When I was little, I had my own specific list of likes and dislikes. A hard pass on raw tomatoes, creamed onions, sweet winter squash, and anything licorice-flavored. A definite green light on fresh peaches, sticky orange sweet rolls, homemade strawberry ice cream, barely-blanched sugar snap peas, cucumber sandwiches, Grape-Nuts cereal with cream, buttery-tasting Club crackers with thin slices of bright orange Cracker Barrel cheddar, buttered bowtie pasta, pats of butter melting on warm-from-the-oven potato bread, and really just butter in general now that I think of it.
Our butter, of course, wasn’t the store-bought kind. We didn’t have wan-colored sticks wrapped neatly in waxy paper waiting in the side drawer of the refrigerator. Instead we had little ceramic ramekins packed tightly with bright yellow butter, the tops smeared with the imprint of irregular swoops left from the spoon my mom used to fill each one. Our butter came from our Jersey cows (my childhood was marked by a series of gentle, fawn-colored animals with names like Sage and Buttercup and Thyme). Each morning and evening after milking, my mom would carry the silver milking bucket from the barn to the house. I can picture her quick gait, her body leaning slightly to one side, pulled by the hefty weight of the bucket, the steaming milk sloshing as she walked.
With one of our first cows, three of us also sporting some truly epic fashion choices.
She’d head to the sink in the milk-slash-laundry room; there she’d place a square of cheesecloth over the mouth of gallon glass jars, then pour the milk directly from the milking pail into the jars. The cheesecloth would catch any debris: stray bits of hay or flecks of dirt. From there, the jars would go into the big refrigerator to chill. As they cooled, the thick cream would rise to the top of the jar. Once it was fully separated, my mom would pull the jar from the refrigerator and place in on the counter next to a smaller empty jar. She’d pull out a deeply scooped ladle that we used only for this purpose, and she’d skim off spoonfuls of the cream.
When you imagine cream, you likely picture something bright white and ever-so-slightly more viscous than milk. Our cream was nothing like that; raw Jersey cream and store-bought cream are about as similar as cherry-flavored candy is to a real cherry.
Our cream was so rich that it would fall from the spoon in thick ribbons, rather than in a stream of liquid, closer in texture to clotted cream or labneh than milk. The butterfat content gave it a beautiful pale yellow hue, as if it were tinged with gold. Think of a Benjamin Moore paint named “creamy”, and you can envision the color.
Separating the milk by hand inevitably would leave a few streaks of cream behind—in contrast, the milk underneath looked watery and tinted a very pale blue. Think of skim milk in a store: with no fat content, it doesn’t have any of that opaque white color left.
I loved licking the spoon after she’d skim the cream—fresh raw cream is an ingredient in a category all of its own.
If you’re musing at home about the hygiene of all of this—no pasteurization, plenty of opportunity for dirt and who knows what else (a milking stall is not the cleanest of places)—you’re not alone. I remember our pediatrician doubling up on our immunizations, full of concern over daily glasses of raw milk coupled with the attendant safety concerns of a farm: carrying chickens and tromping around barefoot in streams and crowing over treasures like rusty nails and sampling the raw soybeans growing in the far pasture.
We were, however, sturdy and healthy children—more so than anyone I knew. I can’t remember getting sick more than a stray cold here or there, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t take an Advil until college. (I’m not attributing this entirely to being raised on raw milk! Even my mom would say that she wouldn’t drink raw milk from anywhere but her own farm, or a farmer she knew well, since the health of the cow is so closely tied with the health of the milk. The point is that we seemed to survive, and thrive, just fine.)
We’d use the cream alone: over cereal, drizzled over warm applesauce, poured over sliced bananas and topped with brown sugar, and so on. But most importantly, we’d turn it into butter.
My mom would pour cups of cream into our old Cuisinart food processor and run it until it thickened, then gathered into thick clumps of butter, the watery whey separately out. She’d squeeze the butter with her hands to get as much of that liquid as out as possible, then pack it into the ramekins to store in the refrigerator.
It reminds me of this poem by Elizabeth Alexander:
My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup.
Standing at the stove, I melt butter in a skillet over a low flame. I let it splutter and foam, then watch the white bubbles subside until it turns clear again, then darken as the milk solids brown and begin to take form around the edges. I swirl the pan, inhaling the toasted, nutty scent as it wafts up in warm puffs.
I set half aside in a bowl to cool before sliding it into the fridge to firm up overnight. I drizzle the remaining butter over slices of winter squash, add a drizzle of maple syrup, and roast them on a sheet pan until soft and easily pierced with a fork. I sprinkle them with salt and cut them into bite-sized pieces to toss with torn red leaf lettuce and toasted breadcrumbs.
When the rest of the butter is chilled and solid, I put it in the bowl of my stand mixer with brown sugar and eggs. I add vanilla, a splash of almond extract, salt, baking powder, and flour. I fold in chocolate chunks with my favorite silicone spatula.
I spread the batter onto a parchment-lined half sheet pan, sprinkle the top with flaky Maldon salt, and bake it until golden.
The bars turn out wonderfully chewy and dense—they’re less sweet than most blondie-style bars, thanks to the browned butter and a little less sugar than usual.
Sometimes I bake these in a 9” x 13” pan if I want a thicker, more traditional bar cookie. Often I add cacao nibs for crunch—you can easily add toasted nuts or sub any type of chopped chocolate or chocolate chip you like. I’d steer clear of using all milk chocolate as that’ll skew too sweet.
This recipe handles additions really nicely, so you could also consider adding up to 1/2 cup of peanut butter, almond butter, or tahini. You could also add some chunks of halvah or chopped bits of almond paste. I ada
**If the almond extract sounds odd, have faith! It helps to enhance the nuttiness of the brown butter without adding much flavor of its own.
Browned Butter Chocolate Chunk Cookie Bars
11 tablespoons (156g) unsalted butter
2 cups (426g) brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
3 eggs
2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
2 3/4 cups (326g) all-purpose flour
2 1/2 cups chocolate chunks, chips, or chopped chocolate (I like to use 70% or above)
Place the butter in a medium skillet and cook over medium heat, swirling occasionally. The butter will melt, then foam and bubble, then the foam will subside. Once it subsides, keep cooking for a few minutes, watching carefully as the milk solids on the bottom begin to brown. Once they start to turn a dark golden and settle at the bottom, remove from the pan from the heat. It should smell deliciously nutty by now.
Pour the butter into a heatproof bowl and let it cool slightly before popping it into the fridge to solidify. (If you’re pressed for time, you can use it before it’s fully solid, but I like the texture of the resulting bars better when the butter is solid. You can also stick it in the freezer briefly to save time.)
Once the butter has solidified again, remove it from the fridge and let it come to room temperature while you preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Line a half-sheet pan with parchment, or use a 9” x 13” pan if you want thicker bars.
Beat the butter with the sugar until very pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes on medium-high speed in a stand mixer.
Add the salt, vanilla extract, and almond extract and mix well.
Beat in the eggs, one at a time, mixing well between each.
Add the baking powder and flour and mix until the batter just comes together.
Fold in the chopped chocolate, along with any other additions you like.
Scrape the batter into your prepared pan and smooth the top. Sprinkle with flaky salt and bake for about 20 to 35 minutes—the baking time will vary based on the pan you choose, so if you use a sheet pan, start checking around 20 as it’ll bake more quickly since the batter is thinner.
The bars are ready when the top is golden and just set.
Remove from the oven and let cool fully before slicing.