My thoughts were drawn to my grandmother the other day. I never knew her very well beyond the self-interested childhood sphere of age eight, when she died quite unexpectedly just after her 50th anniversary. But there was one fact I could grip with stark clarity: she was the wife of a missionary. She married my grandfather fairly young and traveled with him extensively, going so far as to raise her own children in another country thousands of miles away from her friends (and possibly any family, not that I understood her to have any happy connections). It was baffling to me for many years. I was a progressive liberal and a budding feminist with a strong streak of individualism. What could possibly motivate a woman to up, marry, travel hell-knows-where at the whim of a man who is now practically the epitome of far-right religious Midwest values, and then have three children? And how could this person possibly be related to me? It seemed impossible that we shared the same genes.

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In an ideal world, I’d test all of Reinhart’s recipes before the end of the year. This goal is looking less and less likely, but I’m not really disappointed. With patience and repetition, I’ve gained insight into the "feel" of various doughs—very important because each type of bread has different qualities prior to baking. The better you get at identifying and aiming for these characteristics, the better your final product. Within the next several months or so, I anticipate quantitatively adjusting Reinhart’s formulas to my own specifications; I’ll post the results when I’m comfortable with their accuracy. NB: Remember most of these adjustments are specific to the environmental conditions of my location: temperature, humidity, etc.

Meanwhile, I am making progress through the book. After pizza crusts, I decided to turn my attention to the sweeter bread varieties in preparation for the holidays. By Christmas, I will probably have added Hutzelbrot, Stollen, Brioche, and/or Boston Brown Bread. This past week, however, I took a crack at Reinhart’s Graham Cracker formula. I ran two trials and a third is scheduled next week. Here are the results thus far:

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Having obtained a fabulous baking stone from Fibrament in August, I’ve subjected the stone to a rigorous baking schedule—boules, batards, and sandwich loaves at least twice a week. I was quite pleased with the performance, but as of last weekend the final test had yet to be performed: pizza. Years prior, I’d experimented with several hand-made whole wheat pizza crusts on cheap sheet metal; the results were o.k., but nothing worth preserving in the annals of Jenn kitchen-history. However, this time ‘round I was armed not only with the proper equipment, but also a baker’s formula from Peter Reinhart. The stage set, Fall arrived just in time to crank my oven up to 525°F.

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The theme this week was Spanish cuisine and flavors. (More on why in the next article.) I needed an all-meat dish to accompany the other main, so I bumbled around on the internet until I ran across "albondigas"—or meatballs. The snafu: the online recipes were all over the map. Many of the meatballs were basted in a tomato sauce, but some were in wine-vegetable broths. Beef, pork, veal, bacon, and chicken were all candidates for the actual meat content. One of them called for Parmesan cheese, and that’s where I just drew the line. Parmesan cheese? As in the Parmigiano Reggiano of Italy?! Why would Spain, with all its lovely and wonderful cheeses, use Parmesan in what is considered a classic dish of Spain? I dove for the nearest bookstore. Save me from the hordes of sameness! I was not going to be conned into some American rendition of spaghetti and meatballs (minus the spaghetti), no matter what the internet said.

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Very few recipe books are "essential." When you understand kitchen fundamentals, when you begin to grasp the concept of ingredients by ratio, when you have no fear of exploring new flavors—you can free yourself from the dreaded recipe and have a lot of fun cooking. That’s not to say you can’t learn from someone else’s recipes. A good recipe book will refine your basic techniques, familiarize you with foreign cuisines, and help you develop unique "dish concepts." However, I rarely find myself attached to one book and hauling the bugger around like a trusty sidekick. It’s just part of my personality. For better or worse, I have an innate resistance to listening and following the directions of any one person.

But these days I’m often not very far from Peter Reinhart’s Whole Grain Breads. This book is gem.

