Snow Day Ice Cream

Another blizzard, another day’s plans erased by snow. So much snow. More snow than I’ve ever seen before. What are we going to do with all this free time, and with all this snow?

Staring out the window at the flurries that were now traveling horizontally, I began to wonder: could we eat it? For a fleeting second I contemplated how silly I would feel googling “recipes with snow,” but saved myself the embarrassment when I remembered Paula Deen’s demonstration of snow-based ice cream. I don’t know how she got snow into her sunny Savannah kitchen, but I recalled her mixing a bowl of it with condensed milk and telling us all to give it a try. What better use of a blizzard and a long-forgotten can of condensed milk could there be?

The idea of consuming the product of New York precipitation did give me some pause, however. This isn’t exactly the kind of city where I would regularly graze on what I find lying around in the street (which you can totally do in like, Singapore, right?). But I must have inhaled about a pound of the stuff walking home last night, and I felt fine this morning. Plus, friends far more paranoid and germophobic than I am deemed it a fine idea. I’ll also admit to a reassuring “eating snow” google search.

I selected a Tupperware snow catcher and placed it on the fire escape, but the small amount of snow it caught was melted by a short interlude of sun. In the end, I collected a sample from the untouched deck/roof behind the apartment. The recipe said to use eight cups of snow for one 14-ounce can of condensed milk, but scooping snow in precise cupfuls turned out to be difficult. I estimated that I got about six cups into the container, packed fairly densely.

Once inside, I dumped the stuff into a large bowl, poured in about two-thirds of the condensed milk and a capful of vanilla, and tried to combine them without melting the snow too much. It did lose a lot of volume in the process, so I put it in the freezer afterward to try to resolidify some of the puddles that had formed. After about a half an hour it seemed a good consistency. I stirred in chopped mint and scooped it into a glass, adding almonds for some crunch.

The snow ice cream was, as you might expect, not indistinguishable from real ice cream, and had more in common with a creamy granita or milkshake. But it tasted great. Condensed milk never disappoints the taste buds, and it took on a very nice perfume from the mint and vanilla. I can imagine all kinds of flavorings and additions working well in this context – fruit syrups, jams, liqueurs, and any kind of small crunchy candy.

I would eat this every day until the snow melts if carcinogen build up were not an issue. As it is, I'd call this a great activity best limited to one blizzardy day a year. And since I no longer have any use for the snow, I hope it hurries up and melts into spring in the very near future. Skipping straight to full-on summer would be fine by me as well.

Found Fondue

I’m not sure I fully understand the connotation of clichéd romance that attaches to fondue. An activity involving pointy-ended utensils and lava-hot liquid cheese seems like a set-up for disaster when it comes to couples. Now that I think about it, the romance may only apply to the chocolate version, which is explainable by the chocolate-as-aphrodisiac urban myth. Regardless, I would never choose fondue as a First Date Night activity, lest the obligation to display table manners inhibit the cheese-dipping free-for-all that fondue should be.

Because in the end, whether it's date-ready or not, fondue provides a marvelous opportunity to submerge things in cheese. Fine, not just cheese: white wine and aromatics add a full-bodied, grown-up taste to the concoction. Traditional dipping items include cubes of bread, potatoes, steamed broccoli and other vegetables. But why stop there? Why not exercise one's full creativity when it comes to amassing vehicles for cheese? I have a feeling that the standard pairings are just based on what happened to be lying around in the average northern European household when fondue was invented, and the 21st century American kitchen contains many things that would benefit from a vigorous swirling in a pot of molten cheese.

Beef jerkey, for example. The flatness of a small strip provided an excellent platform for a generous amount of cheese to rest on, and the flavor was reminiscent of a smoky ham and cheese sandwich. Tortilla chips were also successful; Southwesterners have long been dipping them into bowls of queso, but I found the tanginess of the wine-cheese alloy to be much more pleasant than pure melted Velveeta. As the meal progressed, I took to wrapping various items in basil leaves before skewering them, and found it to be a universal improvement. Inspired by a snack my mother used to give us involving cheese wrapped in basil and apple skins (yes, just the crunchy part closest to the edge - I have no idea what became of the rest of the apple) and drizzled with olive oil, I folded a leaf around a chunk of apple and dipped it in. Another testament to the savory potential of fruit.

