"Leave the gun. Take the cannoli" -The Godfather

There are certain things that I have resigned myself that I will never be able to go out to a restaurant and order. Onion rings. Mozzarella sticks. Chicken fingers. Garlic bread.

I thought maybe I could bribe Aaron with a bottle of Makers 46 into coming up with some recipes, but I'm afraid to mention it for fear that we will end up with a top of the line deep fryer in our already-crowded kitchen next to the remote-controlled rice cooker or the voice-activated salad spinner.
Now, I don't have to. I found Grandma's.

Grandma's Grotto is a little New York-style Italian restaurant in Horsham, PA, located off of Easton Road. It's the kind of place I would normally drive right by, with a sigh and a wayward glance back in my rear-view mirror as I lament the myriad of fried foods and Italiany goodness that I will never enjoy again.

Or so I thought. Turns out, Grandma has gone gluten free.

They are doing their entire menu gf. And when I say entire, I mean entire. I walked in to find this:

If you are wondering if that is a giant display case entirely filled with shelves upon shelves of gluten free pastries, the answer is a resounding, sugar-fueled yes.

It's not just the pastries, though. Grandma's Grotto is committed to providing a full menu of items that have traditionally been off-limits. And we will start with the most delicious, melty, cheesy, deep fried food of all: mozzarella sticks.

That's right. I love mozzarella sticks. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I mean, who thinks about dredging creamy mozzarella cheese in eggwash and breadcrumbs and then deep frying the whole damn thing? Someone with my disregard for the health of their arteries. As a teenager, I lived on deep-fried fast food. Ciara and I spent hours after school at the local pizza place taking advantage of our not-yet-crapped-out metabolisms by enjoying oil soaked complex carbohydrates and greasy goodness. It's been nine years since I've had one though, and I was beginning to worry I wouldn't remember how delicious they were. Or worse: what if my taste buds had changed and would somehow not recognize the inherent greatness of fried cheese. But, when I took my first bite into the hot, crunchy crust and felt it cave in and melt with gooey, warm, stringy cheese, I knew that it was love. Again.

Next up, chicken fingers. It's been kind of a while since I've had chicken tenders that weren't shaped like dinosaurs (not a sophisticated first-date food), so I was happy to experience a more, shall we say, adult version of this crowd-favorite

 And then, in an instant, my life changed. I ate my first onion ring.

Most people probably don't remember where they were when they ate their first onion ring. They probably don't remember the way the sweet, slightly soft onion slid out of it's crispy, crunchy, salty casing and created a feeling of deep fried joy and love. Then again, most people probably aren't in their mid twenties the first time they had an onion ring. I was officially in my happy place.

Those were just the appetizers.

For lunch (yes, all of this food was consumed over the course of one, very delicious lunch followed by one, not at all productive rest of the day spent wishing my pants had an elastic waist band) the main courses were ravioli and penne with vodka sauce.

The ravioli was delicious- smooth ricotta cheese snugly nestled into beautiful little pockets of pasta and smothered with huge chunks of tomato sauce. The vodka sauce was creamy, and the perfect compliment to another delicious side dish: buttery, crispy, toasted garlic bread.

This is how Italians designed bread to be eaten. Smothered in love and dragged through marinara sauce. God bless them for that.

More than that, though, the staff was friendly and helpful and clearly knew their shit. It's always nice to know that you are in the company of those who won't accidentally kill you. These guys are seriously dedicated to making sure that their menu stays completely gluten free. All of their products are made in-house, so that they are fresh, delicious, and constantly changing and developing.They work with some great vendors like Mr. Ritts and Katz and and sell flour mixes, breads, frozen pizzas, cinnamon buns, and pretty much everything else you could ever want out of their store as well.

But before we were done, there was still one more thing to take care of. There was still that tiny matter of the pastry display case in the beginning....

Gluten free cannoli?

Cheese? Check. Cream? Check. Chocolate? Check. All rolled together in a delicious flaky pasty dough and topped with powdered sugar?

Dear God, yes.

The cannoli is a thing of freaking beauty. It might surpass The Birth of Venus or the Mona Lisa on the scale of Italian masterpieces. It is a delicious slice of heavenly pastry that would have been lost of my palate if not for the fine people at Grandma's.

