Beer 'n Brussels

It's logical, really. You have a beer or two — or a pyramid of them — and before you know it, hunger strikes. It was midnight, and all I could find was a bag of Brussels Sprouts rolling around in the crisper. It was clear what needed to be done. So after just a bit of slicing and braising and buttering, these gleaming morsels appeared.

The Miller Lite had arrived via bicycle messenger, an apparition in shiny blue. It would have been rude not to drink it. It turned out that its watery, Union-made flavor really complemented the petite cabbages.

You don't necessarily need cheap suds to make sudsy sprouts. But then again, you don't really need to make a pyramid of Miller Lite, either. Sometimes you just have to give in to the fact that it's Brussel Sprouts time.


Beer-Inspired Brussels Sprouts

1 large clove garlic, thinly sliced
splash of olive oil
some brussels sprouts — maybe a pound?
2 T butter

Cut the nobby ends off the sprouts, then halve them. If they're really big, cut them in thirds. Heat the oil in a skillet on medium heat and throw in the garlic. Slowly saute it until golden; make sure not to let it burn. You can pick out the garlic chunks at this point, or you can leave them in, depending on how likely you are to go on a date/job interview within the next 24 hours. Toss in the trimmed sprouts and crank the heat to medium high. Add one tablespoon of butter and let them get a little browned. Then pour about 1/4 cup of water in the pan and cover. After five minutes, check to see if the vegetables are bright green and tender. If so, add the last tablespoon of butter, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately, with beer.

Spring Cleaning (Snow Cordially Asked to Leave)

I peered out the window, fully prepared for clouds. I was even ready to accept drizzle. But what I found was so much more heinous, so fully obscene, I could nearly bear it. Snow. In mid-April. Oh, Iowa.

I seldom ventured outside that solemn Saturday. How could I? By some stroke of fate, what I found inside my cupboards suited me just fine. I managed to make lemonade out of a thoroughly lemony day, with the help of some errant lentils. Rummaging in my pantry, I found not one, not two, but three bags of lentils kicking about in the back. I wasn't really in the mood for soup. But what else does one do with the humble legume?

One makes hummus, it turns out.















I found a recipe on Epicurious for a simple lentil hummus, one made with all the makings of the traditional spread but replacing the chickpeas with lentils. Within minutes, my kitchen reeked of garlic and lemon and tahini, and the grayish sludge was dripping from all extremities. It's not exactly the most glamorous of processes, but the reward was sweet: Creamy, flavorful hummus with just a slightly different tang. It didn't bear that sandpapery texture so sadly endemic to lentils, nor did it have the stiffness of a (yawn) chickpea variety. It was, in short, the best of all (Middle Eastern) worlds.
















By the time the sky cleared on Sunday, my fingers had lost the pungent aroma. My pantry was one bag of lentils cleaner. My refrigerator bore the remnants of a dinner fit for a sultan. And, best of all, I think all that garlic scared away the snow.

On to the Impromptu

Like most good things, it began with a whine. A steady flow of whine, rather: "I get soooo lonely there all by myself." "I am going to starve to death." "Fluoreeeeeescent lights." "The cardboardy pizza I bought tastes like cardboard." "Huuuuuuungry."

My roommate works in a computer lab, in one of those jobs that involves a lot of sitting in an empty room. She works over the dinner hour. You may not be aware, but to be starved and trapped in a fluorescent room is mighty unpleasant. So last Thursday, since I happened to have some wild salmon and asparagus lying around anyway, I stepped up to the challenge. Thus, the impromptu midwinter clandestine picnic was born.

The preparation was fairly simple — some blanching, a little baking, and a lot of stirring. The menu: Lemon-glazed salmon with a side of asparagus risotto. The ingredients were straightforward, thanks to the $3/pound wild salmon I had caught at Hy-Vee. The real challenge came in the logistics of transporting such a meal to a sequestered, window-less lab. In order to pull it off, my assistant and I had to synchronize the salmon and rice's cooking time, quickly pack it all up, and haul the whole shebang to the aforementioned lab. It was quite the feat.


Her face upon our arrival, though, validated the effort. That, and infusing the once-sterile environ with the mingling scents of butter, salmon, and white wine. It wasn't your traditional, ants-on-the-blanket affair, but for an icy night in February, we made do.

• I adapted a recipe from Epicurious for the risotto. I skipped the shitake, and when the rice was nearly cooked, I added a handful of frozen peas.

• For the salmon, I baked it at 350 degrees F for about 15 minutes. I brushed it with a glaze made of equal parts butter and lemon juice, and I threw some chopped dill on at the end.

• Lastly, if you are ever packing a post-ecliptal midwinter clandestine picnic, remember these essentials: 1) Go as elaborate as possible, 2) Don't forget extra forks in case passersby are tempted in by the aroma, and 3) Don't get caught

Amish-Inspired Jems

It was nearly two in the afternoon, so the caramel rolls and blackberry pies were gone. Only crumbs remained. In fact, nearly all the shelves in the sparse, clean bakery were bare. But there, tucked in the back, lay a single jar of peach jam. I snatched it up.

My friends and I had stumbled into an Amish bakery near Hazleton, Iowa. The Amish abstain from silly tokens of modernity like electricity or cell phones, but they know a thing or two about baking. I've spent many a blissful day at the Farmers' Market poring over their fresh pies (and strapping young lads), so when I ventured into horse-and-buggy territory, I couldn't resist taking a peek at their offerings. The unadorned jar with a white lid proved just what I was looking for. After all, it was the closest I would get to a peach for months.

Yet it just didn't seem right to just slather the lovely tangerine-hued jam over bread. No, this needed special treatment, something to ease the pain of this death-defying winter. And so I stumbled upon a cookie recipe at Epicurious. I did some serious modifying to their original blueprint, eliminating several hours of finicky preparation. Ultimately, I pared it down to a cookie that is simple, Amish-ly so, if I say so myself. (If any Old Order folks out there are reading this on their iPhones, I'd love to hear any feedback).


Amish Jem Cookies

1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 large egg (beat a whole egg and only use half)
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
About 6 tablespoons peach jam (preferably Amish-made)

Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Stir in salt, vanilla, and egg until well combined. Add flour and combine just until dough forms. Refrigerate an hour or freeze, well-wrapped, for 15 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Roll dough into one-inch balls. Place on a cookie sheet and press each with thumb to form an indentation. Fill each thumbprint with a small amount of jam. Bake 12-15 minutes, or until golden.

Makes about 4 dozen bite-size cookies