Cinnamon Rolls with Cream Cheese Glaze

Whenever the heavy rubber-lipped subway doors spring open at Eglinton station here in Toronto, a gust of sweet cinnamon fills the train. Other passengers don’t seem to notice, no one’s eyes light up, nor does anyone breathe deeply, taking in the sugary scent, or how, like me, I immediately perk up from my seat, a smile slowly spreading across my face and worries of my tardiness to my appointment dissipates as the buttery aroma of fresh, yeasty rolls float into the TTC.

There is a Cinnabon or something with the similar name on the basement level of a mall in Montréal (another evil decoy to tease hungry subway goers), always luring me to stop by and buy a cinnamon roll but I’ve always resisted the urge. The only time I did give in to its seductive scent was at the Cinnabon at Union Station. I bought one with my then-boyfriend, an impulse purchase in our morning rush to some event we were on our way to. 

The cinnamon roll was given to us in a large turquoise box, similar to the paper boxes that McDonald’s packages its Big Macs, and for a second, I thought we bought a quarter pounder, the box was heavy and as I peeked at the cinnamon bun, it was massive, large enough to feed a family of four. Its microwave warmth numbed my hands and I grabbed a handful of napkins to clean up the thick, glossy syrup seeping through the folds of the cinnamon roll.

Yet I don’t remember how it tasted at all. Clearly, it wasn't enough for me to turn back on my heels and demand the young cinnabon server to hand me over the recipe lest I call the cops for his disobedience.

So I made these cinnamon rolls, yeasty buns to be shared with friends and family and even a stranger or two. I promise they will be remembered, engraved in your palate memory for many years to come, you won’t be able to resist their sticky, cinnamony fun. From the day these bad boys are baked to the end of their lifespan, they will be the reason to get up in the morning. Forget coffee, forget breakfast, forget work, these cinnamon rolls my friends, is your new reason to live. 

 

Written by one of my favourite food bloggers, Molly Wizenberg (whose book the Homemade Life made me cry when she pours her heart out about the French boy who broke her heart), this recipe has been sitting in my ridiculously long list of “Must-Make” recipes for a much too long. If you start on it now, you could have fresh, warm, cinnamon rolls in less than three hours. To help you pass the time, you could busy yourself reading this (hilarious!) or this (heartbreaking!) while the dough rises or make plenty of this to enjoy with the rolls, and trust me, the three hours will pass very quickly. 

You don’t even need a stand mixer (though I’m counting on you Santa), since the dough easily comes together in a few steps. Besides, who doesn’t like playing with food? Or revelling in that soft, silky feeling of flour between your fingers? Or the way a sticky, raggedy mess transforms into a smooth ball with just the kneading of your palms? This takes a bit more time than say, quick breads, but it was well worth the extra effort. Really.

In other news! Guess who I had the honour of meeting last week? Another of my favourite food bloggers: Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate and Zucchini. She gave a talk on the Art of Food Blogging and George Brown College, part of the Stratford Chef School Joseph Hoare Gastronomic Writer in Residence. I’ve never pounced on anyone before, not even James Franco (Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drool on you). She’s the sweetest, kindest person and I’m glad she didn’t call on security given the eager way I urged her to sign my cookbook. Thanks to Lisa for taking the picture!

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Whole Wheat Chocolate Chunk Cookies

Last Tuesday, I woke up at 7:52am and made myself breakfast. I considered my options, I could toast the lone butt slice of bread lying forlorn on the bottom of the fridge, or pour myself some sugar frosted wheat cereal. Though the latter seemed more enticing, there was no plate, no bowl, no spoons in the kitchen. What could I eat it out of? My palm? My mouthwash cup?


I emptied the styrofoam box that held lunch leftovers and dropped a handful of shredded wheats into one side, drowned it in milk and ate each square with my fingers. I never eat breakfast standing up, but since I've been packing, wrapping and taping up all my belongings to for a new home, I didn't have a choice. The kitchen cabinets were stripped bare, and my mom had foolishly forgotten to leave out a bowl and a spoon on our moving day so we could fuel up for our big move.


Random items like pens, magazines, old letters, and eyeliner sharpeners, scattered the table, abandoned, because I had no idea where to pack them. Just to get to the couch, I had to snake through the maze of cardboard boxes that covered every flat surface in the living room. In hopes of killing the bedbugs who ruined my life last year and who may have found their new home in the pages of my cookbooks, I stored my books in garbage bags and left them on the balcony for a year, allowing the damned insects to die a painful death in the long winter months. Finally, last week, on a hot summer afternoon, I had a mini reunion with my cookbooks, my heart skipped a beat when I saw their beautiful front covers again.

As I recovered the chocolate cookbook that my friend Claudia bought for me, I yelped with glee as I flipped through the 167 glossy pages devoted to chocolate desserts in all forms conceivable: soft, sticky, runny, chewy, crunchy, oozing, cakey, and fudgy.

