How do you pronounce c-l-a-f-o-u-t-i-s?

That was the question I asked everyone I encountered. First, I ran it by Bess who was voluntarily slaving away in our garden all afternoon planting the potatoes and weeding the strawberries (thank you, dearie!) while I putzed about in the kitchen making the red raspberry chocolate c-l-a-f-o-u-t-i-s, but she just laughed and shrugged. Second, I asked Michael Ann who met me for coffee (and generously paid for my small, are-you-sure?, decaf, are-you–serious?, latte; she guzzled a gargantuan cup of the real thing) and then raced me, neck-in-neck, in a splendidly entertaining (to me, anyway) stream of speed-talk for the next two hours and twenty minutes, but alas, she, a veritable sponge for information, didn’t know any French, though she guessed, and I concurred, the s was silent. Third, I posed the question to the table of women at this morning’s Bible study, but none of them knew (if only it had been a Hebrew pronunciation I was after, then I would have been enlightened on the spot).

This collective ignorance of French is disconcerting since I’ve gone through life, all thirty-three years of it, assuming that everyone else knows more than me and to find out that they (seven people out of seven people equals one hundred percent) don’t is, well, discombobulating. The world is not what I thought it was!

I suppose I could do some quick research and simply look the word up, but no-no-no, that would be too obvious. I’d much rather flaunt my ignorance in a most shameless and reckless manner. (Which was the same manner in which I said, pointing at the pan of half-eaten c-l-a-f-o-u-t-i-s as I scurried out the door on my way to my fast-talking coffee date, to Mr. Handsome who was cleaning up the kitchen, “Chuck that, will you?”) It’s much more satisfactory to heckle myself (and everyone else) with my ignorance, obsessively mulling over the word (cla-FOW-tee? KLA-foo-te? kla-FOO-tih?) in the same manner I spent the whole day caressing an irritatingly jagged fingernail—but then I clipped it.

I think I’m about to clip, er, nip my ignorance in the bud, because even though the c-l-a-f-o-u-t-i-s was no good and is no more, the wheels of my mind are still churning and it’s becoming most irritating.

So, anyone out there know French?

That fateful night, a week ago, when Mr. Handsome decided to indulge in a strawberry smoothie and declare himself the loser to our spending freeze, I was busy doing industrious things, such as paging through a Food and Wine magazine while listening to my brother and his wife and my other brother perform their groovy songs. At the back of the magazine I spied a recipe for coconut brownies. The title did not catch my eye, but the photo did (I am like everyone else, it appears, drawn like a magnet to pictures of artfully displayed consumables): a little chocolate-covered square on a plate, the outline of an almond just visible through the dark sheen of chocolate.

It was that almond bump that snagged me.

The recipe filled an entire page but didn’t seem too complicated, so on a small piece of card stock, the reverse side of which was a form that customers could fill out to inform the café of how they were doing and enter in a drawing for a free meal, I jotted down the recipe in my tiniest handwriting, employing all sorts of abbreviations and short-cut instructions while doing my best to remain clear. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing the magazine again any time soon.

There were only two ingredients I didn’t have on hand, the sour cream and the orange rind (optional), but when Mr. Handsome sheepishly headed over to the counter to place his unnecessary order, I did three things: first, my jaw dropped in mock horror, second, I laughed, and third, after taking a couple minutes to absorb the full meaning of my newfound freedom—I could buy new jeans! go out for coffee with a friend! order some books on Amazon! serve my family boxed cereal!—only then did it occur to me how his purchase related to the recipe I was so diligently copying down: “Hey! I can buy the sour cream for these brownies now!”

Which I did, right off, like any deserving little winner. (I skipped the orange zest, though I do believe it would be a nice addition … maybe next time.)

There are three parts to these brownies: the brownie base, the coconut filling, and the chocolate glaze. The brownie base is fantastically thin and rich, almost like a fudge, but with a bit of a chew to it. The coconut filling is perfect—intensely coconut-y with just enough egg whites and sour cream to tie it together, but just barely.

But the chocolate glaze, while not a complete disaster, was lacking. I followed the recipe to the letter but somehow ended up with a runny glaze that barely glossed the coconut layer—all the coconut pieces were visible, poking through the chocolate. (It was probably because I had used raw cream which feels thinner to me, so when I make this recipe again, I will add only half of the cream, increasing it as needed.) I remedied the runny problem by melting more chocolate and thinning it with the already-made glaze.

In the magazine picture, the brownies appeared to be chocolate-coated on all sides, like individual chocolates. I tried to make mine like so, but found it to be too labor intensive (the chocolate dribbled unevenly down the sides and clumps of coconut kept tumbling into the bowl of glaze), so after a bit of playing around I finally settled on adding the chocolate as a third layer.

