whoopie pies

In case you haven't noticed by my 'olde English' spelling, I'm Canadian. While there aren't any appreciable differences between Canadians and Americans at first glance, the subtleties are what Canadians notice and often ruminate about...or should I say 'aboot'? It comes with the territory of living next to 'the elephant'. Judging by some of the hilarious dialogue on 'Flight of the Conchords', our predicament is much like that of the New Zealanders and their proximity to Australia.

But I digress. My mission today is to discuss my newly discovered love affair with the whoopie pie. Here in Canada we grew up with something called a Jos. Louis, a packaged treat that never really called out to me as a child. Chocolate not being a particular passion of mine, I was more of a Twinkie girl; and if chocolate was forced to be a part of the equation, I'd choose a Hostess cupcake anyday. 

A few months back I was watching an episode of 'Martha' - crazed, hooting audience aside, she still offers some great content - and a couple of ladies from Maine were on the show baking off their signature whoopie pies. Martha had tried them when she was on vacation in Maine, and declared they were the best whoopie pies she'd ever eaten...so of course I had to give them a whirl.

My husband, having a serious addiction to chocolate (he has to eat a piece in some form every day), was celebrating a birthday, so I thought this was the perfect sweet to honour him with. The recipe was straightforward enough and called for only two items unfamiliar to my kitchen: a muffin top pan and a jar of Fluff . While I'm not a fan of using 'fake' ingredients in my cooking, I have a dark side that craves gutter food in all its glory: poutine, wings, jalapeno poppers, the list goes on. Which is really why the whoopie pies were so compelling: transforming a variety store sugar fix into to a home-baked surprise. So Pygmalion!

Unfortunately as I began cooking, it became apparent that Eliza Doolittle was not giving up without a fight. The batter for the dough was very thin and required the structure of the muffin top pan to contain it. The pan had to be well-buttered and lined with circles of parchment paper to facilitate the release of the cakes once they were baked. After retrieving the baked cakes from the oven, they were allowed to sit for about 10 minutes before I began what proved to be the masochistic process of removing them from their shallow graves. There was no question these cakes would be tender and moist, but almost to a fault. At every nook and cranny of the pan they stuck, while I patiently, oh so patiently, tried to cajole them out with an offset spatula. It was a heart-breaking exercise, and it didn't stop there. The parchment circles, though coated in butter, behaved as though they were sheets of glue. It was carnage.

If it weren't for the look of anticipation on dear Joe's face, I might have flung my arms up in surrender; but one has to soldier on for those we love. A few of the cakes made it out relatively unscathed, so they were set aside as the 'tops'. I spread a buttery slick on a sheet of parchment paper and laid down my broken cake bottoms, gluing them back together Humpty Dumpty-style with the marshmallow filling. An ice cream scoopful of the filling was plopped on top of each bed of cake and topped with their better-looking siblings. When reveal time came, the birthday boy was none the wiser. It was so worth the effort: these are now his favourite special-event treats.

Recently the New York Times ran a recipe for whoopie pies from Zingerman's Bakehouse in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Considering the source (both newspaper and bake shop), I knew it was worth trying. Also intriguing was the fact that this cake batter was thick enough to be scooped onto a sheet of parchment. I questioned how such a flour-dense batter would fare against the impossibly tender cakes of the Cranberry Island Kitchens recipe, but I was up for some low-stress baking. Conversely, the filling in this recipe was entirely homemade - no jars of Fluff here. So, seeing as I was in a pinch for time (a pack of feral hockey fans were about to descend on the house to watch the 'big' game - whatever that means), I decided to borrow the easy components of each recipe to make one stress-free whoopie pie. The combination of the Zingerman's cakes and the Cranberry Island Kitchens filling was, while not as ethereal as the original recipe I'd made, still a delicious, zero-anxiety alternative. Good enough for a bunch of hockey fanatics...and me.

whoopie pies
Adapted from The New York Times & The Martha Show
Makes approximately 12 pies

I doubled the original recipe for the cakes and they turned out fine, so of course you can half it and the filling recipe to produce only 6 pies. Also, because there are two separate recipes at play here, you may find you'll end up with more cakes than filling. These cakes are still tasty on their own, but you can always spread a layer of chocolate-hazelnut spread on the extras to make things interesting. Very interesting.