I owe them. Grazie, guys.

“When we eat together, when we set out to do so deliberately, life is better, no matter what your circumstances.” -Thomas Keller

Dear Thomas Keller, Lena Kwak, and the Entire Developmental Team at Cup4Cup,

I love you.

Love,
Emily

Seriously, guys. This is big. This is bigger than big. This is huge. This is the Andre the Giant of gluten-free cooking.


Mountain Backdrop &
Wind Fan Not Included



Aaron bought me a bag of Cup4Cup this year for Christmas. As we began exchanging gifts, the curiously bulging, interestingly wrapped shirt box under the tree grabbed my attention almost immediately. I had asked for a sweater, so naturally, I assumed, this must be it. As I picked it up, however, my inner monologue was reeling, Wow, this sweater weighs a lot. This might really be a problem. How am I going to move in this thing? Is this like the sweater version of those sneakers with weights in them? That might not be so bad. I did have all those cookies earlier. But it's really heavy. The Victoria's Secret model in the picture on the website didn't look like she was having any trouble...."OHMYGOD! YOU ACTUALLY BOUGHT ME THIS?"

(Don't worry, I got the sweater too. Unfortunately, 36" legs and D cups are sold separately, so I do not look like the Victoria's Secret model in it. Disappointing for all involved)

Tangential musings aside, I was really excited to get a 3lb bag of flour for Christmas. More excited than most normal people would be at this prospect, I imagine. But I had been wanting to try the flour mix created by the Research & Development Chef at the French Laundry ever since I heard rumors of Thomas Keller branding a gf flour online. The stuff retails at Williams & Sonoma (WAIT WAIT BEFORE YOU STOP READING) and is actually incredibly reasonably priced, considering. $20.00 for a 3lb bag in only about $2 per pound more than the other gluten-free flours I have used in the past.

Apparently, as I learned on the back of the shiny blue bag, Lena Kwak, the chef and founder of C4C, is not gluten-free, and just a naturally awesome and amazing person. So kudos to her on being my new hero.

I was really excited to try my new gift. I am the type of person that wears all of their Christmas gifts by New Year's. I wore the sweater to work on December 26th. Patience is not my strong point. Anyway, I was so excited to try my new flour, that I couldn't even wait for Aaron to make me something delicious. I had to try it immediately.

I had to bake.

I know I've said on multiple occasions that I am not an at-home cook. I do like to bake, although the difference between liking something and excelling at it is one that it not easy to hide. But what the hell, I got 3 lbs of flour, a Betty Crocker cookbook, and lots of kitchen gadgets that Aaron would probably prefer that I not touch. What could possibly go wrong?

I decided to make carrot cupcakes, since they are Aaron's favorites, and I try to pay it forward with the cooking thing sometimes. I got started, and as I poured my dry ingredients into the vortex of sugar and eggs spinning under the electric mixer, I was startled.

"Aaron." I said. "Look at the texture. Doesn't it look weird?"
He peered over his newspaper, skeptical at these last words. I knew he was expecting something disastrously epic, and I could see the disappointment on his face. "No," he said, "It looks normal."

Huh. I thought. Normal is weird. After 9 years of baking with thin, runny batter, the doughy elasticity that pulled away from the edges of the bowl was odd to me. But, I thought hard to remember back, yes....this is what it's supposed to look like.

I've never seen a gluten-free flour behave as normally as this stuff does. It stretches between your fingers with a pliable stretch. It rises in the oven. Hell, it even smells like flour.

And the cupcakes turned out amazingly. I would have never known that they were gluten-free. They were dense and moist and spicy the way carrot cake should be, while still being flaky and delicious.

I've included the recipe that I used below. Just substitute the gluten-free flour cup for cup (OH... I get it now!)

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cups shredded carrots (5 medium)
1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts

Heat oven to 350°F. Grease bottom and sides of one 13x9-inch pan or two 8-inch or 9-inch round pans with shortening; lightly flour. In large bowl, beat granulated sugar, oil and eggs with electric mixer on low speed about 30 seconds or until blended. Add flour, cinnamon, baking soda, 1 teaspoon vanilla and the salt; beat on low speed 1 minute. Stir in carrots and nuts. Pour into pan(s). 

