smitten kitchen

Oh my god, people. Just OMG. Let’s just make this one succinct, for once? Surely, I am capable of concise thought, right? These muffins are the shockingly good. Make them.

That’s not enough? Fine. Two lemons worth of grated peel are muddled into a paste with sugar, and that sugar is used to bake a simple buttermilk and vanilla muffin that is topped with a whole fresh raspberry. If it sounds simple, that’s because it is, but the flavor is anything but. The lemon peel gives what should be a sweet, harmless muffin a bitter, intense edge, and the raspberry, an almost sour contrast whose impact rivals the best blueberry muffin you’ve ever had. What I once thought was my favorite approach to lemon cake is no longer. There’s a new muffin in town.

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Some days, I’m pretty sure this site is turning into something of a Dorie Greenspan Fan Club. Let us review, shall we? Dorie brought one of my favorite surprise Paris treats into my very own kitchen, directed us to the most amazing chocolate cookie, ever, her deep, dark ganache tart was the kind of easy dinner party dessert that nobody complains about and just last week, her lemon sables were the ideal palette upon which I could paint my margarita cookie aspirations. Everything you might think you like about my baking, you really like about hers. Today, her latest book ushers in another recipe that I am certain will be a repeat hit (once, of course, I get over my addiction to the shiny and the new).

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This is just soo typical for me–finding something haphazardly, deeming it the ideal, losing track of it and then spending really just ridiculous amounts of time searching for it again. But, considering without such, well, undoubtedly better-placed energies there would be a whole lot less of me and you at this URL, today I present to you: The Belgian Waffle.

The waffle-maker is pretty much tops most lists of kitchen stuff you will buy and never end up using. Considering that an ex-boyfriend bought me this Krups one probably five years ago and I’ve used it less than ten times since, I’d not going to argue that you run out to purchase one, even for the sake of the recipe inside that I will not shut up about for the next couple paragraphs.

Unlike a real, traditional, World’s Fair circa 1964 Belgian Waffle, which is yeast-raised in the refrigerator overnight, this one was more like a pancake batter in its simplicity, save for one thing–the egg whites were whipped separately, folded back into the batter making for a waffle that was both light but crisp. I loved the soft crunch on the outside, and determined this was the ultimate waffle but only got to making it once because I lost the booklet. The Krups website and countless Googles proved no help, and sure, I could just ask if you have this same model (odds are, one of you do) and to please share, but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Instead, I have tried a bunch of recipes since.

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Catch-up time! Yet another glorious side-effect of having my nose buried in and my psyche over-identifying with Julia Child’s life in France is that I find myself questioning why so often, we opt for the simple over the fantastic. Why the bagel from Murray’s on a Saturday morning when we could be enjoying our lazy mornings with inordinately good homemade fare? Plus, I tend to wake up hours before my more sleep-skilled roommate, and isn’t cooking a more noble investment of my time than reading the internets and watch the food teevee? Well, we opt for the simple because, unlike Mrs. Child, we have day jobs and I spend my mornings loafing because er, I’m not exactly the most earnest individual, yet sure enough in the last couple weekends breakfast around here had been sublime.

Last Saturday morning, just like my mother did almost every weekend when we were kids, I made pancakes, just plain-old, oat bran, yogurt, nut, seed and dried fruit-free pancakes before running out to catch the last day of the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Whitney. Mark Bittman’s recipe in the New York Times last month was almost exactly like the Joy of Cooking on my mother always used, replete with the confusing step of adding melted butter to cool ingredients, causing odd clumpage, which is of course quickly rectified in a hot griddle, but still. It always made me feel, and still does, like I did something wrong.

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“Jocelyn, come over. I’m making baked French toast for Dave and I.”

“I’m too hung over. I’m dying.”

“Bailey’s French toast will cure anything.”

“I can’t do it. I can’t handle daylight and outdoors yet.”

“Just call a car service. You’ll be here in 30 minutes. Come on, you know you want to.”

“I’ll never make it. It’s too far.”

“Do you want me to call for you?”

“No, I’ll have Jacqui make me French toast instead. How do you make it?”

“Milk, eggs, bread, sugar…”

“Oh my god! Jacquelyn!” Jocelyn starts banging on her sleeping roommate’s door. “We have eggs! We have milk! We have bread! Why aren’t you making me French toast? Debbie’s making Dave French toast!”

Jacquelyn locked the door and hid under the covers.

“You people are terrible friends,” said Jocelyn. “And you both owe me French toast.”

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