbled and nestled itself into the nooks of his back molars. A bit of gooey filling had gotten stuck between his gum and upper lip. Charlie slid the clump to the back of his mouth and swallowed. “The waiting’s been hard,” he said and put down his fork. Michaela let out a sigh that sounded like it held the world’s waiting. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s about as far from easy as we are from home. The drive is always longer than you think. But tomorrow’s almost here. I’m sure you’re a little relieved.” 54

If anyone knew anything about waiting, it was Michaela. Justin had called earlier that day to say hello to everyone and coo at Baby Jim. Michaela could be genuinely excited about most things, but when she heard Justin’s voice for even a few minutes, her eyes changed — their chestnut browns looked like they’d been cracked open. It was as if she could stop wondering how her husband was and where he was because suddenly he was right there, in her ear, telling her he loved her. What a strange limbo Michaela has lived, thought Charlie. Her home was a launching point that propelled the men she loved into a world she wasn’t allowed to know. The baby and her job at the hospital kept her busy, but Charlie guessed there was always a little too much room left in Michaela’s head at night for wondering and waiting. Charlie watched his sister stand up and go about last-minute chores: She closed the windows and blinds, checked to make sure the back door was locked and filled a glass with water from the tap. They were all sundry movements to put off the moment when she’d have to go to sleep, alone, again.

—

Before leaving the kitchen, she kissed the top of Charlie’s buzzed head. For a second, a sensation lingered within the nerves of his scalp, but like the days and the dinner and the lullaby, it disappeared. It all disappeared. “I love you, brother,” Michaela said, and she went upstairs to bed.

Cherry Pie

(passed down from my grandmother) Filling

Crust

1/2 cup flour

2 cups flour

1/2 cup sugar

12 tsp salt

1 tsp lemon juice

6 tbsp water

1/4 tsp cinnamon

2/3 cup + 1 tsp Crisco

2 cans tart cherries Sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top of crust. Bake for 15 minutes at 425, then reduce heat to 350 and bake for 40 minutes. 55

organic shells and white cheddar macaroni & cheese by Kiernan Maletsky

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;To: Sarah Myersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Helpful Tips Based In No Way On Personal Experience There are many ways to spruce up mac ‘n’ cheese. Some sort of casserole, perhaps? Here’s the thing: If you were going to do that you’d be filling your shopping cart with wholesome food items that require you to do more than add water, milk and (optionally) butter. Also, you don’t own a casserole dish because it didn’t come in the Wal-Mart Kitchen Starter Pack. When you spring for the organic man ‘n’ cheese from Trader Joe’s, who do you think you’re kidding? Is it worth the $1.30 to pretend like you’re a fully functioning adult who shops with a list and foresight instead of unconscious impulse? Do not walk away from the six cups of boiling water, make the sudden revelation that the entire series of Party Down is on Netflix streaming and subsequently that a bunch of your friends are at a show, and return to realize you’ve baked the sealant off the bottom of your Wal-Mart Kitchen Starter Pack pot. 4 tablespoons is crazy amount of butter. Resist the temptation to set down a kitchen towel on the table and eat straight out of the pot. It will be hard enough to stop yourself eating for 2.5 as it is. Do not, under any circumstances, move out of an apartment you share with a former professional chef.

—

To Sarah, whose expert administration of spices has never once involved Disodium Phosphate.

Organic Shells and White Cheddar Macaroni & Cheese Organic Pasta Shells (unspecified quantity) Organic Pasteurized Milk (unspecified quantity) Salt (unspecified quantity) Enzymes (unspecified quantity) Organic Whey (unspecified quantity) Disodium Phosphate (unspecified quantity) Serves: 2.5 people Boil 6 cups water. Stir in pasta, bring to boil again. Cook 8-10 minutes. Drain. Add 3 Tbsp lowfat milk and cheese packet. Mix well and serve. For richer flavor, add 2-4 Tbsp unsalted butter.

