The Perfect Pantry

Granulated sugar (Recipe: strawberry rhubarb jam)

On a shelf in my kitchen, fourteen glass storage jars, all the same size and shape, hold things we use every day.

Special-K, oat bran flakes and granola.

Dried beans in shades of red and white and pink and pied, all mixed together.

Leftover dried pasta in a variety of shapes, all mixed together. (I toss a handful here and there into soup.)

Five pounds of all-purpose flour, five pounds of whole wheat flour, five pounds of kosher salt, five pounds of long-grain rice.

And five pounds of granulated sugar.

Yogurt (Recipe: lemon waffles)

Every story about the origin of yogurt involves a nomad and a camel.

Was it Mongol villagers, trying to poison Genghis Khan, who first left milk to sour inside a drinking gourd?

Or was it a Turkish traveler carrying milk inside a goatskin pouch on camel-back in the desert, where the heat and agitation caused the milk to thicken?

We may never know the truth, but we know a lot about yogurt.

Matzoh (Recipe: my dad's famous matzoh brei)

An updated post from the archives, with new photos.

My father, like all dads of the 1950s, mastered a couple of pieces of cooking equipment and had his special dishes that he produced on holidays, and on demand.

With the aid of a charcoal kettle grill in the back yard, he made the world's best lamb chops. In the electric frying pan, on Sunday mornings, he would make Spit in the Ocean, or another weird concoction that involved slices of bologna or salami floating in a sea of scrambled eggs. If that dish had a name, I've repressed it.

Every year in the Spring, my father did his best work, with a straight-sided covered sauté pan, a large melamine mixing bowl ... and his hands. Spring meant Passover, which meant matzoh, which meant matzoh brei. We ate this only once a year. And my dad was the matzoh brei king.

Matzoh (also spelled matzah, or matzo) is unleavened bread, made from wheat flour and water. By tradition and by definition, it's not allowed to ferment; in fact, from the time the water is added to the flour, it must be completely cooked in no more than 18 minutes. The result is a cracker-like consistency and, as you can imagine from something with only two ingredients, virtually no taste. Oh, there are flavored matzohs, enhanced with egg or onion or sesame — there's even chocolate-covered matzoh — but to us those were not "real" matzoh, and we never ate them at home.

Store-bought was our everyday, but for special occasions like Passover, my parents would seek out the more elusive shmura matzoh, which is a kind of artisan product: hand-made, and wood-fired.

Available year-round in my local supermarket, matzoh makes a fine alternative in lasagna, meatloaf, pudding, or chocolate crunch. I can grind the matzoh to make a coating for lamb chops, though they will never taste as good as my dad's, but after years of practice, my matzoh brei is every bit as delicious as his.

By the way, this post goes out to my Cousin Martin, who reminded me that matzoh is an all-the-time pantry item, not just a seasonal substitute for bread in a tuna-with-Miracle Whip sandwich.
 

MATZOH BREI
Pronounced MAT-ZAH BRY, this egg dish resembles a frittata or tortilla española: eggs, something starchy to give body, and salt. My father used to say that his secret was "in the wrist." Now that I make this for my family, I know he was right. I like this just as it comes from the pan, often with sea salt on top, but Ted gives it the pancake treatment (maple syrup, in the photo). Serves 6.

6 sheets of plain store-bought matzoh, from the box
6 eggs
Kosher salt
2 Tbsp butter

Place the matzoh in a large bowl, break it up into chunks, and fill the bowl with lukewarm water. Let the matzoh soak for 2-3 minutes, until it's soft but not disintegrating. Now for some wrist action: grab clumps of the soft matzoh, and squeeze out as much water as humanly possible. Place into another bowl. Repeat until all the matzoh is drained, and you have a bowl full of matzoh clumps. In another bowl, or in a large measuring cup, whisk the eggs with 2 tablespoons of water until thoroughly mixed. Pour into the bowl with the matzoh. Add some salt (start with a heaping teaspoon). Stir everything together.

In a straight-sided non-stick sauté pan over lowest heat, melt the butter, making sure to coat the bottom and sides of the pan. Pour in the matzoh mixture, and level with a spatula. Cover, and cook for 10 minutes or so, checking every now and then to make sure the mixture is not sticking. When the bottom is brown, either (very bravely) flip the entire matzoh brei over in one piece, or do what I do and cut it into quarters. Flip each quarter back into the pan, and cook, uncovered, for 5 minutes or until the bottom is lightly browned and the eggs are set. Cut into wedges, sprinkle with salt (believe me, it will be needed!) and serve.

