Two Years of TKTC and an Extra Credit Opportunity

Oh goodnight. I just about ran right through my two year blogiversary. I feel like Internet years work a little like dog years because so much has changed since then. Mostly me and mostly as a direct result of this little site's existence (career, romance, friends, travel, pastry skillz).

I don't much know what to say on such a momentous occasion. I had something and then forgot it. It was going to be profound and moving yet levitous. Blame the Mucinex.

I'm fighting off a flick of sick but tonight, in honor of cell phone pictures and not-quite-boyfriends and concerts and first-real-jobs and health kicks and butter kicks and Mary Tyler Moore moments and HoneyCat and pies that spring eternal and dinner parties that go well into the morning, I will cook. In honor of the beginning.

I am making matzoh ball soup and a mushroom spinach quiche. I will toast to you with warm apple cider spiked with Emergen-C and cat hair on my apron. Maybe I'll put on some lipstick.

Extra Credit: If you're at all interested...I've been cataloging food photos on Flickr. I'm thinking about changing the look up around here and that will require me to choose a few for a new banner. If you find one you like...one that looks like what you've come to know as the tasty, flighty, zippy, messy pile of frizzy affection at To Kiss the Cook...would you leave a link to it in the comments?

The Good Bad Apples

About four years ago, I went apple-picking for the first time and it changed the way I looked at fruit.

I'd picked strawberries off bushes in Maryland. I'd picked wild blackberries in Massachusetts brambles, purple stains on my face disguised as violet freckles. I was familiar with the greedy gratification of living hand to mouth in the nice way, the way of seeing something sweet and eating it thoughtlessly.

But my first time in an actual working orchard was a fully sensual experience, one I've wanted to build on since but hadn't committed to making the time. When J decided to come in for a long weekend after some busybusy work weeks for both of us, we put it on the calendars immediately. After all, that's how we communicate, as kitchen-lovers and people of pie.

The day was not a traditionally pretty one. It was gray. It was wet. It was cool. I admit that J caught me pouting every time a raindrop hit the windshield as we drove north. That said, it was fall. It was very fall. And did we not have scarves? And hats? And a Culver's drive-thru?

For those of you who remain uninitiated to the Midwestern fantasma known as Culver's, there are really only two basics. #1 They call their burgers "butter-burgers." Guess why. #2 Fried cheese curds. That would be slightly battered nuggets of salty cheese. Once a year. Don't push that either because your heart might go all kinds of Independence Day due to overly gleeful arteries. We felt much better after that. Seriously- look at that man's face. The amateur might see his patient twinkle and deep dimples as a wordless expression of love, affection and mutual understanding toward the photographer. I know better and I do not fault him for this.

We had junk food and we had a plan. A plan that apparently involved a $40 plastic bag of apples.

This is me. This is me eating my way through a wet orchard, plucking pretty orbs off the trees and eating them. Both because never will an apple taste as good as it does straight off the tree in early October when it's just finished raining and because orchards less than 3 hours outside of major cities charge tourist prices to PICK YOUR OWN APPLES.


When I saw the small plastic bag assigned to us and noted the price, I was appalled. Not because I'm naturally all that frugal (getting better) but because I was there to do it myself and probably buy cider and other goodies too so try not to rip me off from the outset.

It is very lucky that J finds it enchanting when get all Huffy McTerrier Don'tWrongMe. So when you watch the video at the end of this post, try not to judge me too harshly. I swear, I've been carrying a tote bag as a purse for at least the last month and a half and it just happened to come in handy. I have a strong if altered sense of justice.

We'll get there though. J and I munched and crunched and sploshed our way all through the orchard. We even came across a lovely pumpkin patch, the namesake of the boots that saved me last winter. Pumpkin the boots and Tangerine the mixer. Sensing a pattern?


By the time we got back to the Gala aisle, we were alone and faced with an embarrassment of apple riches. Trees that were bursting at the branch to rain apples down upon us. Each piping up to become turnovers, pies, compotes and candied. It was divine.

When our plastic bag was heavy and I was inexplicably walking a little lopsidedly, we headed in. In to buy off my guilt with ciders and apple butter and decorative gourds and two of the most beautiful carving pumpkins I've ever seen. And thank God I brought the muscle with me because those buddies were heavy. I am considering doing lunges with them even as we speak.


So we drove home. A pit stop for relevant kitchen goodies and one for hugs at J's mom's house. Then we were home to take a good look at our bounty. You've never seen me so possessed as I was figuring out the price per apple. Lining them up one by one and polishing them. My precious'.
But even as I arranged them in bowls and gazed at them lovingly, I knew that the price wasn't at all the point in this case. $40 is taking a cab to the airport when you could have taken the train. $40 is the cheap blouse that falls apart in the washer. But a full afternoon of rosy cheeks and rain and mud and the kissing of fruit as it's pulled from the tree? Of my pointing and J reaching to get that big, glossy one up near the top? $40 of potential for gifts of pie and pork tenderloin? That is $40 well spent.

