“You know those are better frozen, right?” she asks, watching as he shakes the box of miniature Charleston Chews so it rattles loudly. He looks at her, frowning. “You can’t freeze a Charleston Chew,” he says, as if that’s obvious. “You can absolutely freeze them!” she retorts. “They get all firm and chewy and the chocolate flakes off in big frozen shards.”
She pauses to lick the basil mayonnaise off of her right thumb, then takes another lusty bite of her BLT. They picked up sandwiches that morning from Fork & Anchor: a tiny spot with worn plank floors and shelves of beach vacation essentials—dried pasta and peanut butter and fancy seltzer and Bremner wafers and kettle-cooked potato chips and those Petit Ecolier shortbread biscuits topped in milk chocolate that come in the long red and black box.
“I’m going to write a book devoted to the art of frozen food. You don’t realize how many things are better frozen—or slightly frozen.” She begins to tick off a list: fudgy brownies, homemade waffles, full-fat Noosa yogurt if you take it out while still spoonable, chocolate pudding (same caveat), gummy bears, grapes.
“Any fruit,” Matt chimes in from across the table where he’s assiduously disassembling his turkey club. “Watermelon is very good frozen.” He begins to pile a layer of potato chips onto the lettuce, then places the top slice of toasted sourdough back on top, pressing the entire sandwich down with his palm, then picking it up to take a bite.
They’re all silent—staring at him. He looks up with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What?” he asks. “Potato chips should be mandatory in a turkey club!”
The screen door smacks shut in a one-two rhythm—the top of the frame sticks in the humidity against the door jamb and it never closes in one smooth beat. Jenna is walking out from the kitchen balancing three oversized wine glasses filled with an electric orange liquid in her hands. She’s been a bartender for over 10 years, and they’ve all watched her juggle bottles of Tanqueray while filling shot glasses and fielding questions like “can you make me a gin fizz but without the egg white because I’m vegan and with some kind of peach flavor in it?” —so they know she can handle anything, but it still makes her hold her breath until the glasses are deposited safely on the glass-topped patio table.
“Aperol spritzes!” Jenna announces triumphantly. Last night they had all gotten a little bit drunk on Jenna’s latest project—lychee martinis made with yuzu juice, ginger, and fresh mint.
The idea of drinking turns her stomach a tiny bit, but then she takes a exploratory sip and changes her mind. “This,” she thinks, “is why Italians drink spritzes all summer long in the heat.” The drink is icy cold and reminds her of drinking chilled cans of orange Fanta at the pro shop after golf lessons when she was little.
They’re all quiet for a bit, finishing their sandwiches and passing around chips. “Watch,” Matt says, and he jumps up without warning, pulls off his shirt, and runs to the pool, diving into the deep end with a can of Lagunitas IPA held aloft. The beer stays dry and we applaud loudly, then watch as he tries to climb up onto an oversized unicorn pool float, slips off sideways, and flails underwater, beer and all. Jenna is laughing so hard that she’s clutching the front of her jean shorts and manages to get out the words, “I peed a little” when she can take a wheezing breath.
“Okay but back to the frozen food thing,” JP says. She’s laughing, “What? You don’t believe me?” "
“I just find it impossible,” he says. “Doesn’t everything get, like, hard to chew?”
They make a plan. She’s going to bring a batch of mandel bread—a softer and more cookie-like version of biscotti—to dinner tonight. They’re grilling at a friend’s house nearby, and it’s the kind of casual night she loves best, everyone bringing something useful and standing around helping wrap ears of corn in foil and slice zucchini into thin strips for the grill.
Someone will be outside manning the grill. The table under its striped umbrella will be set with 8 plates and water glasses. A few people will be clustered together on the cushioned white chairs near the pool, half-drunk glasses of piña coladas leaving frosty rings of condensation on the wooden arms, because someone will bring a bottle of rum and someone else will unearth a can of coconut milk in the pantry and decide that this—along with the bowl of limes by the sink—is a sign.
