smitten kitchen

“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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Back when I was still getting daily “are you okay?” and “do you need anything” phone calls from my mother each morning after my little rumble with the stairs, she told me one more she’d just made German pancakes for breakfast. “Oh, you remember them, don’t you? I made them once in a while when you were growing up.”

Well no, I don’t. Do your parents ever do this? Insist you ate something often — it was practically a staple, mind you — and it’s news to you. I have no recollection of these puffy, curly, easy-as-sin goodies but I won’t be forgetting them any time soon. They taste like thick, winding crepes with just a hint of sweetness. The recipe suggests you serve them with butter, powdered sugar and lemon wedges, mom suggests her favorite, raspberry syrup but Alex and I are more the Vermont pure maple and fresh berries type.

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The things I do for you people! Well, okay, I do them for me, and rather transparently most of the time, but sometimes, sometimes like perhaps during season in which one is upping the ante on output and is concerned about this ante’s effect on quality, I’m fairly certain I’m going a little further than I typically would. What I mean is, on Sunday night, as excited as I was about this new cookbook we purchased and pleased with the outcome of our lentil stew, I couldn’t quit while I was ahead and also baked the orange cranberry scone recipe, to bring to work on Monday. Yes, I spoil my coworkers rotten.

But… eh… I don’t… it’s just… I didn’t love the results. One, they were heavy; heavy, and pretty dried out by the next morning. Now, I know scones aren’t supposed to last forever, but I expect to get at least twelve hours out of them. Call me picky. Second, they weren’t sweet enough, but for this, I will take some blame. I don’t really care for a sticky, saccharine breakfast pastry, and while I understand this to be de rigeur in coffee shops, I just can’t handle that kind of excess first thing in the morning. So, when Ina called for a glaze on top, I skipped it, opting instead to increase the sugar amount in the scone by one tablespoon. It didn’t do the trick, and in the end, I resented a recipe that required a glaze or it just didn’t come together. My third point of contention with the scones was that they tasted of baking powder, like a biscuit, but with none of a biscuit’s charm or bright buttermilk flavor. Finally, they were still in a container on my desk on Wednesday, which as we all know among ravished cubicle-dwellers - who sop up leftover, processed corporate-catered pastries as if those lemon-poppy mini-muffins tasted anything but rank - is the ultimate nail in a baked good’s coffin.

Next!

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“Romaine? Like the lettuce?”
“Like the lettuce. And parsley, you make it into a pesto.”
“But not with basil?”
“No. And then you scoop out a tomato and you put it in the bottom and bake an egg in it.”
“I don’t know, Deb, it sounds kind of weird.”
“It does, right? I mean, pureed lettuce? Blech.”
“So why make it?”
“It’s calling to me.”

Sometimes, I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, and my husband — who was just going to grab some Murray’s Bagels for us — has pretty much given up trying to understand. But, I’ve had a whole week of errands, working late and after-work engagements and I haven’t had a single home-cooked anything since those wee tartlets and I was fiending for the kitchen by Saturday morning. Fiending.

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