Much of what makes life life—something about which people want to write songs and pen novels; something full of joy and shivers of unexpected (and expected) pleasure—lies in watching how easily you can transform ordinary things into more.
Taking disparate elements and making them more than the sum of their parts happens all over the place. Take, for example, poetry. How many times have you said or used the words “vacuum cleaner” or “UPS driver” or “house” or “thief” — but then someone (in this case the poet Ron Carlson) puts them next to each other in this very specific order and suddenly they mean something bigger and so sweeping that you read them again and again, saving them in your notes to remember to write about right here, to all of you:
The Neighborhood So Far
If my heart is a house
then it stands on your street
in the little village
where you are paperboy,
mailman, garbage collector,
water meter reader,
building inspector, vacuum
cleaner salesman, UPS driver,
yard crew, chimney sweep,
window washer, tax assessor,
magazine solicitor,
census taker,
snow shoveler, house painter,
voyeur, door to door
scam artist, vandal,
burglar, thief
extortionist, thief
burglar, thief
arsonist arsonist arsonist.
Cooking is the same way. You start by opening the fridge. You see some arugula starting to wilt sadly and quietly around the edges, the center greens still perky and fresh. You see a half pound of ground beef, opened from the night before and hastily wrapped, basically begging you to please cook this and organize the shelves while you’re at it.
You take them out and place them on the counter, frowning slightly. You put a yellow onion next to the arugula. You add a can of crushed tomatoes, the jaunty red San Marzano label tempting you to briefly break out into a few bars of an Andrea Bocelli aria but you do not lose focus.
Onto the countertop goes a small glass jar of dried wild oregano. Some salted pepitas. A head of garlic, just starting to shimmy out of its papery white skin.
And just like written words, you could arrange these ingredients in so many ways, making them into a slew of wholly different experiences.
You could mix the beef with minced garlic and chopped onion, adding an egg and milk and breadcrumbs, and shape it into meatloaf.
Add ground ginger, soy sauce, sesame oil, and toasted sesame seeds and quickly saute it all over high heat—tossing in the greens at the end and spooning it over a toasted English muffin.
Maybe go Hawaiian — shape the beef into a patty, serve it over some cold leftover white rice with a quick olive-oil fried egg on top, the edges lacy and golden with fat.
You could unearth a can of chickpeas and brown them with the beef, adding a handful of chopped fresh herbs and as much garlic as you can stand to mince in one go, as you very much dislike the sensation of how the minced pieces cling stubbornly to your fingertips.
You could remember the dumpling dough you made a double batch of a few months ago and stashed in the freezer under the crinkle cut carrots and the mint chip ice cream. You could think “momos!” You could thaw the rounds you layered carefully in wax paper and fill each circle with a heaping spoonful of ground beef mixed with chopped cilantro stems and fresh ginger, pleating the edges—your fingers working slowly, your tongue between your teeth in concentration—before steaming them then flash-frying them until one side is crisp and golden.
Instead, I saute the onion and garlic together, adding the beef and breaking it up with a wooden spoon as it sizzles and hisses and releases golden streams of fat into the pan. I add tomatoes. Oregano. A pinch of red pepper flakes. I spoon it all over a shallow bowl of arugula, then top it with a fistful of pepitas.
This, of course, doesn’t feel quite substantial enough…by which I mean there’s no dessert involved.
It is for this reason that I advocate keeping at least three frozen scones on hand at all times, whether fully baked and ready to be toasted, or frozen before baking so you just pop them in the oven for 20 minutes or so until golden and, well, really just absolutely perfect.
Since we’re in the dead of winter, now is a wildly good time to consider putting root vegetables to use in unexpected ways—my favorite being this recipe for maple parsnip scones.
The recipe comes from Tandem Coffee and Bakery in Portland, Maine. It’s the invention of their extremely talented baker, Briana Holt, who very nicely shared the recipe with me after I basically begged her and threw myself prostrate at her feet since I don’t actually live in Maine and therefore can’t spend all of my money there. A shame. Body By Scones seems like a nice regimen.
A note here: You may scoff at the use of parsnips, and think they’re very Dickensian and drab. But they’re incredibly sweet once cooked or roasted, and ideal for desserts. Because of their sweetness, they’re also good alongside something savory like roasted chicken. Just saying.
**Briana uses European-style butter which has a higher-fat content. If you can find it (like Plugra), do! If you can’t, not a big issue.
Maple Parsnip Scones
Recipe from Tandem Bakery; makes 16 large scones
For the roasted parsnips
2 cups (198g) peeled, grated parsnips (about 3/4 pound before peeling)
3 tablespoons (57g) maple syrup
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
For the scones
3 3/4 cups (447g) all-purpose flour, divided
1/2 cup (99g) sugar
2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
18 tablespoons (255g) European-style butter, cold, cut in 1" cubes
1 1/4 to 1 1/2 cups (283g to 340g) buttermilk, cold, divided
1 egg, beaten with 2 teaspoons water
For the glaze
6 tablespoons (85g) unsalted butter, cold
2 tablespoons (39g) maple syrup
4 teaspoons (28g) honey
1/2 teaspoon salt
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Line a baking sheet with parchment and spread the parsnips on it in an even layer, then drizzle the maple syrup evenly over the top and sprinkle with the salt.
Bake the parsnips for about 15 minutes, stirring halfway through, them remove from the oven. Toss the warm parsnips with the cinnamon, cardamom, and freshly ground pepper and set aside to cool while you make the dough.
For the dough: Whisk 3 cups of the flour with the sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut in the butter using a fork, pastry cutter, or your fingers until it’s in small pea-sized lumps.
Toss the cooled parsnips with the remaining 3/4 cup flour and then stir them into the butter/flour mixture.
Add 3/4 cup of buttermilk to the flour mixture, stirring gently with your hands or a fork. Add another 1/2 cup, stir gently, and squeeze the dough to see if it’s moist enough. It will still look crumbly but should hold together when squeezed. If it doesn’t, add the final 1/4 cup of buttermilk.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and fold it over onto itself a few times, pressing down lightly, until it comes together but be careful not to make it to homogeneous.
Divide the dough in half and press each into an 8” round (you can also shape the dough into a square or rectangle and cut it into squares using a knife). Cut each round into 8 wedges (or into squares), then transfer the scones to two parchment-lined baking sheets.
Pop the baking sheets into the freezer for about 20 minutes. When you’re almost ready to bake, preheat the oven to 400°F if you’d turned it off before.
Brush the tops of the dough with the beaten egg and bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until a medium golden brown.
Remove from the oven and let cool for a few minutes while you make the glaze.
To make the glaze: Melt the butter in a small saucepan, swirling the pan constantly, until the solids separate out and begin to brown and smell nutty, about 5 to 8 minutes at medium-low heat. (Briana strains her brown butter through a sieve before proceeding but I don’t and that’s really up to you!)
Add the remaining ingredients and brush the warm glaze over the scones.