a toast by Joe

—To: Surrz—

Until my third year of college, I was part of what seemed to be an inseparable trio. There was Clint, the little guy with a big personality who seldom made a good first impression; Sarah, my hip, neurotic Facebook wife who took pride in her ability to fart on cue; and me, the baby, who was just learning how to talk and couldn’t be left alone with strangers. We met in high school at a summer fine arts academy. Clint was my roommate and Sarah was one of my last major crushes before I came out as gay. None of us could have predicted that the relationship would last beyond the summer, but we ended up being live-in best friends for more than half of college. Midway through our junior year, Sarah went to London for a semester abroad, and I asked one of my classmates to sublet her room. Even though this new girl was someone I liked, I was apprehensive about living with her. I didn’t necessarily respond well to change, and living with Sarah and Clint was finally starting to feel easy, natural. We had endured a lot: Sarah’s almost hourly downward dog gas releases, Clint’s underdeveloped, bordering-on-misogynistic ideas about abortion, me sleeping with one of Sarah’s new (boy)“friends.” I wasn’t interested in developing new history with someone else. But to my surprise, the transition from Sarah to new girl was actually smooth. It almost seemed like Sarah was replaceable; like our deepseated bond had been imagined. Sometimes I even preferred new girl. She was more emotionally stable and less smelly – and, thanks to her dad’s job in liquor distribution, she furnished us with a steady supply of high-end booze. I noticed that Sarah was adjusting to our transatlantic BFF-ship without much trouble either. She was falling in love with an English boy and getting chummy with her new sorority girl “flatmates.” (Ew.) Whether born from necessity or a long-awaited chance to pursue something new, it looked like we were moving on.

Four months later, Sarah came back. Despite all the excitement we tried to manufacture on our Facebook walls and in exclamation-point-filled emails, we couldn’t fake it when she finally arrived. In the one phone conversation we had during her first two weeks at home, she erupted in tears and announced that she wanted to live alone the following year. And when she came to visit me at school (slash came to find a new apartment), I had to compete with her new penchant for long solo walks and the doodling/journaling she did in this little red notebook she suddenly carried with her everywhere. It was annoying. And I started to give up. When summer came, new girl moved out and Sarah moved back in. We continued not to acknowledge the change in our relationship and focused instead on our lease’s expiration date – a day when it wouldn’t matter anymore. There was a period of deliberate avoidance, following an incident that, when retold, is unbelievably boring, but during which I wondered when she’d finally break and try to kill Clint and me in our sleep. Then, one night, it came. The subtle, almost inaudible tapping on my door. The true moment of insanity. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I thought. “Maybe she’ll have a gun.” I turned off my lights and waited, trying not to breathe. She knocked again. “Joe,” she said, “Can we please talk?” Months prior, we had bought tickets to see Vampire Weekend at Pitchfork Music Festival. It was two weekends away now, but given our vows of aggressive silence, I assumed we wouldn’t be going anymore. At least not together. “That must be it,” I decided. “She just wants to officially cancel.” Phew. “Joe,” she repeated, “I know you’re in there.” Appreciating her persistence, I made my way to the door and opened it partway. “Hey, sorry, I was just lying down,” I fibbed, rubbing my eyes and trying to muster a believable yawn. “Are you hungry? I just made some toast.” “…?!!” Months of palpable tension, weeks of not speaking and now, at 11 PM, she wanted to see how I felt about a snack. I couldn’t believe it. Was it a trap?

“Uhh, sure?” I said, failing to hide my skepticism. “I haven’t poisoned it, I promise,” she reassured me. “I just…I really miss being your friend.” And that was all I needed to hear. As much as I thought I wanted to dislike Sarah – and as determined as I had been with Clint to follow through with our grudge – I didn’t know how to. She was my best friend, and I missed her too. We hugged and ate and hugged some more. We showed each other photos of our new boyfriends on Facebook, and we hammered out the details for going to Pitchfork together. Slowly, we pieced back together what we had come really close to letting fall apart. We didn’t need to apologize; we didn’t need to forgive each other. We just needed to remember who we were: Sarah and Joe, gay husband and wife, the remaining duo of the once inseparable trio. Best friends once again.

Toast Whatever bread you have on hand Butter Honey Sharp cheddar cheese, sliced – the sharper, the better Fresh cracked pepper (optional) Spread 1-2 perfectly toasted slices of bread with as much butter as you like. Allow time to melt. Next, drizzle, pour or slop on a generous amount of honey; aim for an even distribution. Add a layer of sliced cheese such that each bite contains a nice bit of tang. If you can hold out long enough (read: if you’re not relying on this meager snack to satisfy your unrelenting drunchy-hunger), top it off with an optional but worthwhile dusting of fresh cracked pepper. Chew slowly. When it’s over, it’s over. Best enjoyed with a glass of water and/or an overnight guest you’re hoping to earn some last minute points with. Works well to win over lost friends; less effective at making up for mediocre sex.

Cheers. 63

A Word About The Title Mastering the Art of Serving Forth borrows the titles of two books on food: Julia Child’s beloved Mastering the Art of French Cooking and M.F.K. Fisher’s brilliant Serve It Forth. Combined, the two seminal texts inspired the project’s framework to rethink gift-giving and recipe-writing conventions. Plus, if we can’t dine with this pair of culinary and literary heroines, we can at least relish in a few of their words. www.notfrenchcooking.com