More recipes in The Perfect Pantry:
Cheesy tarragon omeletta
Asparagus frittata

Eggs (Recipe: asparagus frittata)

For much of the year, within a mile or two in any direction from my house, you'll find a farm selling fresh eggs.

Last summer Ted stopped at a farm up the road from us, to photograph this sign that surely gave passers-by something to think about. Five flavors of eggs? Intriguing! But no, it was the goat cheese that came in five flavors. And no, the eggs weren't in that cooler; they were in the house, properly stored in the refrigerator.

Every culture that has chickens eats eggs, and thanks to Christopher Columbus, who brought some hens with him on his second voyage in 1493, that includes those of us in the United States.

High in protein and choline, and low in calories, eggs qualify as one of the world's healthiest foods -- and one of the most versatile. Without eggs, we'd have no baked eggs, no meatloaf, no egg muffins, no macarons, no egg fried rice, no breakfast tacos and, of course, no soufflé.

In a previous post about eggs, I wrote about the relationship between ear color and eggshell color. If that wasn't wacky enough, here's a bit more egg trivia:

• A hen works hard to produce eggs, and hers is not an easy or glamorous life. She starts laying at 19 weeks of age, lays approximately one egg per day, and gets only half an hour of rest between the birth of one egg and the production of the next. (Whew...) She will turn each egg approximately 50 times a day, to keep the yolk from sticking to the shell.
• In France, a bride may break an egg on the threshold of her new home, to bring good luck and healthy babies. She can clean up that broken egg (or perhaps her new husband will do it for her) by sprinkling lots of salt to help the egg coagulate.
• Eggs are packed in their cartons large-end up, to keep the yolk centered and the air bubble intact.
• Legend holds that you can balance an egg large-end up at the exact moment of the Spring Equinox, which was today, March 20, 2008, at 5:48 GMT. Did anyone try it?
• One large egg has 80 calories.
• One dozen large eggs should weigh 24 ounces (a dozen medium, 21 ounces; a dozen extra-large, 27 ounces).
• The larger the egg, the older the hen who laid it.
• The largest amount of money ever paid for an egg is $18.5 million US dollars, for the Rothschild Faberge egg, which features a working clock and a glass hen inside.

If you're watching your intake of cholesterol, the American Heart Association's recent guidelines allow an egg a day, rather than three per week, as part of an overall recommended daily limit of 300 milligrams of cholesterol.

If you like to have fun with food, check out this great Egg Activity Book for kids, from the Georgia Egg Commission.

And if you still don't know which came first, the chicken or the egg, a geneticist, a philosopher and a chicken farmer have come up with the definitive answer: it was the egg.


ASPARAGUS FRITTATA FOR TWO
Though it's not quite the season for local asparagus here in Rhode Island, I couldn't resist a beautiful bunch from the market. Frittatas are our favorite weeknight fast-food dinner, served with a green salad and a slice of crusty bread. They can be simple or complex, made on the stovetop or in the oven. If you're lucky enough to have farm eggs, your frittata will be a deep golden color, almost like saffron. Thanks to an abundance of cheese, the frittata will have plenty of salt. Serves 2; can be doubled.

5 large eggs
1/2 cup grated cheddar, mild or sharp, or more to taste
Fresh ground black pepper, to taste
2 tsp olive oil
1 small onion or shallot, minced
8 asparagus spears, stems trimmed, cut into half-inch lengths
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or asiago cheese

In a measuring cup (4-cup size or larger), whisk the eggs with a tablespoon of water. Stir in the grated cheddar and black pepper, and set aside.

In a small nonstick frying pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and asparagus, and sauté for 2-3 minutes, until the onions are slightly browned. Pour the egg mixture into the pan, and turn the heat to simmer. Cover the frying pan and cook the frittata gently for 4-5 minutes, or until the eggs are nearly set.

Preheat the broiler. Sprinkle the Parmigiano-Reggiano over the eggs, and place under the broiler until the cheesy top is bubbling. Let the frittata stand at room temperature for at least five minutes before serving. Can be served hot, room temperature, or cold.

More recipes in The Perfect Pantry:
Egg curry
Albornia de chayote
Outrageous brownies
Cheesy omeletta
Frittata with broccoli and garden herbs
Spice cake

Limes (Recipe: lime curd)

Persian limes (also known as Tahiti limes) come from Mexico.