But I haven't been able to decide on what to make from my cookbooks yet, though I do have something else just for you, dear readers, I got whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies.


Repeat after me: whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies. Don't you love how that rolls off your tongue? Actually, it sounds ten times better in a British accent. Whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies. I'm licking my lips just thinking about them.

I baked nearly 3 dozen cookies and gave half a dozen to my aunt who promptly tore threw one particularly plump cookie while watching tv, talking to me and leaving a shower of crumbs on her floor. I gave one cookie to my friend, Liz. Her treat was still warm from the oven and because I was in a rush to meet her, it didn't have time to cool. So when she unwrapped it for a mandatory snack break, the chocolate had melted and clung to the foil, without hesitation, she smeared her cookie into the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. On the same day, my mom went to the movies alone—well not really alone, she brought two cookies with her and nibbled the first one ever so slowly, fighting the urge to finish the second one right away. Take that buttered popcorn!


These cookies are like those tall handsome men you eye from across the bar, with impeccable wavy hair like McDreamy, with a smile so striking, it gives you goosebumps (in a good way) and those piercing green eyes seem to beckon you to walk over and croon Oh hellooo there.

But before you run to your kitchen and dig out your measuring cups, consider yourself warned. These are lethal. Lethal in a sense that they will permeate your walls with the irresistible aromatic combination that is butter, sugar and chocolate (Essence of Butsulate? Harhar, how I amuse myself). Your home will still smell like these cookies hours later. And if you dare bite into one, it will make you weak in the knees, its thick exterior gives way to a soft, chewy cookie, riddled with bittersweet chocolate, the whole wheat flour adds a dimension of subtle nuttiness and complexity you don't normally expect from an innocent looking chocolate chip cookie.


And while we're at it, go get some ice cream (you need to cool down after talking to that handsome fellow anyway), scoop a hefty portion onto a cookie, press another cookie roughly the same size on top, and treat yourself to an ice cream sandwich--it is summer after all.

So friends, go bake yourself a batch of these dangerous cookies. Meanwhile, I'll be scouring my cookbooks for the next best thing.

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Recipe here!

Peach Clafouti

There's an old picture of me wearing a frilly dress dotted with pink roses, lacy socks up to my ankles and a straw hat fit snugly on my head. I wasn't posing for the school yearbook nor was it my 4th birthday. I was picking strawberries with my parents and their friends, in fact, you can see me squatting between the rows of berry bushes, the dry leaves crunching beneath my sandals, as I sucked on my red-stained fingers, clearly oblivious to the pay-first-then-eat policy on the farm.

I still eat fruit with wild abandon. In China, one of the best summer fruits are peaches, literally named water honey peaches in Chinese and they grow to the size of engorged baseballs. They need to be stored carefully, because one careless nudge will bruise them forever. The only proper way to eat honey peaches is with both hands and a big napkin. I ate two a day, refusing to share (selfish, I know), I revelled in its juiciness, even though its nectar-sweet syrup once splashed my new white shirt and the stain never went away.

I haven't seen those beauties since moving back to Canada and I miss them. Clingstone peaches however, are in season and thankfully, are not as delicate. Their yellow flesh is stronger and may withstand serious activities such as baking, which is always a good thing.

A few weeks ago, my friend Hayley invited me for a rooftop barbeque and it would just be plain rude if I declined. So I enlisted my other good friend for inspiration on baked peaches and that's when everything fell into place. I made peach clafouti, a French dessert with fruit baked in an egg-custard.


I've always wanted to make boozy fruit but the peaches I picked up at the store were still quite firm. I rolled up my sleeves and improvised. My sous chef sliced up the fruit, I simmered half of them with sugar and Grand Marnier, allowing the fruit to soften, then I made the custard, heating up milk and cream, adding it to eggs, flour, sugar, and lemon zest. I dumped all the fruit into a baking dish followed by the milky liquid--très simple.

It puffed up unevenly in the oven, giving it a rustic charm. The peach slices wrinkled in the oven, the custard turned a golden color, soaking up the peach juices. As it cools, the custard deflates a little; you can add some powdered sugar at the end to dress it up, or save some of that boozey syrup to drizzle on your plate.

Milos and I wrapped up the clafouti and brought it to Hayley's place. We sat on the patio watching the sun set behind a pink horizon, the scent of caramelized meat intoxicating us (or was it the orange sangria?), and then large portions of beef kebabs, roasted potato salad and cucumber and cherry tomato salad appeared on our dinner plates. We tucked in happily.




The time for The Best Part of Dinner took forever. All I wanted to do was to rip off the plastic covering the clafouti and dig in with my hands. But being the civilized lady that I am, I made new friends, sipped my sangria politely, giggled at appropriate moments and lapped up everything on my plate.