Ingredients for Cakes:

1/2 lb (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
2 cups light brown sugar
2 large eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 1/2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp sea salt
4 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cocoa
2 cups buttermilk

Ingredients for Filling:
Makes 3 3/4 cups.

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
2 cups sifted confectioners' sugar
1 jar (7 1/2 ounces) marshmallow Fluff
2 tsp pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a mixing bowl, cream together the butter and brown sugar. Add the egg and vanilla extract and beat until light and creamy. In a separate bowl, whisk together the baking soda, salt, flour and cocoa. Add dry ingredients to butter mixture in three parts, alternating with buttermilk, and combining well after each addition.

Using an ice cream scoop or a spoon, scoop out 24 1/4-cup mounds of batter and place about 6 inches apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake until tops are puffed and cakes spring back when touched, 12 to 14 minutes. Remove from oven and cool completely before filling.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together butter and sugar until pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add Fluff and vanilla and continue mixing until well combined.

Using an ice cream scoop or spoon, place 1/4 cup buttercream on flat side of each of 12 cakes, spreading it to edges. Top filled half with another cake to sandwich the buttercream. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days, or wrap individually and freeze for up to 3 months.

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I love dill. This doesn't exactly distinguish me as possessing an extraordinary palate, I know. Thing is, the taste of dill is one of Joe's most deep-seeded hates, so it's become an illicit herb in our household. I can sneak a pounded-to-a-pulp pinch of cilantro into a bowl of guacamole, but a single frond of dill embedded in an 8-serving casserole will give rise to an expression best described as "sucking on lemons". Not what I'm looking for (nor is he for that matter). Problem is, I'll never learn. I keep hoping against hope that he will get over this aversion and finally embrace the grassy, astringent tang of dill. It is such a distinct flavour that it becomes the signature element of any dish it's in. Consider Swedish meatballs, or pickles, or deviled eggs. There's just no omitting it from a recipe, which means omitting the recipe altogether. Feh, I say.

This conflict came to roost once again while I was watching an episode of Sarah's Weeknight Meals on PBS. Michael Psilakis, chef/owner of Kefi, Anthos and Mia Dona in NYC, was preparing a Greek meatball soup which brought back fond memories of an Avgolemono soup I'd made years ago. This 'sister soup', with the addition of rice-studded meatballs, called out to me on a very deep level. 

There was a problem from the get-go: the dish called for a fair amount of dill in both the meatballs and the broth. Forever optimistic - nay, foolish - I felt I might be able to get away with the dill in the meatballs, so long as I held back with the broth. However once I began to cook, I kept marching forward like a blank-eyed zombie, uncontrollable in my urge to dill all that was in my path. In the end, it was all too much dill even for an enthusiast like myself. Of course Joe took one sip and that unfortunate expression took hold of his sweet face, so there I was left with an eight-serving potful of soup all to myself. Crazy stubborn and a hater of waste, I powered through that soup. I ate it for lunch and dinner for three days while sating Joe with grilled paninis and other simple fare to keep him alive. After the last drop of soup was slurped with great relief, I was still left with a few meatballs. In the freezer they went until I was ready to reinvent them.

Cut to two months later... With a bag of whole wheat dinner rolls on the counter and few options in the fridge, I thought a very loose interpretation of a slider might be in order. I reheated a couple of meatballs and spread some mayonnaise and - dare I say it - lemon dill mustard on the buns. Always open to rejection, I thought that a hamburger-style presentation might lure Joe to give one of these a try so, with a hand of restraint, I used plain old yellow mustard on his. For me, this was a yummy reinvention; no unpleasant memories of dill-overkill were brought to the fore. Not so much for Joe - he wouldn't even take a bite. So I scraped the yellow mustard off of his wee burger and added a nice, thick gloop of lemon dill mustard. Mmmmmm.

greek meatball sliders

Adapted from sarahmoulton.com/weeknight meals

Makes 20-24 sliders

The meatballs are poached in a broth in order to cook the rice, but it also happens to result in a very tender meatball. After the meatballs are cooked, the stock can be strained to remove any bits of meat and frozen for future use.