And Argentina.

And India and Brazil and Spain and Turkey and Chile and, yes, from Iran (also known as Persia).

Talk about an identity crisis.

Key limes and kaffir limes, both wonderful, aren't regular inhabitants of my pantry. It's a treat when I have either one.

Persian limes, on the other hand, have a designated parking space on my countertop. Not only are they indispensable for ceviche, but also they're fundamental to papaya-coconut cupcakes, tortilla chips, sweet chili lime prawns, ginger-lime-sweet potato soup, lime roast chicken and lime-honey madeleines. A squeeze of lime juice tops every fruit salad I make, too.

When choosing limes, look for fruits that are firm, bright green, and heavy for their size. Although limes turn more yellow as they ripen, they are at their peak of flavor when they're most green.

Store limes at room temperature for up to a week, or in the refrigerator, in a plastic bag, for up to two weeks. You can freeze lime juice (most conveniently in an ice cube tray), or lime zest; be sure to dry the zest for a bit before freezing it in a plastic bag.

To extract the most juice from a lime, either roll it back and forth on the countertop with the palm of your hand, or place it in a microwave for ten seconds. Warm limes give up more juice than cold ones, so this is especially helpful if your limes were stored in the refrigerator.

Limes are famous for preventing scurvy and cleansing infections, and slightly less famous for triggering margarita dermatitis.

I'll think I'll stick to limeade.

LIME CURD
After extensive testing, Ted proclaimed the original version of this recipe, sent to me by a Pantry reader, the best he'd ever made. So, I thought, why not try it with lime? Use this sweet-tart curd as a filling for mini phyllo shells, slather it on pound cake or waffles, or eat it right from the jar with a spoon.

1/2 cup butter
1-1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup lime juice
Grated zest of two limes
6 eggs, lightly beaten

Put all ingredients, except eggs, into double boiler over simmering water. When butter has melted and before mixture is too warm, gradually whisk in the beaten eggs. Cook, stirring constantly, until thickened to consistency of instant pudding, at least 10-15 minutes. Remove from heat and cool for a while. Then place in a container, cover, and store in the refrigerator.

More recipes in The Perfect Pantry:
Tom yom koong
Egg curry
Coconut flan
Teeny tiny lime tarts

Eggs (Recipe: albornia de chayote)

The last of three posts for my friend Peter, an American chef who's running a beautiful inn and restaurant in the mountains of Minas Gerais, in southeastern Brazil. I'm revisiting some favorite posts this week on The Perfect Pantry, featuring recipes that he might adapt to local ingredients. Ted and I plan to visit some time next year; we'll let you know whether any of these recipes find their way onto the menu at Pousada Capao.

A few years ago, while working on a magazine article (never finished) about "designer eggs" (never found them), I interviewed a woman in our town who's  both a licensed veterinarian and a holistic practitioner. I needed a chicken refresher course, and she invited me to her farm for a lesson in which-came-first.

Of all the things she told me, the one I remember is this: you can tell what color an egg will be by checking the ear lobes of the chicken.

I'm not kidding.

White ear lobes, white eggs. Brown-ish ear lobes, brown eggs.

Anyone who's lived in New England knows the famous advertising jingle: "Brown eggs are local eggs, and local eggs are fresh!" But if, as they say, you're not from here, you might not know that brown eggs are the norm in this part of the country, thanks primarily to our very own state bird, the Rhode Island Red — a brown hen, with brown ear lobes.

Eggs have been called a "perfect" food. According to the Egg Nutrition Center, eggs contain almost every essential vitamin and mineral needed by humans except Vitamin C. Eggs have a biological value (efficacy with which protein is used for growth) of 93.7%, compared with 84.5% for milk, 76% for fish, and 74.3% for beef, and they are especially rich in the antioxidant lutein.

Nutrition claims aside, for cooks eggs are a perfect food. Without them, we'd have no frittata, no torta espanol, no soufflé. No brunch, come to think of it, without omelets, eggs Benedict, French toast. No egg salad sandwiches. No Spit in the Ocean (my dad's specialty).

My favorite Country Hen eggs, from nearby Massachusetts, are laid by chickens fed an organic diet high in Omega-3. These chickens have a very happy life, housed in barns with natural sunlight, no cages, and porches. When you crack the eggs, the deep yellow yolks sit up straight and tall. Yes, they are twice the price of supermarket eggs that have been refrigerated for days or weeks and trucked in from who-knows-where, but I can see and taste the difference.