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Well here’s a crazy idea I’ve been tossing around for a while. These sweets don’t really jive with the Mexican food we’re eating at the moment, but hey—I thought of this back when I was making Japanese Curry. And this is kind of… maybe.. sort of… okay, vaguely… Asian, so in my mind it works :P

I’m not really sure what to call this concoction. It’s a dim-sum wrapper made with sweet glutinous rice and pumpkin instead of sweet potato; on the inside, there’s a pumpkin puree spiced with the cinnamon, all spice, nutmeg, sugar and grated crystallized ginger. So basically I crossed jin deui with pumpkin desserts and this odd little deviant child came out. And if I haven’t scared you yet, there are more mutant babies inside my head at the moment. Parents: this is what happens to your kids when they play with their food as wee children.

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Chile Verde is a dish straddling the border between Mexico and the United States. It can be made with a distinctively Tex-Mex flair, served in burritos, or created as a rich broth for plain steamed rice called morisqueta. Even wilder variations of chile verde call for paprika, cinnamon, and yellow bell peppers or chicken instead of pork. To complicate matters further, there is another eerily similar dish, called Chilayo, which Diana Kennedy attributes to the Colima region of Mexico in her book The Art of Mexican Cooking. So given all this, what exactly is chile verde?

Well I can’t tell you what chile verde should be, because anything I say could be contradicted by at least ten Mexican grandmothers or world-class competitors in chili cook-offs (all of whom can hardly agree with each other). However, I can tell you all about my chile verde, which is a rather simple blend of common sense and personal preference.

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The weather in coastal Southern California can’t seem to decide what season we’re in, but I’m already jazzed about the arrival of Fall. Hot chocolate, morning fog, shorter days, impending food-filled celebrations, time off with the husbot—can I count the ways I love thee? And perhaps more than any other produce, squash is the signature item of the season. There’s quite a selection of squash readily available these days. Butternut squash, pumpkin, acorn squash, and kabocha are only a few of the varieties sold at the local grocery mega-mart and farmer’s market. That said, I don’t cook as often with squash as I would like. The few times I had squash served to me when I was young, the squash was bland or overly sweetened. (Think candied yams.) My husband is even more averse to squash than I am because of his prior experience. But I don’t think the humble squash is to blame for this poor reputation; I think many recipes for squash are just plain boring or poorly thought out. So when I got the yen to use some butternut squash this weekend, I avoided reaching for the traditional (and overused) butternut squash soup and instead tried to recall cuisines that might blend the savory with the sweet in a delicious, but starchy dish. Morocco and Algeria anyone?

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Okay, I had planned on roasting the chicken with a persimmon glaze. However, there were two major problems with this approach. Problem One: persimmons are delicately flavored and, short of a mild cream or custard sauce, are difficult to pair with other flavors. Even too much sugar or honey seems to destroy the subtlety of the persimmon. Problem Two: fuyu persimmons, the kind I usually buy, don’t really have the texture to make a proper glaze. Imagine trying to make a glaze out of something like partially cooked carrots. (Usually you glaze the carrots themselves, not make a glaze out of them.) Nothing I did, including softening the persimmons via cooking and straining in a sieve, yielded the smoothness you associate with a glaze. Arrowroot might have given me a more shiny or glossy sauce, but without the texture, the whole deal was a bust anyway. So there’s a lesson learned: never, ever try to make a savory sauce out of fuyu persimmons. Hachiya persimmons might do better, but you’d have to use the softest, ripest fruits to avoid the astringency associated with that variety. It’s such a shame; I love persimmons. I was really hoping to bring their deliciousness to a main course.

That said, dinner was far from a bust. The spice rub was good, the chicken was beautifully tender and juicy, and the wilted greens were fabulous—that last bit is the real surprise because I usually find myself saying "meh" to most green side-dishes. Also, spatchcocking a chicken is just plain darn fun.

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Occasionally I get the urge to cook what no sane, modern man or woman should ever try. Take today for instance—I thought, "Wouldn’t it be great to make Mom’s Japanese curry, but without the help of roux from a box?" Ha bloody ha-ha. Okay, so maybe starting this the day after the cioppino was not my brightest idea. Starting this after finishing a fish stock, a molten cake, a cioppino, and a pesto while also working on two loaves of bread was truly the pinnacle of brilliant scheduling. But like you, I thought, "I just need to make a roux. How hard could it be?" I’ve made roux thousands of times and killed thousands of roux babies. I eat roux for breakfast (okay, not really). But still!

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