Flipping out

Should my sister meet Bonny Wolf, I think they would get along. She is a Bundt-pan fanatic, using hers nearly every other week to create simple round cakes for friends and colleagues. Have boxed mix, will travel. Or so she says.

In "The Little Cake Pan That Could," the first essay in "Talking With My Mouth Full," Wolf takes a delicious look at Bundt cakes, "perfectly shaped, evenly browned, and consistently moist."

The Washington, D.C.-based journalist pays proper tribute to H. David Dalquist, who with his wife, Dorothy, founded Nordic Ware in 1946 in the basement of their Minneapolis home. Roughly four years later, they developed their signature mould.

After a Texas woman placed second in the 17th annual Pillsbury Bake-Off in 1966, for a Tunnel of Fudge cake prepared in a Bundt pan, the Dalquists' creation took center stage. Its popularity soared. Production orders rolled in quickly. It is now considered a bakeware icon.

"For a while, everyone made Bundt cakes," Wolf writes, "blueberry cream cheese, walnut rum, even one with 7-Up. The Harvey Wallbanger Bundt cake... used yellow cake mix, vanilla pudding mix, eggs, oil, orange juice, vodka, and Galliano liqueur, just like its namesake cocktail. The Margarita cake involved margarita mix, orange liqueur, and tequila." The possibilities seem endless. Doesn't my sister know it?

The author describes in straightforward prose foods she has always eaten: the old-fashioned dishes of her childhood in Minnesota, the crab cakes of her college days in Baltimore.

Avoiding fancy or fussy presentations, Wolf concentrates instead on homey comfort fare. She examines family classics and regional specialties, easy-to-make entrees as well as tried-and-true sweets. They are items we have had before or would hope to taste in the future.

She punctuates these 30-plus discussions with cooking instructions for meats and vegetables, fancy drinks and frozen desserts, all recipes she has collected religiously over the years from a variety of sources.

Should my brother meet Wolf, they would get along, too. Wolf looks beyond the kitchen as well, to kitschy county fairs and thriving food halls across the United States. In the piece "A Day at the Fair," for example, she describes greasy grub at the annual Minnesota State Fair, which features "forty-nine foods on a stick... (representing) the good, the bad, and the truly gross."

It is a scene I think my brother would appreciate. With his friends in Southern California, he has gone to the Los Angeles County Fair nine years running. He has downed deep-fried Oreos, Snickers, and Twinkies; fried green tomatoes, zucchini, and mushrooms; curly fries, garlic fries, and chili-cheese fries. Presumably on different afternoons.

In "Market Pleasures," one of my favorites, Wolf takes us to the Eastern Market in Washington, D.C.'s Capitol Hill neighborhood, an institution she cherishes.

"It is where (we) shop every day, like European housewives, for fresh fish, meats, poultry and bread," she explains. "This is where we go for cold cuts and cheese, fresh pasta and sauces. If we wanted to, we could even buy pigs' feet. On Monday, the one day the market is closed, we suffer."

The Eastern Market is similar in many ways to the Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia, the Pike Place Market in Seattle, the West Side Market in Cleveland, the original Farmers' Market in Los Angeles, and the Ferry Building Marketplace in San Francisco.

"It's at a city's market that you come to understand the city," Wolf writes. "When you see how real people shop for food you begin to understand who they are and how they live. It's the 'life' part of city life and the 'heart' part of heart of town. If you're very lucky, you live nearby." I want to be that lucky.

Other essays - on ice-cream shops, perfectly roasted poultry, and what the author calls "the holy trinity of Texas meat cooking" (chicken-fried steak, chili and barbecue) - prove equally rewarding. Accessible topics such as these help give "Talking With My Mouth Full" a strong sense of familiarity and a certain cohesiveness.

By looking at things we all have encountered, Wolf reminds us of the bonds we inevitably share, the common threads that run through our lives at the table. She celebrates the items that nourish us time and again, offering insight on a host of uniquely and traditionally American foods.

(A version of this article appeared originally on www.culinate.com.)