Finally, when the time finally came, I cut squares of peach clafouti and passed them around the table. Immediately, compliments flew here and there (I can’t help it, who doesn’t like hearing compliments?). I jumped back in my seat and took a bite for myself. It tasted like the lovechild between pancakes and puddings, fluffy clouds infused with peaches and cream.

It was a delicious end to the night. It took great restraint from helping myself to another slice, but I thought it was better to save some so I could have it for breakfast the next morning.

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Lemon Pull-Apart Bread

Summer has arrived rather late this year. Last month, Toronto has gotten a lot of rain, random thunderstorms, cloudy days, even hail fell from the sky (golf ball sized ice cubes!). I've been performing several rituals to make summer arrive faster, including gulping down papaya lassis, sipping on strawberry milkshakes, and feasting on watermelon slices...apparently these are not scientifically proven methods.


Only after midsommar, the official start of summer, has the sun decided to come out and play. Let's hear it for bikini weather, for shirtless jogging men, for big scoops of ice cream, and for backyard barbeques!

Some folks may retreat from the kitchen at this time of the year, but I switch on the oven and bake.



I revel in having my arms elbow deep in flour, kneading and shaping dough, stirring batter, zesting fruit, yanking open a hot oven to bake a gratin, or whatever suits my fancy. I don't mind the heat. Then again, I spent almost a decade in Shanghai, where the summers can climb up to 39°F and I still play tennis outside. Heat and humidity doesn't bother me, lightning and thunder does.



There's been a little hype of this lemon pull-apart bread in the blog world. The recipe is originally from Leite's Culinaria and then experimented by Hungry Girl por Vida and Joy the Baker who tried a cinnamon sugar version, I stuck with the lemon version because I can never say no to citrus flavored anything.


The bread is fun to make. The only sad thing was the absence of an orchestra, tap dancing or fireworks when I took it out from the oven, because it really deserved a grand welcome.

It's a beautiful bread, caramelized layers emerge from the loaf pan, liquid sugar drips onto the parchment paper, and lemony smells waft the apartment. I skipped cooling the bread (why would anyone bother waiting?), peeled off a slice and popped it into my mouth. Sugar crystals dissolved on my tongue like candy, yielding soft bread with a big punch of citrus. It even makes Monday mornings bearable.

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Recipe here!

Ruby Watchco

I've been meaning to tell you all along. There’s a restaurant right here in Toronto that will knock your socks off. For real.

At Ruby Watchco, almost all the ingredients are sourced from Ontario. Every night, there’s one set menu, and each table is given large platters for sharing. There's an unanimous sense of satisfaction among the patrons who try to fit every morsel of dinner into their mouths.


The restaurant is led by the talented Lynn Crawford, if you haven’t seen her on the Food Network, you're missing out on how creative, how amiable and how much zest for life this woman has. On her show, Pitchin’ In, she travels to various towns to rekindle her passion, discovering one ingredient, say turkey, wild boar, crawfish, avocados...you name it, she’s on it.

She befriends farmers, pitches in, learning how they harvest the freshest food. In the second half of the show, she uses that ingredient and prepares a special dinner for her new friends. Audible sighs of pleasure span the table.

Chef Lynn’s ability to transform an ingredient into something extraordinary illuminates into her restaurant, I brought my mom to Ruby Watchco so we could experience something magical too.


Our waiter seated us at a table just metres from the kitchen. Already, I was anxious to be in such close proximity to her (Aren’t chefs intimidating? Not to mention TV chefs!). My mom, on the other hand was mad excited for dinner, she couldn’t sit still. Like me, she admires Chef Lynn’s gusto and originality. My mom had the biggest smile on her face, like a little girl in a candy shop.


To start, I ordered the Apple Sour cocktail; a fusion of apple cider, bourbon and maple syrup (you can never go wrong with maple syrup). One sip made my lips pucker, but then the golden sap mellowed out the tartness and a shot of warmth ran down my spine.


The first dish was truffled white bean and 5 minute hen egg salad, with Sleger’s Living Greens, garden radishes, and A.F.G.’s Seedless cucumbers (I couldn’t figure out who A.F.G. was). The balance of red and green colors, each leaf slicked with vinaigrette, made the salad look like a painting. The egg was perfectly cooked, none of that murky gray tinge when I hard boil eggs. The yolk was a gorgeous yellow, so bright, so round, like someone sliced the sun in half and dropped it on our plate. There were also cheese scones flecked with chives: elegant, flaky pastries served with whipped butter.



The main course was a feast. I rarely go to restaurants that serve too much good food. There was chicken soaked in a beautiful puttanesca sauce, a sauce so rich, so succulent, it bolstered the tenderness of the meat.