2 quarts chicken stock
5 bay leaves
Kosher salt
Finely milled black pepper
1 lb loaf country white bread, crusts removed
2 cups whole milk
2 lbs ground chicken or turkey (preferably dark meat)
2 large eggs
1/4 cup grated fennel
4 shallots, finely chopped
3 tbsp roasted garlic puree
2 tbsp parsley
2 tbsp dill
2 tbsp mint
1 tsp grated lemon rind
1 cup short grain rice
4 eggs, separated
1/2 cup lemon juice
Extra virgin olive oil

20-24 soft whole wheat rolls

Combine 2 quarts water with the stock, bay leaves, and desired amount of salt in a large stockpot and bring to a boil over high heat. Break the bread into pieces and place in a bowl; add milk and set aside.

Combine chicken or turkey, eggs, fennel, shallots, garlic puree, parsley, dill, mint, lemon rind, and desired amount of salt and pepper in a large mixing bowl. Squeeze excess milk from bread; add bread and rice to meat mixture. Using an ice cream scoop, form equal size meatballs and transfer to a baking sheet. Drop meatballs into boiling stock, reduce heat to medium and poach meatballs until rice is cooked, 1 to 1 1/2 hours. 

Remove meatballs from broth and drain on a rack lined with paper towels, making sure all excess moisture is drained away. If necessary, reheat in a 350 degree oven for 10-15 minutes. Split bun, spread with mayonnaise and mustard of your choice, and top with meatball.

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chana punjabi

I look forward to the New York Times weekly food section with a considerable amount of excitement. Sad? Maybe, but I'm okay with that. I love the simple yet sophisticated recipes they lean toward; more often than not they nail it right on the head.

Of particular interest recently was a chickpea curry offered up by chef Heather Carlucci-Rodriguez of Lassi in NYC. She claimed this was her favourite dish at the restaurant and often finds herself sitting down to a bowl of it when looking for comfort and sustenance.

When I read over the recipe I knew I had to make it, like, yesterday. There's one thing I'll lay out for you right now before you think you can get this on the table in 30 minutes or less: it takes a total of 1-1/2 hours to bring to the table. Pleeeease don't be scared off. Only about half an hour of that is actual hands-on work; the rest is stovetop simmering, requiring you to give it a stir every 10 minutes or so. It is so worth it. It satisfies in the way that a bowl of soup does when the cold penetrates your bones, yet the flavours and aromas bring to mind colourful saris and crippling hot weather. I'm not saying you'll feel like you just returned from a vacation in the subcontinent after setting down your fork (or spoon...or right hand), but there's something transportive about the sweet spice in the air that helps takes the edge off of these last days of winter. If only for a moment.

chana punjabi

Adapted from New York Times, March 4, 2009

Serves 4

Curries tend to intimidate people because the ingredient lists are usually quite long. I know I used to feel that way, but I've learned to review the instructions as a barometer for the labour and time required instead. As with all recipes, get everything set out and prepped beforehand so you're not scrambling once the pot is on the burner.

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 medium onion, chopped
2 tsp minced garlic
1 tsp minced ginger
1 small Thai bird chili, chopped
2 large tomatoes, chopped  (or 5-6 canned plum tomatoes, drained & chopped)
1 1/2 tsp paprika
1 tsp salt, or as needed
1 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp garam masala
1/4 tsp turmeric
1 tsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 15-ounce cans chickpeas, drained
2 tbsp minced cilantro (optional)
Cooked rice for serving (optional).

In a medium saucepan over medium-low heat, heat oil and add onion. Sauté until translucent
and soft, about 5 minutes. Add garlic, ginger and chili, and sauté until soft and fragrant, about 3
minutes. Add tomatoes and 1/4 cup water. Cover and cook until tomatoes are very soft, about 5
minutes, then remove from heat.

Purée mixture in blender or food processor until smooth. Return to pan and place over medium
heat. Add paprika, 1 teaspoon salt, coriander, garam masala and turmeric and saute for 3-4 minutes. Add lemon juice and chickpeas and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low.

Cover and simmer until sauce is thick and chickpeas are soft, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Stir pan
about every 10 minutes, adding water as needed (up to 1 1/2 cups) to prevent burning. When
ready to serve, sauce should be thick (but not pasty). If necessary, uncover pan and allow sauce to reduce for a few minutes, stirring frequently, until desired consistency. Adjust salt as needed, and stir in cilantro, if desired. Serve as is or with cooked rice.

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