 Bake 13x9-inch pan 40 to 45 minutes, round pans 30 to 35 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool rectangle in pan on cooling rack. Cool rounds 10 minutes; remove from pans to cooling rack. Cool completely, frost with Betty Crocker Cream Cheese Frosting, smile smugly at Aaron, and enjoy.

Oh, and do the dishes.

Cooking sucks.

"Dining with one's friends and beloved family is certainly one of life's primal and most innocent delights. One that is both soul-satisfying and eternal" -Julia Child

This post is not about food.

I know: you're doing a bang up job, Emily, writing a food blog that isn't about food.

Well, it is about food, in a way. But more importantly, it is about why food matters.

Some people say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Here, I must disagree. I believe that it is taste. Let me explain: The act of eating is one that is both primal and communal, and has brought so many people together, it is no wonder that we often associate food with our past. Meal time is such an elementary universal truth. Sometimes, something so simple, so elegantly uncomplicated and downright pedestrian, can bring the joy of taste-bud memory, which hits your tongue like a lightening bolt and sends an electric shock all the way to your Temporal Lobe, triggering immediate warm and fuzzy thoughts of your grandmother as you bite into a warm piece of apple pie. Tasting your past is just so much more corporal than recalling a memory on your own.

For me, one such memory had laid dormant in my cerebrum for the past 9 years.

My dad used to take me camping. He was proud of the fact that we were "real" campers- no trailers, air mattresses or portable grills hitched to the back of your car. We camped at French Creek State Park with tents, sleeping bags, and stuck our dinner into the campfire because, damn it, we are outdoors and that is what you do.

I have so many memories of camping with my dad. The time we forgot the tent poles and had to tie the tent to a group of trees with laundry line. The time we could only get one tent up before it poured rain, and so my dad, my uncle, and five of us cousins crammed into a four-man tent and waited out the storm. Hiking, and looking for Sassafras plants, which, my dad explained, when you bit into the stem, seeped out a sap that tasted just like root beer. The smell of the campfire clinging to my hair and to my dad's flannel shirt as we zipped up our sleeping bags and I, a somewhat precocious child, asked, for the millionth time: Are you absolutely positive there's no bears?

But my favorite part was the S'mores.

I mean, come on. What kid doesn't like S'mores? It's a chocolate and marshmallow sandwich, and you get to light shit on fire.

For me, eating a S'more was always about more than the sticky sensation of gluing one's fingers together with melted marshmallow. It takes me back to A-42, our campsite at French Creek, and I can smell that musty, charcoal smoke of the campfire all over again, feel the heat of the blaze on my cheeks, hear the dull, hollow drill of a woodpecker in the distance, and remember being with my dad, proud of the fire we'd built, and the fact that I could be like him, a "real camper."

I didn't think I was ever going to have something that tasted even close to a S'more ever again. I did not have high hopes for gluten-free graham crackers- it's hard to find a way to recreate a brand-name product which is so instantly recognizable. Some flavors are just too ingrained in us to reproduce.

The Grainless Baker however, surprised me. They make a graham cracker cookie that is pretty damn close. It's denser, and not as flaky as its glutenous equivalent, but flavor-wise, it was pretty dead-on. It's more substantial consistency makes it more durable, so the S'more doesn't break apart as easily. I bought them at Wegmans, one of my increasingly favorite place to shop for gluten-free brands.

I roasted my marshmallow over the open-flame of our gas stove which, by all accounts, does not even come close to the perfection of a campfire-char, but hey, I'm working with what I have right now. I gingerly slid my toasted beauty off the kabob skewer which I had improvised as a stick, and layered it carefully between two perfectly portioned pieces of Hershey's Milk Chocolate and smushed the pieces of graham cracker down so that the warm, gooey marshmallow insides exploded and began melting the chocolate on contact.

One bite, and I'm there again, in the middle of the woods, crickets chirping and whirring around me, listening to my dad tell his favorite ghost stories, and keeping a constant, watchful eye out for bears.

"Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart." -Erma Bombeck

Desserts matter. I hold this truth to be self evident, because for me, the entire fate of the meal hinges upon that last, delicious morsel of food which you put into your mouth. It is the taste which lingers on your palate long after the meal is over. It is the last scent, memory, and thus, representation of the repast. So yeah, desserts matter.

I will, occasionally, post solely on the topic of dessert. It is one of the trickier things to alter sometimes, because baking is so notoriously temperamental; the unforgiving, unwavering, strategically-minded military dad to cooking’s artsy, hand-holding, herb-loving hippie aunt.



College Is About Breaking
Boundaries In The Study Of
 Human Anatomy...
And Dominating In Wine Pong



That being said, whenever possible, I will always order dessert. 17 course tasting menu? Dessert please. Whole roast pig? What do you have that’s chocolate? I could pretty much put away anything and still have room for something sweet. I was mildly self-conscious about this fact until a roommate in college introduced me to what she called “The Chamber Theory.” You know how cows’ stomachs have 4 compartments? Well, Adrienne postulated that we have chambers in our stomachs as well, and, even though your “entrée chamber” might be full, your “dessert chamber” is still wide open. Additionally, I should point out, in college we both made really compelling arguments in favor of a “wine chamber.”

This week, after a particularly delicious grilled steak dinner, my dessert chamber’s needle was still hovering on empty, and Aaron decided to introduce me to his southern roots. By “southern roots,” I mean, “lived in West Virginia for two years and ate a lot of biscuits.” And peaches.





Until recently, the only thing I really knew about “peach” was that she gave blondes a bad name.

Apparently, they also make a delicious cobbler.

Aaron picked up some white peaches at the farmers market which were so fresh and delectably fuzzy looking that they would have warmed the cockles of Roald Dhal’s heart. The perfect patches of pale pink blended seamlessly into a warm yellow that was absolutely picturesque just sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter, glowing in the warm summer sun, like a page right out of Little House on the Prairie.

He sautéed the peaches in a little bourbon (because why the hell not?) and sugar, brown sugar, cinnamon, and Gluten Free Pantry’s All Purpose Flour Mix (Whole Foods). I find this mix to be one of the most accessible, and can be substituted cup-for-cup in almost any recipe. He layered this warm, sugary, nectar-y love into buttered ramekins and topped it with the recipe for biscuits found on the back of the box of Gluten Free Bisquick.

Let me pause for a moment to give mad props to Betty Crocker for making gluten free baking accessible to anyone who lives in a 20 minute radius of Acme or Superfresh and can combine eggs and butter. They now offer gluten free cookie, cake, and brownie mix, along with gluten free Bisquick, dumbing down baking to a level even I can usually manage to not screw up.

This was my first experience with the Bisquick, and the biscuits on top of the cobbler puffed up like little moist pillows of what my incredibly limited experiences with illegal substances force me to only assume must be laced with heroine. Seriously. Biscuits should be considered narcotics and regulated by the Board of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Dangerously Addictive Carbohydrates. They were crispy on the outside and delicate and flaky and buttery on the inside.

But it was the prize which lay unassumingly beneath the layers of fragile, crumbly goodness which was the real reward. Layers of sweet, sugary peaches basked in the glory of their sachariferousness, coated in the crystallized granules of goodness. Bits of biscuit clung to their syrupy flesh, reveling in the sticky, saccharine juice, soaking up every bit of nectar they could before they dissolved onto my tongue.

Next thing you know, I’ll be found in an alley somewhere, heating up peaches on a spoon with a lighter, a makeshift tunicate tied around my arm, laying in the filth of my own half-eaten biscuit crumbs, with a look of sheer bliss forever imprinted on my face.

This is what true love tastes like, with ice cream on top.

"There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will" -Robert Frost

The key is to set the bar low in the beginning of a relationship. With cooking, I mean. Do you remember that scene in Clueless when Cher unrolls the entire bag of cookie dough and plops it onto the sheet tray?

That's me.

Anyway, after four or five culinary failures of epic proportions, it was unanimously decided that Aaron would do the cooking in our house.

