Exotic Biscotti

Perhaps it is the captivating tales of "1001 Arabian Nights", or the enchantment of Omar Khayyam's poetry, or just the idea of riding on a magic carpet, but Persia has always held a certain fascination for me. Persia (Iran) has as rich a culture and civilization as can be found on the planet. The art, literature and architecture are as mesmerizing as that of Egypt or China and the food is remarkably fragrant and exotic - and supported by a long culinary history. I am only beginning to delve into Persian cuisine, with the help of Najmieh Batmanglij, whose cookbooks ("A Taste of Persia" and "From Persia to Napa: Wine at the Persian Table") are the ideal way to begin.

In "A Taste of Persia", Batmanglij talks about "the Iranian attitudes toward food" and takes us on our own brief magic carpet ride through this ancient cuisine. "Hospitality ... is central to Persian life. Hospitality must be generous: In traditional Persia, a host would remain standing, serving his guests and eating nothing himself. Customs change but the attitude remains. Hospitality is like gift giving, the saying goes: One should do it handsomely or not at all. Next, one should cook according to what is best in season, so that food is fresh and of as good quality as may be." There's a commitment to the Slow Food movement!

The ingredients in many Persian dishes provide layers of flavor that not only taste wonderful but smell delightful. Pistaschios (which are native to Iran), pomegranates, dates, saffron, rose water, sour cherries, and cardamom abound. It is interesting to note that saffron and especially cardamom are also used extensively in Scandinavian baking (I grew up smelling cardamom before cinnamon!).

Being a neophite with regard to Persian sweets, I wanted to create something that would incorporate the flavors and fragrance of Persia with something familiar - something to be shared with friends and family who have not yet experienced the seductive pull of Persian cuisine. I like these biscotti with a cup of Earl Grey or Darjeeling tea while listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade".

PERSIAN BISCOTTI

1-3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon non-iodized salt
2 teaspoons rose water*
2 teaspoons ground cardamom (Penzey's preferred)
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup sugar, preferably superfine
2 large eggs
1-1/2 cups unsalted shelled pistachios

In a medium bowl, stir the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cardamom together with a wire whisk and set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the butter, sugar, and rose water and beat on medium speed until light and fluffy. Drop in the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Reduce the speed to low and add the pistachios. Mix until the nuts are just incorporated. Place the dough on a sheet of plastic wrap and wrap well all around. Chill for 1-24 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a large baking sheet (16"x12") with either parchment paper or Reynolds Release foil. Divide the dough in half and using lightly floured hands, shape each half into a log about 1-1/2 inches in diameter. Place the logs on the baking sheet spacing them about five inches apart. The logs will spread significantly during baking. Bake the biscotti until light brown, about 27 minutes. Remove them from the oven (but leave the oven on) and cool for about 10-15 minutes. Using a large spatula, transfer the biscotti to a large cutting board and using a serrated knife, slice the biscotti on the diagonal at 3/4" intervals. Place the slices, cut side down, on the baking sheet and return to the oven for about 10-12 minutes, turning them over after five minutes (be careful not to burn your hands). Transfer the biscotti to wire racks to cool (biscotti will continue to firm up as they cool). Place the biscotti in a cookie tin or another airtight container. Cookies may be stored for about two weeks. Yield: about 36 biscotti.

Note: Rose water may be found at Whole Foods, Sur La Table, and Middle Eastern groceries. Rose water has a pronounced flavor and fragrance and must be used judiciously. Some may prefer as much as a tablespoon or as little as a teaspoon. Orange flower water may be substituted for a different, but equally exotic taste. Slivered almonds may be substituted for the pistachios. The dough in this biscotti recipe handles very nicely as it is not as sticky as many other biscotti recipes.

Wild Strawberries

Fast forward: The summer of 1959, my parents sent me off to Ironwood, Michigan to spend the entire season with my mother's first cousin. There was a bit of a crisis regarding my aging grandfather which rendered my parents "otherwise occupied". I was not a happy camper with regard to this arrangement. I was a city kid and like most kids, wanted to be with my family and friends during the summer months. Being a country mouse just wasn't my thing (no Marshall Field's!). Mom's cousin, affectionately known as "Beka" was bit on the strict side, to say the least. My mother wasn't much of a disciplinarian and didn't get rattled easily. Life at home was basically, "be home before dark". My father worried - a lot - about this looseness - but mom was in charge and appeared to know what she was doing. Now I was under the thumb of a formidible woman who demanded to know my whereabouts at any given time. I really missed my parents and wanted to go home - and I hated the water, which was rusty all the time. Chicago has really great tap water! Nevertheless, I was in safe and excellent hands - which was the point of the whole engagement. There was one saving grace - the food. As much as I longed for my mom's cooking and baking, Beka was no slouch in the kitchen. While the groceries weren't exotic or cosmopolitan (no Oysters Rockefeller or Crepes Suzette), they were delicious and plentiful.

