I was walking through the West Village yesterday. The sun was shining and the day was one of those brilliant, made-for-a-postcard ones—the sky a fierce cobalt blue and the sidewalk cafes and restaurants crowded with people drinking and laughing. A shiny, polished, new penny sort of fall day.
A couple was walking just behind me, close enough that I could listen to their conversation as we wove past the lines outside Bleecker Street Pizza. “You know what I love about New York?” she said to him. He murmured something back and she responded quietly but clearly, “there’s a florist on almost every corner.”
And it’s true! Granted, most of these are just little bodegas rather than proper florists but all of those bodegas, unlike ones in other cities, sell a huge array of fresh flowers. Roses in technicolor hues spill out of plastic pails. Sprays of baby’s breath and delicate stems of lilies and stalks of sunflowers line the sidewalk. There are carnations and hydrangeas and holly berries.
I, too, love this about New York. I love that because of the flowers everywhere, it’s not uncommon at all for someone to bring a bouquet to a dinner party or when dropping by your apartment. It doesn’t require a big event or occasion. And I love more than anything how often I see people on their way home from work in the evening—and it’s particularly the earnest-looking men in rumpled work clothes that always get me—clutching fresh flowers wrapped in white paper.
Who are they bringing those to? I wonder. Is there a reason? Will the person be surprised?
Those are the little stories that inhabit my mind when I wander around the city, and around the world for that matter. I like to imagine everyone in their ordinariness. I like peeking into people’s shopping carts and wondering about the books they read and considering the state of their mudrooms—are they strewn with the clutter of a busy household: rain boots tipped over and soccer cleats flung about and fleeces hung haphazardly?
There’s also something nice about paying attention a bit more because you tend to uncover small sparkly bits of life that way: witnessing small kindnesses and tiny romantic gestures and noticing things like how the surface of the reservoir in the park turns a very specific inky-blue right at sunset.
Just last week I was sitting in a cafe eating a bowl of chicken soup and trying to write. A very chic-looking woman with gorgeously thick lashes edged behind me at the big wooden communal table, pulling off her trench coat to reveal dark jeans and a perfectly fitted navy cashmere sweater. She had her son in tow, and I inwardly groaned as they sat down next to me, thinking I was in for noise when I wanted quiet.
Of course, she was French (naturally!) and her son—who was about seven—was as polite and adorable as they come. When the waiter came by, she ordered oatmeal and when her son ventured a timid yet hopeful “hot chocolate?”, she didn’t say “non!” as I expected but grinned widely and nodded her assent at the waiter.
He soon brought over a bowl of steaming hot milk and a tiny jug of melted chocolate. Watching her, watching her son, as he rapturously poured a thick stream of chocolate into the milk was one of the nicest and warmest things to see. I couldn’t help smiling behind my laptop as he stirred carefully, then took a sip and offered her one too.
Which brings me, in a hugely roundabout but nonetheless important way, to chocolate. And my desire—after witnessing said event—to rush home and make myself some hot chocolate. But I was busy and hurrying through the day, and it was already 4 PM and drinking hot cocoa at 4 PM is a recipe for not enjoying your dinner at all.
So instead, I turned to one of my very favorite comfort foods: stovetop pudding. My mom used to make us quick chocolate pudding when we were little. I remember eating it warm, with a drizzle of cold raw cream on top, and luxuriating in the intense decadence of it.
It’s funny in hindsight now that I know how to make it myself. Chocolate pudding is one of those must-be-magic sorts of recipes: it tastes far richer and more sophisticated than it has any right to, considering the ingredient list. Just 10 minutes of stirring in a pot, and you can transform milk, cornstarch, sugar, and plain old cocoa powder into a dessert that tastes Michelin-level indulgent.
I was low on milk, but I remember seeing my friend Ali Slagle’s recipe in the New York Times cooking section for oat milk chocolate pudding. After a quick consultation, I realized it was identical to my regular pudding recipe, so I forged ahead with a blend of oat milk, almond milk, and 1% milk (all I could scrounge up to make the 2 cups needed)!