And man alive did those apples deliver. Golden Delicious, Jonathon, Gala and McIntosh. Perhaps one Empire. All in this pie. This pie that maybe could have used a few more minutes but don't worry because that aged white cheddar I grated into the crust? Melted like butter. And we were hungry with laughter from watching the improvised concert of the ages unfold in Lisa and Dave's new living room.

And no complaints from Jaimeson when it was warmed up with fresh coffee this morning. Because when you make a man a pie, less than two slices would be against the rules. So here you are, the vLog report of the Good Bad Apples. Now who has a good recipe for applesauce?

Apple Pickers from ToKissTheCook on Vimeo.

The last word, per usual, belongs to HC. The quintessential Halloween cat on her golden stairs, flanked by our two perfect pumpkins this afternoon.

Plate Lickers: Berry Baked French Toast Edition

I like using words like "edition" and "installment" in post titles because it infers that the entry is part of a greater cause. As though there was a plan and an editorial calendar. Or real sentence structure. That sort of thing.

In reparation for denying you actual writing as it applies to established grammatical rules, I have brought you some French toast. It's a chilly Friday morning and I'm much better at communicating with food anyhow...no poker face required. I could never be a card shark, let's just say that.

After having a thoroughly stunning weekend in San Francisco at BlogHer Food and getting my virtual girlfriend time in with a bunch of fellow food-communicators, I've been tired. Tired and busy. Too tired and busy to cook much with the exception of a rebellious night when I started making panko crusted chicken with pesto at 10pm. With polenta and broccoli. I may have put the leftover broccoli in the freezer by accident but everything else came out and it made me feel better, as chopping and stirring is wont to do.

Then I got word that Friday (today) could be a recharge day. A day to breathe in the cooler fall air and hang some pictures and drop off dry-cleaning. And go apple-picking, my favorite autumnal activity. Jaimeson arrived last night and I woke up this morning feeling as though an exercise in gratitude was in order. Dear Universe, thank you for reminding me to inhale and exhale with enthusiasm. I also owed J for the dinner I came home to last night. Man does not fool around with roast chickens.

So here is my exercise in gratitude- using the leftover baguette from dinner and some odds and ends around the house to make Berry Baked French Toast.


1) I am grateful to have affection in my life. This was dinner last night. Love is love and that is the necessity. But affection and sweetness have been around this house in spades lately, both in person and in spirit.

Preheat oven to 375. Slice bread about 1/4 inch thick and laid in a lightly buttered dish. Melt 1 tablespoon of butter and brush the tops with a basting brush. In a separate bowl, 3 eggs, 1/3 cup of milk (skim is fine), 1/2 tsp cinnamon, 1/2 tsp salt, any remaining butter. Whisk and pour over the top of your bread, ensuring all is covered. Let sit for 10-15 minutes till most egg has been absorbed. I had about a tablespoon of raspberry sauce leftover from Molly's birthday cake so I dotted across the top of the bread. Last step pre-oven? Sprinkle 2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar over the top.

2) I am grateful be invested in projects on every side of my life. I work hard because I love it. I love it because it's something I wanted to do before I knew it could be a profession. Even personal projects like redoing "my office" (I'm sitting in it now!) or learning how to make a terrine or putting together one ridiculous Halloween party...puts my insides aflutter in a good way.

Berry sauce. My fridge has gone empty. My cabinets have gone empty. But my freezer? Stocked for just such an occasion. Two handfuls of frozen mixed berries in a saucepan, then covered with 1/2 cup of orange juice and a couple glugs of maple syrup. Medium heat to a good simmer. Reduce it by a third and add a 1/4 cup of sugar if you really like the sweetness, though I don't find it a necessity. Remove from heat.

3) I am grateful to be on the move. A four hour flight to San Francisco or a 40 mile drive to southern Wisconsin, there is relief in the movement. The human equivalent of opening the windows to let the new, fresh air in. I'm too much of a homebody to be a true gypsy but there is life in other places and I hear they have macaroons and pie materials.

Bake the toast for 20-25 minutes or until golden on top and slightly risen, souffle-style.
4) I am grateful to be learning my limits. That doesn't sound terribly romantic but giving myself a few basic rules is going a long way. I need 7 hours of sleep. I need vegetables. I need kisses. I need cat food and the presence of canned tuna fish does not indicate that I can push off going to the store for another day.

Enjoy at the kitchen table and don't be shy with the sauce. Although if you're moderate, the leftovers would do magic to a bowl of ice cream or even Greek yogurt. Plate licking is fine, it's your house and you get to make your own basic rules.