Beka, being Swedish Lutheran, attended the Lutheran Church every Sunday. Oh yes, I missed being Catholic for the summer, too - and sometimes I was permitted to attend Mass at the local Catholic Parish. Frankly, the Lutheran Church was a better deal. The Lutheran "Ladies Aid" provided many smorgasbords in the church basement, which were extraordinary. These women were in a fierce competition with each other for the best dish and the finest baked goods. Sundays were something to look forward to - sort of an "all-you-can-eat" Swedish banquet. There were Sunday picnics, too - out at Little Girl's Point on Lake Superior - all catered by the Ladies Aid. God knows I never went hungry.

One of the joyous discoveries of my summer in Ironwood were the wild strawberries. Whether these were bona fide wild strawberries, Fragaria virginiana or the cultivated wood strawberries known in France as fraises de bois, F. vesca, I cannot say - as I have very little knowledge of botany. I imagine they were truly wild - at least I'd like to think so, as it makes the whole adventure more romantic. The taste of these tiny berries was indescribable - intense, heavily perfumed, with the perfect balance of sweetness and acidity - more the attributes of a black raspberry. They were not glamorous looking, like the bright red and often huge cultivated strawberries of California. Their flavor, however, was incomparable. Roger Williams, the founder of Providence in 1636 said of the wild strawberry, "...this berry is the wonder of all fruits growing naturally in these parts. It is of itself excellent so that one of the chieftest doctors of England was wont to say that God could have made, but never did make a better berry..."

How often have you purchased some of those California strawberries only to discover they have very little flavor. Sure, they look beautiful as a cake decoration - but they are, in my opinion, a disappointment. According to Elizabeth Riely, author of "A Feast of Fruits", strawberries are best eaten in the patch - lush, juicy, and warm from the sun. Failing a backyard bed or pick-your-own farm, try to find locally grown berries."

Today, we're spoiled. We demand out-of-season and out-of area produce twelve months out of the year. Produce is engineered to be hearty enough to withstand long trips and rough handling - but it isn't necessarily full of flavor. Spinach, berries, and all manner of fruits and vegetables are trucked or flown in from thousands of miles away - setting us up for the possibility of food poisoning. The longer the produce travels, the more time there is for the bacteria to multiply. That summer in Ironwood, I ate every day from Beka's vegetable garden. Let's support the Slow Food movement and eat locally and seasonally (although I'll admit it's hard to be a locavore in the middle of winter in the Midwest). You'll support your local farmers and growers, help reduce carbon emissions, and eat better. If you can hunt down local farmer's markets, the chances of eating organic produce is very high. In the meantime, if you're looking for a place to see the colors of Fall at its best, a trip to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan will leave you breathless and while you're there, make friends with the Lutherans.

My Swedish Mother - Or How I Started Cooking

Full disclosure - I'm only 25 percent Swedish, my maternal grandmother having been born in Sweden. My half-Swedish mother was raised in Ironwood, Michigan in the Upper Peninsula. If you look at a map, you'll notice that Michigan's "mitten" has very little to do with the UP. It's a different world up there - "God's Country" - full of pine trees, snow, Lake Superior walleye (my favorite fish) and some of the world's kindest people. My mother grew up ensconced in a Swedish-Lutheran enclave - an extended family - most of whom arrived in Boston circa 1901. My grandmother was widowed when my mother was only three years old. By the time my mother was 12, she was doing the lion's share of the cooking for the remaining family of four, as my grandmother was out trying to make a living as a nurse-midwife. These were difficult times and Ironwood was hit hard by the 1918 flu pandemic

My mother's Aunt Bertha served as her inspiration in the kitchen. Bertha was, by all accounts, an elegant cook, despite the paucity of attainable foodstuffs. If ever there was an example of turning a sow's ear into a silk purse (or a magnificent stew), it was Bertha. Ironwood, like other communities of its era and ilk, pioneered the "slow food" movement, using what was seasonably available (venison, fish, wild strawberries) and whatever grew in local gardens during the summer. Preserving and canning were essential (if not tedious) exercises if you wanted tomatoes, beans, or beets in January. Mom learned by watching, tasting and doing. While other little girls were playing with dolls, mom was wielding a wooden spoon and cleaning fish.

My mother grew up and went off to college in Marquette, Michigan. During the summer of 1931, my Chicago-born, Irish-French, Roman Catholic father took a trip to the UP and met my mother at a dance. They married shortly thereafter and took up residence in Chicago. Although it was the Depression, my father had a job with International Harvester (and continued to work for the firm until his death in 1961). The first week of their marriage, dad gave mom a whopping $10 for "housekeeping necessities". Much to my father's chagrin, she spent the entire wad on herbs and spices. Mom had made her mark and the rest, as they say, is history.