And, they have a beautiful, irresistible, George Hamilton tan.

ALBORNIA DE CHAYOTE
Chayote, also known as mirliton, is a pale green, almost pear-shaped squash, with a dimple on the bottom. It's available in my local grocery store, and in markets serving Latino communities. Popular in the southern US and the Caribbean, chayote has a mild flavor and good texture. If this vegetable is new to you, try it in scrambled eggs. Serves 6.

2 green chayote squash, quartered, pith removed, and diced (do not peel)
1/2 green pepper, diced
1/2 red pepper, diced
1/2 yellow pepper, diced
1 onion, diced
2 Tbsp sofrito (storebought or homemade)
7 eggs

Bring 2 cups of water to the boil in a saucepan. Add the chayote, and boil uncovered for 30 minutes until the chayote is cooked through. Drain and set aside.  In a large frying pan, heat sofrito, and stir in peppers and onion. Sauté, stirring often, 3-4 minutes over medium-high heat. Add the chayote, and cook 1 minute. In a large bowl, beat the eggs and stir into the vegetable mixture. Reduce heat to low, and stir constantly until the eggs are cooked, approximately 4-5 minutes.

More recipes in The Perfect Pantry:
Frittata ring
Matzoh brei
Frittata with broccoli and garden herbs
Cheesy omeletta

Tarragon (Recipe: cheesy omeletta)

Ted's aunt Trixie, who lived to be just a few months shy of 100, had in her garden a plant that everyone called "The Old Man."

I assumed it had something to do with its age -- not as old as Trixie, but it had been there for at least 25 years. Turns out that "Old Man" is one of the common nicknames for Southernwood, which is a variety of artemisia. Wormwood, dubbed "Old Woman", is another.

Tarragon is an artemisia, too. Native to Siberia and Western Asia, tarragon was brought to Europe by the Arabs who conquered parts of Spain in the 8th Century AD.

The best tarragon for culinary uses is French tarragon (or, as it's called in Germany, German tarragon). When you buy a plant for your garden, be sure the tag specifies which variety it is, or you'll end up with an impostor like I did -- most probably a Russian tarragon, which has a much taller growing habit and much, much less flavor and aroma. The flavor of my garden tarragon is so disappointing that I'm actually using dried tarragon until I replace my impostor with a real French tarragon next spring.

The leaves taste of anise or licorice, with a sweet undertone. It's quite aromatic -- a bit strong, even -- but after long cooking, the aroma mellows. When you buy fresh tarragon, keep the sprigs in a plastic bag in the refrigerator for up to 5 days. To dry, hang the stems upside down in a dark place (in the basement or barn), where air can circulate around them.

Fragrant French tarragon pairs best with fish, chicken, potatoes, tomatoes and eggs; it makes amazing infused vinegar and brightens up compound butters and mustards, too. Trés bon!

TARRAGON OMELETTA
Lately I've been making these egg concoctions that are quasi-omelet, quasi-frittata. It's just eggs, cheese, and random herbs from the garden, perfect for dinner with our "house" salad: greens, tomato, nectarine, cucumber, and black olives, drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Serves 4.

10 large eggs, well beaten
3/4 cup shredded cheese (gruyere, cheddar, fontina, or your favorite mix)
3 Tbsp minced fresh herbs (tarragon, parsley, thyme, basil, or a mix) OR 4 tsp dried herbs
Large pinch of sea salt
Large pinch of fresh ground black pepper
2 Tbsp olive oil

In a large bowl, combine eggs, cheese, herbs, salt and pepper, and beat lightly with a whisk to combine. Heat a large frying pan over lowest heat; add the oil, then pour in the egg mixture. Cover, and cook for 5 minutes. Lift the lid, and with a spatula lift the edges of the omeletta and let some of the uncooked egg from the top run underneath. Replace the lid and continue cooking over low heat for another 3 minutes. Again, lift the edges and let the uncooked egg on top run underneath. Cover, and continue cooking until the egg is set, another 5 minutes or more. If you prefer to have the top browned, either flip the omeletta and cook for 1 minute, or place under the broiler until the top is lightly browned. Serve hot or at room temperature.

