Breakfast
Puff the Magic Pancakes
From the LA Times
I could tell you I love them because they're so easy to make — who doesn't love a dish that comes together in less than half an hour? Or I could say it's because of their delicate texture and flavor — light and airy, but rich and almost nutty to the taste, it's like biting into a delicious cloud.
But honestly? The reason I love these pancakes is because of the way they puff in the oven. They're downright fun to watch.
Call them what you will — Dutch babies, German pancakes, Dutch puffs — they're all about the souffle factor. They're kind of like Yorkshire puddings or popovers, but supersized. Mix together a few ingredients and pour the batter into a hot buttered skillet, then put it in the oven and watch it swell. In minutes, these babies may puff to more than five times their original size.
It's magical. Serve them quickly; like a souffle, the magic begins to deflate once they're out of the oven.
Saturday Morning Smackdown
My mother prepared us breakfast every day of the week because she was
not about to send us off to school on an empty stomach. Yet the only
day I really remember eating breakfast was on Saturday. Not because she
cooked an elaborate spread, but because we were left to fend for
ourselves. It was the one morning my parents slept in – probably only
to about 8 or 9, but it seemed like all morning and it was a thrill to be without parental supervision in the dining room. My siblings and I weren’t what
you’d call “skilled” in the culinary arts, but we were quite capable of
pouring a bowl cereal…and that’s where the trouble started.
These were the days before whole grains, when cereal was “crack” for
kids, so filled with sugar one bowl probably exceeded your daily
nutritional requirements for carbohydrates. There was no fiber to be found and we LOVED it. While in
grammar school, we were allowed to “request” our favorite brand, but my
mother had a strict food budget, so we never knew what we were
actually going to find in the cupboard. If your choice was on sale,
then it was your lucky week and the world was your oyster.
L.A. Breakfasts Making a Comeback
From the L.A. Times
When Campanile stopped serving daily breakfast a decade ago, the regulars (but
obviously not enough of them) who'd made a cappuccino and pastry or
poached eggs and ham at the restaurant part of their morning routine
were devastated. They had become accustomed to using the white
tablecloth restaurant as an office away from the office. Over a
sumptuous breakfast, they would meet clients, hold meetings, plot goals
and projects. Screenwriters scribbled, actors pored over scripts and
there may already have been a few bloggers at their keyboards. And then
it ended (except for weekend brunch, which is still going strong).
If Campanile couldn't keep breakfast going, what ambitious restaurant could? Du-par's and the Original Pantry rarely venture beyond the basics. Yet there's reason for optimism:
After several years of deprivation for diners, the L.A. breakfast is
making a comeback.
America's Worst Breakfast Foods
From Men's Health
It’s hard to overestimate the importance of eating breakfast. Studies
show that people who take time for a morning meal consume fewer
calories over the course of the day, have stronger cognitive skills,
and are 30 percent less likely to be overweight or obese. Beyond that, people who skip breakfast are more likely to drink alcohol and smoke, and they’re less likely to exercise.
But
just because breakfast is the most important meal of the day doesn’t
grant you permission to go into a feeding frenzy. But that’s exactly
what many of the country’s most popular breakfast joints are setting
you up for, by peddling fatty scrambles, misguided muffins, and
pancakes that look like manhole covers.
Worst Side Dish
Burger King Hash Browns (large)
620 calories
40 g fat (11 g saturated; 13 g trans)
1,200 mg sodium
60 g carbs
The Waffle Iron
Who knew that making waffles could be so fraught with symbolism and
stress? As a single woman, I never gave a thought about waffles, irons
or, come to think about it, marriage. One day my mother called to say
she couldn't, just couldn't send me a waffle iron. Why? She had read a
"Cathy" comic strip where Cathy's mother went on her usual neurotic
rant about how she couldn't buy Cathy a waffle iron because waffle
irons meant children, which meant marriage, which meant husbands, none
of which Cathy had.
Breakfast in Maine
My ideal breakfast is baked eggs, a nice thick ham steak and wondrously high popovers, this is the food that makes Sunday mornings so special and different from the other 6 days. Sundays are the time to slowdown and reflect on your week and your loved ones in your non formal pajamas for hours. A nice and slow day...
When we were kids my Mother always made baked eggs, that is what she called them. The English like to call them shirred eggs, but the concept is exactly the same. Because it is a dish based in the 60’s we start with a Pyrex custard cup, you know the clear glass cups that hold 7 or 8 ounces, cups that were basic kitchen equipment before we all got so sophisticated.
Pasteis de Belem
"I just returned from Lisbon and only have one thing to say - Belem Pasteis de Nata"
Thanks
to a reader for reminding me of what is the can't miss taste of Lisbon.
While there are wonderful wines, tasty sausages, perfect cups of
espresso and crispy salt cod fritters that all deserve your attention,
you haven't truly experienced Lisbon until you have made it through the
winding labyrinth of the cafe and bakery, Pasteis de Belem, in a pretty waterfront neighborhood of Lisbon and had a few fresh warm pastries.
Waffles on weekends
(from the Los Angeles Times)
Russ Parsons wrote this really great thing in the LA Times about waffles – here’s a tiny bit of it.
I’ve got a thing for waffles.
For me, there is no better treat on a Saturday or Sunday morning. I don’t care whether the rest of my time is spent balancing checkbooks and cleaning out the garage, but as long as I’ve had waffles, it’s been a good weekend.
The Messiah Pancake
Once upon a time, when my future husband and I had just started dating,
he called me one Saturday morning to see what I was up to. I was in the
car with my friend Phoebe and a trunk full of laundry.
“We’re going to Michael Green’s for breakfast,” I said. I had him on my
Reagan-era car phone, which had a curly cord and a speakerphone, which
may as well have been a tin can attached to a length of string.
Peter thought about this for a moment. “Is that a restaurant or a person’s house?” he asked.
French Toast at 4
It’s 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and like any well-adjusted
twentysomething, I’m eating breakfast. More specifically, I’m having
brioche french toast and cappuccino at the Little Next Door on 3rd with
my friend Gloria. After living in LA for six months, I have determined
that breakfast in the afternoon is exactly the sort of reckless
behavior Sundays demand.
Typically in New York, Sundays amounted to consumption of greasy brunch
complemented by mimosas and black coffee. Following brunch was an
inevitable headache, followed by more consumption in the form of
excessive window-shopping, followed by an indulgent nap upon what
appeared to be a laundry pile, but was in fact my bed.
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