She’s going to put half of the mandel bread in the freezer as soon as she arrives, after slipping off her sandals and plucking a tangerine seltzer from the outdoor bar fridge. The other half she’ll leave at room temperature, and once dinner is over—the table strewn with the debris of a summer night: three burger buns left on a plate, crumpled napkins, a sticky ketchup-covered knife, the remains of a bowl of tomato and feta salad (mostly a few blocks of cheese drifting in a pool of pale pink tomato juice)—she’ll arrange both frozen and unfrozen on a plate and they’ll have a taste test. Everyone will weigh in, shouting over each other and ribbing JP for his delicate, ladylike aversion to “too chilled foods” and demanding that they try a new taste test each Saturday night.
“Okay, okay,” she relents. “This is a good idea.” They decide on peach pie for next week, and Rice Krispie treats the week after that.
She feels the oddest pang of homesickness for both of those nights: They haven’t even happened yet and already she misses them as if they were long-gone. Lately she finds herself with these twinges of melancholy, like time is slipping like sand through her fingers and the second she grasps at it, her hand closes around empty air.
Mandel bread (or Mandelbrot in the original German) is so similar to American-style biscotti that you might not notice the difference. Italian-style biscotti—the kind I like—is crunchy and typically made without butter or oil, so it’s an entirely different animal, but that’s a topic for another time. American-style biscotti is really more of a cookie shaped in a long long then sliced; it tends to call for butter whereas mandel bread uses oil. This, of course, makes the recipe a little easier and quicker and it really doesn’t detract from the flavor or texture.
I like to make mine as directed below—with chopped dark chocolate and a hint of almond extract. But the add-ins are really up to you, just keep the ratios to about the same quantity. Some good combinations:
-orange zest + fennel seeds + Cointreau
-candied ginger + dark chocolate
-sesame seeds + crumbled halvah
-ginger + cinnamon + molasses
-lime zest + white chocolate
-poppy seeds + lemon zest
-cacao nibs + milk chocolate
-crushed mint candy + chopped chocolate
-shredded coconut + coconut extract
-pine nuts + orange zest
-espresso powder + dark chocolate
-maple syrup + macadamia nuts
Mandel Bread
Adapted from Molly Yeh
3 1/3 cups (400g) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup (198g) granulated sugar
1 cup (198g) vegetable oil
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon almond extract
3/4 cup (128g) dark chocolate chips or chopped dark chocolate*
*I prefer chopping the chocolate into small pieces which makes the logs easier to slice later.
Preheat the oven to 350ºF.
Whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt and set aside.
Whisk together the oil and sugar until very well-combined, then whisk in the eggs—one at a time. Add the vanilla and almond extracts.
Fold in the chopped chocolate. You can bake the cookies right away although I like to chill the dough some. If you want to do that, just refrigerate the dough, covered, until well-chilled (at least an hour—you can also do this the day before).
When ready to bake, divide the dough in half. Using your hands (wet hands are easiest here), shape the dough into long rectangles, about 3” to 4” wide, on a parchment-lined baking sheet. The logs will expand a bit so leave a little space between them.
Bake for about 25 minutes—the tops should feel set and should be very lightly browned.
Remove from the oven and reduce the oven temperature to 250ºF.
Let the loaves cool enough to handle (fine if they’re still pretty warm, you just need to be able to touch them), and then slice each loaf crosswise into slices about 1” thick (the thicker your slices, the chewier and softer your cookies will be, which actually is extra good if you’re going to freeze them—if you want crunchier, crisper cookies, just slice them more thinly).
Flip the slices onto their sides on the same parchment-lined sheet and bake for an additional 20 minutes—again, if you like them very crunchy, you can leave them in for a bit longer, but know that they will crisp up some as they cool.
Ideally, let them cool and then FREEZE BEFORE EATING.