Feeding groupies

Jamie's Italian at Canary Wharf. It is the meal I look forward to. If Jamie Oliver is a rock star, then we are bona fide groupies. Admittedly so. It is the meal on which we conclude this particular trip. We enjoy spit-roasted lamb and pasta Bolognese. We are happy and well-fed.

Happy Harrods

Nor can we resist the food hall (and chocolate Santas) at Harrods.

Literary London

All it takes is a walk through Hatchards on Piccadilly or Books for Cooks in Notting Hill to make me wish I've brought extra empty luggage. Next time, definitely.

I think, for example, to buy "Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North" by Stuart Maconie, or "Breakfast at The Wolseley" by A.A. Gill, or "Great British Grub" by Brian Turner or "Full English: A Journey Through the British and Their Food" by Tom Parker-Bowles, son of Camilla...

But I practice restraint and limit myself to one title - Nigel Slater's "Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table," in paperback.

Upstairs we eat

Downstairs in The Horniman at Hays, a stone's throw from the HMS Belfast and London Bridge, people laugh and drink after work and into the evening.

Upstairs, away from the bustle, we eat. We have pie and mash and veggies. We have fish and chips and mushy peas. Others come for the beer. We, apparently, come for the food.

Fortnum for sure

Nor can we resist the pretty sweets at Fortnum & Mason on Piccadilly.

BBQ buns

We can take the girl out of Chinatown, but we can not take Chinatown out of the girl.

The White House eats

During a June visit to London, the Obama girls, their mother, grandmother and the rest of the entourage reportedly ate at The Audley in Mayfair. The children, we understand, had fish and chips. When we explore the quiet tony neighborhood, we find the British pub for ourselves.

Humming along

Opened, as it turns out, by a friend of a friend, The Hummingbird Bakery sells American-style desserts aplenty. There are cupcakes, for instance. There are layer cakes, pies, cookies and brownies.

And, not surprisingly, there is a book: "The Hummingbird Bakery Cookbook" from owner Tarek Malouf.

We opt for a red velvet cupcake with traditional cream cheese frosting. My sister takes a bite. I happily finish the rest.

Leave the rice, keep the soy

The store-bought sushi is convenient but mediocre. The rice is cold and hard, the fish nearly nonexistent. The soy sauce, however, is packaged in such a unique way we can not resist a photo.

Brick Lane beigels

Brick Lane in the East End is filled with curry houses, none of which, I am told, is any good. 'Tis a shame really.

What we do like on the street, however, are cheap and chewy beigels from Brick Lane Beigel Bake, a testament to the historically Jewish influences in the dynamic neighborhood.

On Broadway

The stalls run the length of Broadway Market, from Regents Canal on one end to London Fields on the other. We shop on a refreshingly chilly Saturday morning, happy to meet new people and taste new foods. I find I do not mind the light rain. Not at all.

Major marketing

"A magnet for locals, visitors and foodies attracted to its more than 100 merchants and fast-food stands," Borough Market is mecca for gastropods, those of us who travel on our stomachs.

It can also be a madhouse on weekends, when it is open for business to the general public. We wander from stall to stall to stall, eyeing everything from sausages and cheese to pies and pumpkins. We get full on looks alone.

Totally Selfridges

We can hardly resist the food hall at Selfridges on Oxford Street.

Flying on faith

The line for dinner is interminably long. But I fly on faith. I trust a recommendation from a virtual stranger: Tayyabs in Whitechapel. I learn to let go.

Inside the restaurant, I examine the sweets on display. I practice restraint and resilience; I dodge servers coming and going. I think also about the granola bar in my purse but do not give in yet to hunger.

An hour later, seated finally, with food, glorious food on the table, with lamb, chicken, okra and naan before us, I understand the wait.

London town

Maybe it is the relief of sitting at a table after a day of planes, trains and automobiles. Or the peace of mind that comes with having gotten away. Of being in a city that means a great deal, a place that figures significantly in a personal history.

Maybe it is the warm comfort of seeing a good friend I have not seen in close to a year. Of having fun together again. This I know. Whatever the reason, the meal at Solche Cilician in Hackney is lovely.