It was perfect. It thickened beautifully and set up just like regular pudding does once chilled. I heated up a bowl of it for dessert last night, and am already looking forward to doing the same tonight. (Oh, and for anyone wanting the recipe, here’s the NYT version but feel free to use any milk you like and feel free to skip the dark chocolate and just use cocoa—it tastes just as nice!)
But while I was on a chocolate kick, I carried on—because when it comes to chocolate, why stop at just one recipe?
I was in full-fledged leftover mode yesterday, practically on a tear to figure out a use for some odds and ends in my fridge that were close to the edge of being acceptable sustenance. Earlier that week, I’d picked up a loaf of rye ciabatta from the excellent Brooklyn bakery Runner & Stone. All of their breads are long-fermented sourdoughs, and they are wonderful.
Full disclosure: I bought the loaf because I was wandering through the Union Square farmers’ market in the afternoon and felt hungry. Peckish, as the Brits would say. I picked up a crunchy Cameo apple at one stand and then this rye loaf, tearing off pieces as I walked south to the Lower East Side in the sunshine.
So I had the rest of that loaf, and half of a leftover roast chicken, and some kale. There was a hunk of Parmesan languishing in the back of the cheese drawer. I sautéed the greens with some garlic and also chopped up some mushrooms and cooked those in a bit of butter. I chopped up the bread into 1” pieces, tore up the chicken, and tossed it all together with some grated Gruyere cheese. Into a buttered casserole dish it went, then I whisked together some milk, eggs, grated Parmesan, and a bit of Dijon mustard. I poured that over the dish, then let it sit in the refrigerator for a few hours while I went about my day.
At dusk, I turned the oven on and baked it for about about 40 minutes until bubbly and crispy and cheesy. Voila! A perfect leftover dinner.
While I was on such a brilliant (may I say that here?) creative streak, I figured I should put my sourdough discard to use too.
(Reader, I have just started down the sourdough path again, and last time I accidentally let my starter die so let’s all cross our fingers here shall we?)
I’d blended some pumpkin puree with spices (cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom) and maple syrup earlier that week to add to steamed milk for a nice autumnal warm drink (clever, huh?), so I had some extra in the can. Combine that with my sourdough discard and a half Mason jar of bittersweet chocolate chips that would otherwise certainly have been snacked upon (not pointing fingers!)…and you have the makings of a very promising dessert.
I used a recipe from King Arthur Flour as the base, and tweaked it a bit to suit my tastes: more spice, less sugar. I added a little maple syrup, too, which I prefer over 100% granulated sugar for sweetness.
This loaf is really lovely. It’s moist and tender and packed with chocolate, although you could certainly use toasted nuts or dried fruit instead of the chocolate. If you want it a little sweeter, use semisweet instead of dark chocolate. Or throw in some milk chocolate, too! Go wild! My excellent taste testers agree that it is nicely spicy, and that despite a lot of chocolate, the pumpkin flavor really shines.
So, go forth and be all Martha Stewart on your leftovers. And…get a sourdough starter!
Sourdough Pumpkin Chocolate Loaf
Makes one 9” x 5” loaf
1/3 cup (67g) vegetable oil
1/4 cup (50g) sugar
¼ cup maple syrup
1/4 cup (85g) molasses
2 eggs
1 cup (227g) pumpkin purée
3/4 cup (170g) sourdough starter, unfed/discard
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
2 cups (241g) all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¾ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon ground cardamom (optional)
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips
3 tablespoons turbinado or raw sugar, for sprinkling
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9” x 5” loaf pan (an 8” x 4” would work okay too).
Whisk together the oil, sugar, maple syrup, and molasses. Add the eggs, pumpkin, sourdough starter, and vanilla and whisk until well combined. Stir in the flour, salt, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, cardamom, baking powder, and baking soda and mix until smooth.
Stir in the chocolate chips then pour the batter into your loaf pan and sprinkle the raw sugar evenly over the top.
Bake for 55 to 65 minutes, or until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean, or with just melted chocolate but no batter. Do not overbake! It’s much better to have it more moist so start checking at 55 minutes or even sooner if your oven runs hot.
Remove from the oven and let cool in the pan for 10 minutes before turning out onto a wire rack to finish cooling.