September 22, 2008

maplemoon


On Saturday morning, my husband and I slept till noon, snuggled under mounds of blankets, and feasted on maple-infused French toast… basically, we relived our Vermont honeymoon on a cool Texas morning.

Almost two years ago, we spent a drowsy week in Stowe, a rolling, picturesque dot of a town dressed in mist and fog. And because we happened to choose a wonderful, tiny bed-and-breakfast called the Timberholm Inn, the highlight of our day was often breakfast. With a daily cookie-and-tea hour, roaring fire, and no other inhabitants, we had the place (and the breakfast table) all to ourselves. Which meant a regular, mid-morning spread of epic proportions.

Despite the mushroom-white cheddar scramble and maple-soaked sausage, our favorite dish was a simple one — maple-infused French toast — and a decadent one to boot. Two pieces of this and you’re irresistibly drawn back to bed for another hour. Our hosts were delicious enough to actually send me the recipe, and though it takes some preparation (the stale bakery bread and real maple syrup are required), the payoff is beyond sweet.

It’s thick, soft and creamy on the inside, the lightest bit of crunch on the outside, redolent with butter and maple syrup and crowned with a dusting of powdered sugar. And I’ve decided to re-dub this breakfast/dessert “Soporific French Toast,” because the combination of half-and-half, eggs, butter, bread, and syrup is about as strong as a full dose of Nyquil.

And what the heck, I’m feeling generous today. I’ll actually give you the recipe.



Soporific French Toast
(with many thanks to Rich & Darrick)

1/2 loaf good bread, thickly sliced
1/2 stick of butter
5 eggs
3/4 cup half-and-half
1/2 cup pure Vermont maple syrup
1 tablespoon pure vanilla
Pinch of ground nutmeg

Slice the bread by hand the night before and leave out to dry. The next morning, melt butter and set aside. In a bowl, mix the eggs, half-and-half, syrup, vanilla, and nutmeg. Add the butter and blend well with a whisk. Pour the egg mixture over the bread (best to lay them in a casserole dish) and let the bread soak for a full hour. Griddle with plentiful butter to a golden brown. Top with powdered sugar and more maple syrup.

September 14, 2008

autumn omen



There is no one in the world as devoted to sweets as my mom. She inhales vanilla ice cream and gulps down peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies (a future post, if you’re lucky), yet somehow retains her slim little French figure. So unfair.

But she has perfected the simplest recipe for the most luscious, spice-replete cake you can imagine. For we autumn aficionados (that’s basically all Texans, since late September is our first taste of relief from the blistering summer), it is the perfect prequel to whet our appetites for all things fall. *And just WAIT for the warm, thick, sumptuous dishes I’ll be fixing in the coming months!

This cake is most mouth-watering when packed with very ripe, fresh pears, and even better when those pears were picked up in the horse pasture of your parents’ ranch-estate in Noonday. They’re ugly little buggers when harvested, lumpy in shape and freckled with black pinpoints, but a quick peel unveils the sweet, pearly flesh beneath. And that flesh is just waiting to dive into a Bundt pan. Trust me.

Pear Cake

4 very ripe pears
2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable or canola oil
1 teaspoon nutmeg (feel free to add more!)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (feel free to add more!)
3 eggs
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla

Mix all ingredients in a large bowl by hand, adding one at a time and stirring thoroughly after each addition. Lightly spray a Bundt pan and pour batter in. Bake for 1 hour and 10-15 minutes in a 300-degree oven.