More recipes in The Perfect Pantry:
Matzoh brei
Frittata with broccoli and garden herbs
Frittata ring

Red, white and blue cheese (Recipe: blue cheese souffle)

Stand in front of a mirror, and say cheese.

Are you smiling? No?

Now say cheeeeeeeze.

Are you smiling? Not yet?

Try again. Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze.

By now you're probably giggling.

For me, just the thought of cheese -- soft and gooey, spread on a slice of crusty bread or a crisp cracker -- brings a smile to my face.

Our refrigerator is never ever without several kinds of cheese that, together or individually, can turn any random set of pantry staples into a wonderful meal. Today I have organic Cow Girl Red Hawk; lovely white mozzarella; and Great Hill Blue, made close to home in Marion, Massachusetts.

Of course there's Parmigiano-Reggiano, which is a constant in my pantry, beloved for its nutty flavor, grainy texture, and the rinds that add character to vegetable soups. For old-fashioned grilled cheese sandwiches, I keep slices of emmental or muenster or cheddar or comte. For newfangled panini or tartines, there's goat cheese from Rawson Brook Farm in the Berkshires, or brie from the supermarket's ever-improving cheese department.

Ricotta or cottage cheese for lasagna, mascarpone for tiramisu. Gruyere for French onion soup. Boursin, for the garlic. If I stand in front of the refrigerator and say cheeeeeeeeeze, all sorts of things will come tumbling out.

What cheeses do you keep in your fridge?

BAREFOOT CONTESSA'S BLUE CHEESE SOUFFLE
Make this for lunch, with a nice green salad. Invite me, and I'll be your best friend. This recipe, from Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten, serves 2-3.

3 Tbsp unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing the dish
1/4 cup finely grated parmesan (I use parmigiano-reggiano) cheese, plus extra for sprinkling
3 Tbsp all-purpose flour
1 cup scalded milk
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Pinch of cayenne pepper
Pinch of nutmeg
4 extra-large egg yolks, at room temperature
3 oz blue cheese, chopped (I use Great Hill Blue)
5 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/8 tsp cream of tartar

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Butter the inside of an 8-cup souffle dish (7-1/2 inches x 3-1/4 inches deep) and sprinkle evenly with parnesab. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. With a wooden spoon, stir in the flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes. Off the heat, whisk in the hot milk, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/4 tsp black pepper, the cayenne and nutmeg. Cook over low heat, whisking constantly, for 1 minute, until smooth and thick.

Off the heat, while still hot, whisk in the egg yolks, one at a time. Stir in the blue cheese and 1/4 cup of parmesan, and transfer to a large mixing bowl.

Put the egg whites, cream of tartar, and a pinch of salt in the bowl of a Kitchenaid-type stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Beat on low speed for 1 minute, onmedium speed for 1 minute, then finally on high speed until they form firm, glossy peaks.

Whisk one quarter of the egg whites into the cheese sauce to lighten, and then fold in the rest. Pour into the souffle dish, then smooth the top. Draw a large circle on top with the spatula to help the souffle rise evenly, and place in the middle of the oven. Turn the temperature down to 375°F. Bake for 30-35 minutes (don't peek!) until puffed and brown. Serve immediately.

White whole wheat flour (Recipe: raisin-banana scones)

Meet the new love of my life.

As with any infatuation, I can't get enough of it.

I want to wake up to it in the morning and savor it all day long.

Alas, I am a bake-o-phobe, and my affair with white whole wheat flour might be doomed.

So I'd like to fix you up with my new love. Please, take my inamorata out on a date, get to know each other, commit to a long-term relationship. You won't be sorry.

King Arthur Flour, the Vermont uber-resource for all things baking, wasn't sorry when, in the 1990s, they received a sample of a new strain of whole wheat flour from a consortium of farmers who had been working with Kansas State University's breeding program. This new flour was made not from hard red spring wheat, which is typically ground into whole wheat flour in the US, but from a hard white winter wheat that lacked the tannins that makes most red, or traditional, whole wheat flour taste a bit bitter or astringent.

White whole wheat flour does have everything else that you expect from whole wheat flour; all of the bran and germ are present, resulting in an almost identical nutritional profile but with a lighter color and sweeter taste. In baking pizza, cookies, muffins, brownies, quick breads, and yeast breads, you can substitute white whole wheat flour for some or all of the all-purpose flour, and nobody will ever know that your baked goods are full of whole grains.