There was a flurry of side dishes: delicate Boston lettuce with cucumber mint dressing. Strips of grilled eggplant that was so moist, I had to twirl it around the tines of my fork like spaghetti just to keep it together. And if that wasn’t enough, there was orecchiette with whipped goat cheese.




I was so full, I felt pregnant, or as the Quebecois say, “Je suis plein.” It's a good thing I could take my leftovers home, because why wouldn't you want to carry these adorable boxes?


Before long, the cheese course arrived. Today was Guiness 10 year old Ottawa Valley cheddar by Forfar Dairy served with date and jalapeno relish and biscotti. I usually stay clear from musty, moldy cheeses, but this fromage was nutty and not too strong.


Finally, for dessert was the lemon and elderberry trifle with vanilla sponge, Hewitt’s sweet vanilla cream and a meringue kiss. A spoonful of luscious berries doused in cream was pure bliss. The crunch from the meringue added extra texture to the smooth dessert.


We were just about done with our meal, but my mom really wanted to say hi to Chef Lynn. It took us a while to work up the nerve, but eventually, our waiter Jon introduced us. I was blown away by how gracious and approachable she was. I rambled several compliments to her (I’m not even sure I made sense), she politely said thank you. As Jon snapped a photo of us, Chef Lynn gave a big grin and said, “Smile guys!”



In front of the kitchen, there's a large wooden table where Chef Lynn adds the finishing touches to her dishes before service, you can't help but admire her attention to detail and love for her craft.

I'm curious to see how the menu will change in the summer, in fact, if I do return for dinner, I should prepare a few coherent compliments, so I don't seem like a total idiot when I greet Chef Lynn.

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Recipe here!

Aunt Holly's Banana Bread

What do you do with freckled bananas? With fruit is so ripe, the skin is just peeling off by itself? When their funk is so strong it’s attracting houseflies? When it gets squished and explodes in your lunchbag, rendering it Fruit that Must Stay at Home? By George! You make banana bread.


There's a recipe from Epicurious called Aunt Holly's Banana Bread. Aunt Holly has been a dependable friend in the kitchen for a while, teaching me how to make flawlessly golden loafs. I hear them calling my name hours after cooling--regardless if I’ve already had three warm slices in one sitting.

But lately, Auntie Holly has been giving me issues. Serious issues. Loafs sink in the middle with an audible PLOP! And I can never seem to find the balance between moist and dry. It's time to break up with Aunt Holly.


On the upside, the recipe is infinitely adaptable to additions. I have no qualms in adding chocolate chunks, roasted coconut, walnuts, a large swirl of peanut butter, or maybe an entire Mars bars as my friend urges me to do.


It's an easy baking procedure. None of that “mix dry ingredients first, mix liquid ingredients, beat together...” inducing a heart attack when my mixing bowl isn't big enough to contain the precious batter. Nah, Aunt Holly is easy going. She urges you to first mash up your smelly bananas, dump in all the other ingredients, mix well, throw everything into a loaf pan and bake for about one hour.


So put that pile of ripened fruit to good use and try this recipe. It's a breeze (meanwhile, Aunt Holly can stay).

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Orange polenta cookies

Living in someone else’s apartment is not easy. You have to respect their space. Their habits. Their routines. Not that I hate it, but it’s just means you don’t have the same freedom. You don’t have to bother if a can of pressurized coffee grinds exploded and sprinkled the kitchen counter. You don’t have to care if you spilled a little water on the floor.

So since I moved to Toronto, I’ve stepped out from the kitchen. I haven’t so much as turned on the oven. I rarely fry eggs! And I love eggs. I have my excuses—a new job, too exhausted to cook up a dinner, not motivated to bake, paranoia of setting off the fire alarm and alerting the entire apartment building…

But tonight is a different story. I’ve forced myself to begin the morning with baking cookies. Orange polenta cookies. They’re in the oven right now. I’m watching them melt from their tiny tablespoon balls to round uneven treats, laced with a slightly golden brown edge. They look almost cherubic, soft, pudgy biscuits. They don’t look particularly special, just a bit of glitter from the sugar granules and flecks of orange zest. It seems like an ordinary cookie.


They could be that chubby little girl in kindergarten class. She’s friendly, but shy and is a follower in her circle of friends. But she sparkles. She has the sweetest smile that lights up the classroom.

It’s not your usual melt in your mouth treat. Polenta (ground cornmeal) gives it an extra kick of flavour and bite. The citrus gives it a fresh spring spirit.

Try it. Who cares if you make mess. Bringing those sweet buttery smells into the space makes it more homey. It’s a good feeling. It reminds you why you loved baking in the first place—to feed others and see how their eyes light up when they bite into something pleasantly unexpected.


Thanks to Jamie Oliver for the recipe:

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