Issue 20, containing: Syllabub, The Return of a Recommendation, Letters, Commonplaces, &c.

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SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

Is there more to the world than cooking? Only maybe. This week’s issue returns us to the ongoing saga of perfecting various recipes that possibly only I care about, as well as the new exciting topic of More Things Maybe Only I Care About.

To be honest, though, isn’t that the point of this magazine? On my regular blog, I talked back in 2019 about writing without engagement — the idea of writing ostensibly for myself, rather than trying to make something specifically engineered to chase the high of “going viral”. The Minor Hours and Small Thoughts Magazine (whose name I continually switch around, but whatever, order is an illusion) is, for me, the next iteration of that concept. 

It’s not intended to be productive, like my regular blog, or for marketing, like my twitter, or the vague purposes behind my other public profiles. Don’t get me wrong, it’d be awfully nice if this magazine made money, but… it’s not really about that. It’s for me. And yes, people can read  it, and I hope they do read it, but it’s for me. What I find interesting. How I spend my life. How I’m learning, and growing, and sometimes failing. But, hopefully, also how I get back up and try again.

A tweet is there and gone again. Ephemera. I love ephemera, but I need to know that the arc of my life bends toward a self that I can be proud of. The joke that science is only science if you write it down… well, life is an experiment. I’m writing down the results, measuring the changes. Living out the process of iterative design.

Who am I? It’s an existential question, and one we spend our lives trying to figure out. Who am I becoming? That’s the one I’m trying to pin down now. That’s the one I think I can affect. That’s the one that I can be review against, for instance, batch after batch of syllabub. It’s a more attainable answer, I think. And it’s one that, if you don’t like the answer, you can at least try and change.

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SYLLABUB: FIT THE SECOND

As mentioned in the previous issue, I was going to try my Frankensteined champagne syllabub recipe again, this time with powdered sugar instead of white sugar, no meringue at any stage, and  lemon again because it’s incredibly delicious.

I had also intended to use a larger bowl than the slightly-too-small one from the first attempt, and also to use a whisk instead of an electric beater, because there had been Accidents previously.

Only one of these paragraphs came to pass.

In this version, the recipe is as follows:

• 200 ml champagne
• 5 Tbs confectioner’s sugar
• 1 Meyer lemon juiced and zested
• 300 ml heavy whipping cream

Add the champagne and confectioner’s sugar to the largest bowl available, which in this case will be a very large glass one that lives on top of the microwave, rather than the actual largest bowl, which is a green plastic punch bowl that lives with the Halloween decorations on the back landing. Choosing the slightly-smaller bowl will again prove to be a mistake.

Of the original bag of Meyer lemons, zest the one that has not been touched by the mold fairy, and then cut in half to juice it. Despite all logic, find that it is somehow more difficult to zest it in this order — which should surely not be the case, therefore once more proving that order is an illusion.

Juice the lemon into a separate cup. The seeds will still be incredibly difficult to fish out. Make the attempt regardless, and then pour into the bowl with the champagne and sugar.

For reasons that make no sense whatsoever, pull out the electric beater again. What about the whisk? What about all the amazing things whisks can do? Forget them. Beat the champagne, sugar, lemon juice, and an unknowable amount of pith until they seem mixed well enough, which will be approximately the length of time it takes to be very uncertain as to what “well enough” actually means.

Keep mixer on lowest setting and slowly pour in the cream from a great height. It will look vaguely like thick lace as it hits the, as the French say, acidic sugar boozy bath. This is correct.

With trepidation, beat the mix for about two minutes, until the cream forms soft peaks. Briefly think that the bowl is, in fact, large enough, and that sufficient care has been taken to avoid the disaster of last time. Look up. See the ravages of dairy spread against the sugar pot, salt cellar, utensil crock, soup scoop and, hilariously enough, the backspash.

Following the syllabub’s betrayal, spoon servings into tea cups, refrigerating one and eating the other immediately. Syllabub can be (and is often) eaten immediately, but it won’t do its neat separation-trick unless you set it aside for a bit. I personally found that using the confectioner’s sugar had a strange, almost slide-y mouthfeel that I’m not sure existed in Fit the First, and of which I was not fond. The lemon was again a very strong flavor, and I now wonder whether it’s masking some of the champagne.

The next version will, I think, be the most adventurous yet — involving heating the champagne and mixing in honey. Granted, that variant was originally intended for a sweet riesling, which I am valiantly pretending to understand is a different sort of alcohol, but we are doing science here, and therefore must explore all avenues in pursuit of knowledge.

It is also to be expected that, when heating on a stove, I will certainly, certainly use a whisk.

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THE RETURN OF A RECOMMENDATION, WITH ADJUSTMENTS

Some time ago I wrote down a recommendation for a particular Fall pasta dish, involving apples. I then wrote a correction. And now, I’ve made it again, and I took the time to actually make some measurements.

Ingredients:

• 28 oz (or two packages) of pumpkin- or squash-stuffed ravioli 
• 2 large  juicy apples, of a crisp sweetness (such as Pink Ladies), or 3 smaller ones
• most of a stick of butter
• Chinese five-spice (or cinnamon)
• dried parsley
• rubbed sage
• apple cider
• apple cider vinegar
• salt and pepper
• olive oil

Start by prepping the apples. Wash and then, using a hand peeler, whittle the apples into a bowl (discarding the peel depending on level of aversion to factory waxes). The slices off the apples shouldn’t be much larger than an inch or two, and smaller is perfectly acceptable. Whittle until danger of clipping off fingers is imminent, and there is deep concern regarding how sticky everything is becoming. Munch on the remaining apple flesh before tossing the cores.