This was our first time making cheese fondue, so we didn't get too crazy. And I'll admit, the classics were in some ways the best: the crusty bread cubes were able to soak up the flavor of the wine while giving the cheese something to hold on to (the two substances didn't, uh, entirely come together due to our adding the cheese at an overly enthusiastic pace). But as we hone our skills with future attempts, the dipping items are sure to get more and more outrageous. I'm thinking sushi. Kristen suggested cubes of cheese, and I think she might be on to something.

Snow Day Coq Au Vin

What do you do when work ends early due to inclement weather and you find yourself with an entire afternoon and evening free? Well, first, you get yourself out of the muddy slush-swamp that Midtown has become, and back to the muted serenity of Brooklyn. Then, as the snow rises higher and higher against the window panes, you think of something warm and rustic to make for dinner, something special enough for the occasion of a historic blizzard but rustic enough to make the apartment feel like a log cabin. And something that will take up the whole afternoon.

Obviously, you make coq au vin. At least, it was obvious to us. The brilliance of coq au vin is that it manages to be elegant without the slightest hint of pretension: it puts delicious use to the cheapest parts of the chicken and it doesn't require particularly skillful culinary maneuvering (it will probably taste good no matter what), but it ends up seeming lighter and more delicate than the potato-based peasant food you might make instead. It could be that the pearl onions and the ruby tint of wine give the impression of luxury, or that quartering tiny brown mushrooms and tying together a bouquet of fresh herbs produces images of Shakespearean wood nymphs. I'm not sure. The point is, a pot of chicken and vegetables simmered in a wine-based broth for two or three snowy hours has the power to turn a Snow Day into a European Vacation Day.

Like I said, it's not hard to do. You'll need four chicken thighs, some vegetables, a bottle of the cheapest red wine, and a few bunches of herbs. First, season the chicken thighs with salt and pepper, then brown them in a wide pan. Sauté some chopped carrots and peeled pearl onions (chopping off the ends and boiling them for a minute will help the peels come off) in a large pot, adding minced garlic for a minute or two at the end. Put the chicken thighs in the big pot, pour in a little more than a cup of wine, and about the same amount of chicken or vegetable stock. (Measurements aren't important, use just enough to cover everything.) Throw in a few spirgs of sage, rosemary, and thyme, and add a dried bay leaf. Bring everything up to a boil, then lower the heat and cover the pot. Leave the kitchen to discover what day-time TV is like.

After an hour or so, or between magazines or worthwhile TV shows, heat up the pan used to brown the chicken and sauté some quartered mushrooms in that delicious leftover fat, until they've exuded all their juices, shrunken to an even more endearing size, and started to brown at the edges. Add them to the pot about 20 minutes before you deem the whole thing pretty much done (we let it simmer for about two hours, but if you get desperately hungry before then I'm sure it would be ok to cut off the cooking earlier). Finally, take the chicken and vegetables out of the pot with a slotted spoon and place them in an attractive (Ikea) serving dish. Turn the heat to high and reduce the liquid to a satisfying thickness, adding a tablespoon or so of flour if you want. Pour the sauce over everything in the dish (don't worry, the chicken is underneath there somewhere).

Some recipes say to serve it with egg noodles, but I prefer it (like most things) with large amounts of crusty bread on the side. It also goes nicely with mulled wine, and since the discount rack at Warehouse Wines has produced some disasters lately, you probably won't want to drink the rest of that bottle unadulterated anyway. After a plate of coq au vin and a mug of hot wine, your core temperature will be primed for venturing into the blizzard in search of snowmen.