The problem isn't just that I am a bad cook. The problem is that Aaron is an amazing cook (well, the problem for him at least- I'll take comfortably-full dish duty any day of the week). Luckily for me, Aaron enjoys cooking as much as I enjoy eating. Gluten-free has been like a fun challenge for him- like when they tie one hand behind their backs in the Top Chef Quickfire Challenge.

Sunday, he went to the farmer's market and bought produce and veggies that were so fresh and tasty that even I, who, if left to my own devices, would live entirely off of food that has a pre-programmed microwave button, fell immediately into food lust.

I can't tell you how to make the dishes- but I can tell you what was in them. And give you a few pointers on the best dish detergent to use after a manicure. If you are a cook, you can build them in your own way. If you are not, I highly recommend dating one.

Pan Seared Scallops Over Jersey Corn and Red Scallion Risotto with Yellow Oyster Mushrooms

The scallops were cooked to utter perfection. The outside sear was light and buttery and the inside literally just melted into a fit of taste bud delectation. The Jersey Corn is not yet fully in season, so the kernels were small, but each one bit with the satisfying snap that only flawless timing and temperature can produce, and was so satiatingly sweet and juicy that I think the other vegetables were actually jealous. The red scallions added just a bit of heat, and the yellow oyster mushrooms were earthy and uncomplicated, a simple, yet harmonious addition.

Heirloom Tomato Salad with Charred Onion Vinaigrette, Whipped Lemon-Ricotta and Gluten-Free Migas

Tomato Season is rapidly becoming a full-blown holiday in my book. If I worked for Hallmark I would start mass producing cards, tomato-grams, and heart shaped candy boxes filled with little cherry tomatoes for loved ones. The salad was dressed with a Charred Onion Vinaigrette made from the same red scallions as the risotto- light and tangy and unobtrusive, it's flavors gracefully becoming one with the juice which oozed out of the tomatoes themselves. And then, there was the cheese. Fresh ricotta cheese which was lighter and creamier than anything that I've ever seen lay dormant under the plastic film of a grocery store carton. It was buzzed with lemon juice and heavy cream and dolloped in little gobs of rich, salty love onto each plate. Aaron made the gluten-free croutons using Miller's Asiago Cheese bread, drizzled with olive oil and garlic and toasted to a crispy finish.

Roasted Lamb Chops with Rosemary and Parmesan Red-Skinned Potatoes and Lemon Cucumber Tzatziki

The lamb was simple and paired perfectly with the Lemon Cucumber Tzatziki Sauce, which is the absolute perfect summer hook up. Apparently, you can tell how much a person loves you by how much time they put into their condiments. Lamb chops and tzatziki sauce was the first dish Aaron ever made me when we started dating. Later in our relationship, one night I asked if he had changed the recipe. Surprised, he looked at me and said no. "Oh," I said. "The sauce tastes different than the first time you made it. That's all." He laughed. "The first time I made it, I was still trying to impress you. I pureed the cucumber and blended it directly into the yogurt. Now that we've been together so long, I just chopped it. I didn't think you'd notice." Uhhh thanks. In fairness, I guess that's how I feel about shaving my legs. Last night he must have been feeling the love though, because the sauce was cool, crisp and refreshing. Fresh lemon cucumbers were buzzed with Chobani Greek Yogurt. The potatoes were oven-roasted in olive oil and chopped with rosemary and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. They were hot and crispy, and each bite coated your mouth in a salty, cheesy goodness that was as familiar and comforting as only a childhood favorite can be.

And then there was dessert.

Shelly, creator of Moondance Dessert is a genius- pure and simple. Her cheesecake crusts are made with, as far as I can tell, pecan, shortbread cookies, sugar, and crack cocaine. They are unbelievable, and come in perfectly portioned individual sizes at Whole Foods. We got their classic cheesecake, and Aaron made a blueberry compote with fresh lemon juice and sugar for a sweet, fruity compliment to the smooth, creamy cake and buttery crust.

I love dessert.

In the end, our little division of household labor really works out in my favor. It pays to have a blonde moment or two and sacrifice some burnt sheet trays to the greater cause. It's my turn to take care of dinner next, so look forward to an update on local gluten-free take out.