This will make more apple than appears reasonable. This is the correct amount of apple.

Start a Dutch-oven sized or slightly larger pot boiling. Salt it more than usual — apparently many people under-salt their pasta water. It’s supposed to be the salinity of sea water, which seems incorrect. But keeping that in mind may help ensure that the water will at least be closer to right than usual.

Heat a large frying or saute pan at low-medium, or whatever the temperature of melting-but-not-burning butter. Take about half the butter and set it to melting, swirling the butter pat in the pan enough to get a film covering the bottom. While it’s melting, add… amounts… of spices. Let’s say… 3/4 tsp of Chinese five-spice, 1/3 tsp of rubbed sage, 1-1/2 tsp of dried parsley. Add more if that doesn’t look right. Decide that 1/3 tsp is definitely a standard measurement. Live wildly.

Let the spices bloom in the melted butter, using a spatula or something similar to mix it all up nicely. When all the butter is melted, and the spices have been incorporated evenly, dump in the apple and start it cooking.

What is this step called? Browning the apples?

A very fast internet search later, it is revealed that this is called sauteing the apples, which is a new and exciting thing to learn — though perhaps obvious in retrospect, what with the saute pan and all.

Spatula the apples around until they’re all at least slightly covered by the butter mix, and then add in the very scientific amount of 1 glug of apple cider, followed by 2 glugs of apple cider vinegar. Continue sauteing, a verb that definitely exists. Add the remainder of the butter. Add a reasonable amount of salt, and less pepper than you’d suspect. The apples should start to soften, looking like a saucey slurry of browned onions, a description which is much less delicious than the effect you’re going for. 

Continue sauteing until the water in the Dutch oven is at a roiling boil, topping off the apples with either cider or vinegar if the sauce starts to dissipate too much. Which you add will depend on the taste of the sauce present — it should have a bit to it. If there’s a bite, but no depth, add a bit more salt. If there’s no bite, add more vinegar. If there’s no sweetness, add a very small amount of both cider and vinegar.

When the water is at a roiling boil, throw in the pasta for however long it says to cook it on the package (four minutes, according to the instructions on mine). Assuming you’ve gotten the apples right by now, turn down the heat so it’s just barely keeping the pan warm. 

Drain the cooked pasta, returning it to the Dutch oven. Add a drizzle or so of olive oil and carefully stir to help keep the ravioli separated. Pour the pasta into the saute pan, spatulaing the pasta and apples until the pasta is covered. Pour it all back into the Dutch oven, scraping the pan so as to ensure all the deliciousness has transferred into the Dutch oven.

Serve with grated Parmesan. Or don’t. Makes about four or five servings. Reheats very well.

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A NOTE TO GENTLE READERS

The question that comes to mind now is… what should I call this recommendation? I’ve been calling it Apple Pasta Thing, but that leaves something to be desired. Suggestions welcome.

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LETTERS

From reader Virginia, to the Magazine, regarding Issue 19’s venture into syllabub and the question of pineapple juice:

Thank you for your services to science. Given that “pineapple whip” is a thing that’s Disney-famous (reportedly) and the thought of a pineapple mimosa just made me sit up out of my ugh-will-I-ever-see-a-mountain-again slump, in my opinionated opinion, a pineapple syllabub is worth a try.

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From the Magazine, to reader Virginia, “You Interest Us Strangely”:

Several confessions are necessary at this junction:

1. The Editors have attempted pineapple whips from local poke places, and found them to be… adequate.

2. The Editors dislike orange juice, and therefore have never particularly been charmed by the concept of mimosas.

3. However. The Editors are nothing if not scientists. Therefore, in the interest of furthering the progress of mankind, a pineapple mimosa was attempted.

As is our wont, we both researched several different recipes and also became plural for the purposes of dramatic effect. Based on the recipes and the contents of our cupboards, we came to the following conclusions:

1/2 champagne, 1/2 pineapple juice: Very refreshing. The appeal as a brunch or luncheon drink is obvious.

1/2 champagne, 1/2 pineapple juice, a squeeze of cream of coconut: Is stirring a bad thing for champagne? Hard to know. This seems slightly muted. Not really an improvement.

1/2 champagne, 1/2 pineapple juice, a squeeze of cream of coconut, 3 dashes of The Bitter Truth Grapefruit Bitters: We were at this point on the verge of madness. How could this end in anything other than tears?

Reader, it is delicious. 

The depth! The tang! The flavor journey! It is almost too much for us. We are unmanned, unmended, and unmade. We don’t even like grapefruit, and yet.

This is not, we think, the drink for the happy socialite laughing over their clever breakfast change-up. However, if you require a pineapple drink that will spit in your eye and dare you to call it sweet, this is the drink for you.

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COMMONPLACES

From Dolly Parton’s twitter:

Find out who you are and do it on purpose.

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From Richard Siken’s “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out“:

Okay, if you’re so great, you do it—
here’s the pencil, make it work . . .

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ANNOUNCEMENTS

This pineapple cocktail is a hell of a drink.

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If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at minor.hours.magazine@gmail.com with the subject line:

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you’d rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print.

Alternately, commenting on this post will get you a similar result, with much less fuss.

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-Until next week, be safe.