RAISIN-BANANA SCONES
Don't like raisins and bananas? Substitute any dried fruit, apples, oranges, lemon zest or nuts instead. Adapted from a recipe given to me years ago by Gloria Belknap, a French-trained chef who used to own a bed-and-breakfast in Boston's South End. Makes 10 large fluffy scones.

1 cup raisins, soaked in hot water to cover for 5 minutes, drained
2 cups white whole wheat flour (or all-purpose unbleached flour)
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp cinnamon
2 Tbsp sugar
1 stick butter (1/2 cup), cut into chunks
1/2 banana, cut into chunks
1 egg yolk
3/4 cup lowfat plain yogurt
1/4 tsp red wine vinegar

Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a food processor, blender or large bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon and sugar; add the butter and pulse the processor on and off a few times until the mixture resembles a coarse meal. In a separate bowl blend the egg yolk, yogurt, and wine vinegar, and add to the processor along with the banana and raisins. Mix until all ingredients are just incorporated -- do not overmix. Drop in large spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet, and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve with butter and jam; or cool the scones to room temperature, wrap and freeze.

Brown sugar (Recipe: Irish soda bread)

We have an elementary school science teacher in the family, so there is no excuse for the ignorance I am about to confess to you.

A few months ago, Ted and I found a jar of hard-as-a-rock brown sugar on the shelves of The Perfect Pantry. (This is not the embarrassing part. Well, okay, it is embarrassing, but not from a science point of view.)

How could we get that solid sugar out of the jar? Chip away at it with a knife? Dangerous. Melt it in the microwave? Hot sugar — very dangerous.

And then I remembered that there was something which, when placed in a jar of hardened sugar, would restore the sugar's moisture and fluffiness.

Eureka! I put a slice of whole wheat bread into the jar, sealed the top, and left it overnight. In the morning, the bread was hard as a rock, but the brown sugar was light and fluffy, completely restored to health. To me, this was a miracle. How did the moisture pass from the bread to the sugar? Would something else (an apple? a damp paper towel?) do just as well? I can't explain how or why, but I can tell you that the bread trick really works. (Science teachers and other readers, please help!)

Brown sugar — the type we buy in the supermarket — is nothing more than granulated, usually refined, white sugar with molasses added (or containing residual molasses from the refining process). Light brown sugar contains 3.5 percent molasses; dark brown has up to 6.5 percent. The darker the color, the stronger the taste. You can substitute one cup of firmly packed brown sugar for one cup of granulated sugar in most recipes.

In my pantry I keep three types of brown sugar: light and dark (Domino or no-name store brand), from my local market, and turbinado, a chunkier raw sugar which has been partially processed, where only the surface molasses has been washed off. It has a blond color and mild brown sugar flavor, and is often used in tea and other beverages, and as a crunchy topping for cookies. In England we've been served demerara sugar, a light brown crystal, with tea and on oatmeal.

Use the light brown for s'mores cupcakes and flourless banana cake; dark brown for balsamic fudge drops and fruitcake; and whatever you've got for glazed fish, barbecue sauce, and muffins. And do keep a slice of bread handy, just in case your carefully stored leftover brown sugar decides to turn to stone.

IRISH SODA BREAD
My cooking friend Pauline, a faithful Pantry reader, came to visit last week and brought The Book Club Cook Book, by Judy Gelman and Vicki Levy Krupp. Each suggested book group reading is matched with a recipe. This one accompanied Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes, a powerful book about growing up poor in Ireland. Add half a cup of currants, if you wish. Makes 2 loaves.

3 cups all-purpose unbleached flour (we like King Arthur flour)
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
2 tsp baking soda
4 tsp light brown sugar, mixed with 1 Tbsp water
2-1/4 cups buttermilk

Adjust oven rack to center position and preheat to 325°F. Place flours, baking powder, baking soda and sugar in a large bowl and mix well. Add the buttermilk and stir until a soft dough is formed. Knead the dough in the bowl, then empty onto a countertop and knead a bit longer. If the dough seems wet, use extra whole-wheat flour. Knead until dough comes together.

Divide the dough into two portions and shape each into a round loaf. Press down just to flatten a bit. Place the loaves on an ungreased baking sheet. Sprinkle some additional flour on top of each loaf. Using a sharp knife, make an "x" on the top of each. Allow to rest for 10 minutes, covered with a cloth, then bake for 40 minutes or until the loaves are golden brown and done to taste. Allow to cool, then serve with butter and jam.