How the British eat

"Alison Parente realized a few years ago, when she was unable to find the baker she needed for one of her artisan food businesses, that Britain needed to do something about the loss of traditional culinary skills..."

Thus begins a quite interesting article in The New York Times about artisanal foods in the United Kingdom and the people who champion them.

In the air

I have not flown British Airways in a long time but am definitely liking the experience.

Dinner begins with ginger-flavored poached salmon and edamame salad with a creamy sweet chili dressing. The entree: pan-seared cod with tomato basil olive oil, lemon pepper risotto and broccolini, served with a fresh seasonal salad. And for dessert, there is wildflower honey cheesecake.

I am over the moon.

An apple a day

In an effort to stay healthy through the fall and winter, I eat an apple a day every day. I peel and slice an apple in the late afternoon for a wholesome tide-me-over, or in the evening for a guilt-free finish to dinner. The nutrients should do me good.

The challenge: To transition from the summer produce I'd gotten used to, to go beyond the Red Delicious and Golden Delicious eaten in the past without a second thought and seek varieties I had not tasted, to satisfy a curiosity about other apples currently available.

At the neighborhood market, I collect enough fruit to last a week. They go into the refrigerator. The Jonagold, its skin yellow and green with tinges of red, crosses a Jonathan and a Golden Delicious. It is sweet and crunchy, an auspicious start to my apple adventure.

But the Fuji I try next is a tad tart. The Gala is also slightly tart. Are they supposed to be? I wonder. Is that typical?

The Braeburn, on the other hand, resembling a Golden Delicious, reminds me again how terrific apples can be - like candy, only better. The Rome Beauty is smooth and round, too; its skin is a rich, gorgeous red, its flesh yellow with bits of pink. On looks alone, I am smitten.


On a slow afternoon, I think to bake. In Joie Warner's "Apple Desserts: America's Favorite Fruit," I find instructions for dumplings and tarts, cookies and cakes, pies and crumbles, but settle, as I often do, on Apple Oat Squares. They sandwich thin slices of fruit between layers of oatmeal.

When I visited a friend in London years ago, I baked a batch to bring along, storing the squares in plastic containers to carry onto the plane. At her door the first night, I showed up with Apple Oat Squares. She seemed happy to see me. She seemed happier to see the food.

In my kitchen that afternoon, I combine quick oats, flour, baking soda, salt, brown sugar and melted butter to form the so-called crust. For the filling, I scatter cinnamon and sugar over slivers of Granny Smith apple. I press half the oatmeal mixture into the bottom of a glass pan, and top it with fruit and the rest of the oatmeal.

Nearly an hour later, the Apple Oat Squares come out of the oven golden brown, crumbly and slightly crunchy. Eaten warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dollop of Cool Whip, they are delectable.


In the produce section of the Berkeley Bowl, among the largest in the Bay Area, I come across apple varieties I have not even heard of.

The Pink Lady is a little tart. One bite and I shiver. Its skin, yellow and green with a soft red hue, blushes without meaning to. It smiles discreetly.

The Sierra Beauty tastes like a mildly tart Golden Delicious. Its appearance, though, is like no apple I have seen before. Yellow, pink and orange, it recalls a luscious sunrise over distant mountains, an establishing scene in a movie.

Looking like a Fuji, the Christmas apple seems to suit its seasonal moniker. Its sweet, crunchy texture can be a gift in and of itself. Also somewhat resembling a Fuji, the Pacific Rose proves especially crisp. Any crisper and it could be mistaken for an Asian pear, the kind my mother used to buy in Chinatown.


I contemplate a road trip to Apple Hill, east of Sacramento and Placerville. Vague on details of a visit years ago, I have been hoping to return.

At applehill.com, I discover buckets of information. Formed in 1964 as a marketing vehicle for a group of 16 ranches in Camino, the Apple Hill Growers Association consists of roughly 50 orchards, wineries, a microbrewery, Christmas tree farms and a spa.

It sponsors local events and fundraisers. It runs complimentary shuttle buses to nearby farms. It publishes guides, maps and community cookbooks, too.

I locate facts on Larsen Apple Barn, apparently the oldest continuously family-owned and operated farm in El Dorado County. I come across mentions of Mill View Ranch on Cable Road and its apple cider doughnuts, and Mother Lode Orchards.

I learn of Denver Dan's on Bumblebee Lane, which grows varieties such as Pippin, Gravenstein, Crispin and McIntosh, apples about which I have been curious. I learn also of Honey Bear Ranch, whose bakeshop, like many of its neighbors, puts out an impressive array of desserts.

Perhaps I'll collect food along the way as I venture from one farm to the next. When I need a break, I can claim a picnic spot at Abel's Apple Acres or High Hill Ranch, amid acres of trees and meandering walkways, and think about how far I've come.


When a younger brother started high school years ago, I packed him lunches that included a ham or turkey sandwich, a serving of cookies, a box of juice and a small apple. When he returned home in the late afternoon, the sandwich had been eaten. The cookies and juice were gone, too. But the apple remained.

There wasn't time, he said, to finish all his food. Day after day, week by week, the same thing happened. Eventually I realized it was an excuse.

Working full-time, commuting thrice weekly in the early evenings to a college 30 miles away for her master's, an older sister reached for something nutritious before class, something she could eat with one hand on the steering wheel. She decided, of course, on apples.

After long days in the office and hard nights in the classroom, she had little energy to spare. The stress and fatigue were immense, she said. The weekend she graduated, she stopped eating apples.


In time, I, too, grow tired of my apples, of searching for different varieties, whether down the street or up the highway; of having to peel and slice them at the kitchen counter, tossing scraps into the compost bin; of eating them at the table, feeling delighted yet slightly deprived.

I've had Jonagolds and Braeburns, Rome Beauties and Pink Ladies. But I have yet to try Winesaps, Jonathans, Cortlands and York Imperials, varieties about which I remain curious. I've had crisp apples and tart apples, crunchy apples and sweet apples. But they make up just a fraction of all the apples out there.

What I need then is a breather, I say, and a pledge to taste more in the future. I will revisit the apples I met recently and keep my eyes open for those I've not had - Empire, Honey Crisp, Jazz and Arkansas Black.

Meanwhile, I can begin to shift my attention to citrus. I had forgotten how much I liked oranges - navel oranges and Valencia oranges. I will snack on them. I will collect tangerines, mandarins and tangelos, too. They should be sweet and juicy. The Vitamin C will do me good. The change should suit me fine.

(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)


Apple Oat Squares
from Joie Warner's "Apple Desserts: America's Favorite Fruit"

1 1/2 cups quick-cooking rolled oats
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup packed brown sugar
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter, melted
3 cups peeled, cored, thinly sliced Granny Smith apples
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 cup sugar
2 Tbsp. butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Stir oats, flour, baking soda, salt, brown sugar and melted butter in a large bowl until thoroughly combined. Press half the mixture evenly into bottom of a 9-inch square baking pan.

Toss apples, cinnamon and sugar in a bowl, then spread evenly in pan; dot with butter. Sprinkle with remaining oat mixture and bake for 45 minutes or until golden. Cool and cut into squares. Makes 9 to 10 servings.

Mooncake marketing

Sienna Parulis-Cook writes for The Atlantic about Chinese mooncakes, traditional sweets eaten during the Mid-Autumn Festival.

To quote:

"Older people often complain that children do not appreciate mooncakes the way they used to, but the mooncake companies are finding ways to solve this problem, too. This year marked the introduction of Barbie mooncakes in Shanghai, where the $57 deluxe box comes with a Barbie doll. Mooncakes may also come bearing images of cartoon characters like Snoopy or Hello Kitty..."

It is a timely piece. And though I am partial to lotus seed paste-filled mooncakes from Eastern Bakery on Grant Avenue in San Francisco, I think it would be a total trip to spy Snoopy- and Hello Kitty-themed mooncakes in the stores.