And one other thing: the magazine declares that this recipe makes forty brownies, which it does if you chose to so cut them, but I found them to be on the big side. I recommend cutting them smaller (and using more almonds accordingly). I shared plates and tins of these brownies with four other families and we still have about a dozen more in the refrigerator, so if you make these be prepared to make some deliveries.

Coconut Brownies
Adapted from Food and Wine Magazine, October 2008

For the brownie base:
1 cup sugar
1 stick, plus 1 tablespoon, butter
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup water
14 ounces bittersweet chocolate, broken into pieces
3/4 cup flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
1 tablespoon vanilla

Place the first four ingredients in a saucepan and bring them to a boil. Put the chocolate pieces in a glass bowl.

Pour the boiling sweet liquid over the chocolate, let it sit for one minute, and whisk the mixture until the chocolate has completely melted.

Add the flour, salt, eggs, and vanilla, stirring briefly to combine.

Pour the batter into an 11 x 17 pan (or use an 8 x 8 pan and a 9 x 12 pan) that has been greased and lined with parchment paper (letting the paper extend beyond the edges of the pan just a little, and greasing the parchment paper, too). Bake the brownies at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.

Cool the brownies and then slip the pans into the freezer to chill for thirty minutes, or until firm. While the brownies are cooling and chilling, work on the coconut layer.

For the coconut layer:
7 egg whites
1 1/3 cups white sugar
6 ½ cups (one pound) shredded coconut, unsweetened
1/4 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla (or one vanilla bean, just the seeds)
1 teaspoon orange zest, optional

Put a mixing bowl over/in a kettle of boiling water. Put the egg whites and the white sugar in the mixing bowl and beat with a hand-held mixer for about two minutes, until the sugar is dissolved and the egg whites are warm. Remove the mixing bowl from over the boiling water and continue to beat till stiff peaks are formed, about another eight minutes. Fold in the coconut, sour cream, vanilla, and optional zest. Spread the coconut mixture over the cooled brownies and bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes until golden brown and set. Once the brownies are cool, cover and refrigerate. When they have chilled through, glaze with the chocolate.

For the chocolate glaze:
1 pound and 2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
4 ½ tablespoons butter, cut into pieces
4 ½ tablespoons light corn syrup
2 1/4 cups heavy cream

Place the first three ingredients together in a bowl. Boil the cream and pour it over the chocolate. (Note: Start with one cup of cream and then add more as needed. The goal is to have the glaze be thickly drizzle-able.) Let the ingredients stand for one minute and then whisk till the chocolate has completely melted. Let the glaze rest for ten minutes before glazing the brownies.

To assemble:
40-50 whole almonds, roasted (preferably unsalted, though salted also works)

If you would like to completely glaze each brownie, covering both the sides as well as the top, lift the brownies out of the pan, using the parchment paper as handles. Set the brownies on a cutting board, slice into pieces, top each brownie with an almond, place the brownie on a fork and holding it over the bowl of melted chocolate with one hand while using your other hand to spoon the chocolate over the brownie. Set the brownies on a rack to dry. Once the chocolate has set (it will still be soft), place the brownies in an airtight container and store in the refrigerator.

Alternately, if you simply want the chocolate glaze to be a third layer, stud the top of the brownies with the almonds and pour the chocolate over all. Refrigerate the brownies till the chocolate has set, cut the brownies into serving pieces, and return the brownies to the refrigerator.

The brownies will stay fresh in the refrigerator for at least a week, maybe two. (I see no reason why they couldn’t be frozen, though I did not do so. If you try to freeze them, please report back on the results.)

“Mama! Who killed that chicken?!”

Sweetsie had spied the pasty-white bird, stripped of its Perdue wrapper and lounging lazily in the roasting pan, sitting atop the kitchen counter.

Wow. If that doesn’t make you feel like Mother Earth incarnate, I don’t know what will: your five-year-old sees dead poultry and wonders who done did the killin’. Wow. We are some down-home folks, for sure.

She didn’t notice the pop-up timer thingy, obviously, but if she had, she probably would’ve thought it was some odd body part, like a knuckle bone protruding from the chicken’s pudgy white breast.

I find Sweetsie’s matter-of-fact observation of our dinner’s main course both funny and encouraging: it was alive; it is now dead; someone made that happen; who? My children may be only marginally acquainted with McDonald’s nuggets, but they know that in order for them to eat chicken, someone has to do the butchering, and even without a television to teach them the ins and outs of their universe, they have had their share of real life ups and downs, otherwise known as “science lessons.” We’ve butchered our own chickens (though the PC terminology has now replaced “butchered” with “harvested”), purchased our beef from our neighbors’ (passing their house on our way into town: That’s our hamburger standing there. Hey! It’s EATING that green hose! Well, um, I guess if you bite into a piece of rubber when you’re eating your meatballs at least you’ll know what it is…), shoveled rotted chicken matter (picking out the chicken bones to feed to an uninterested Francie) onto the garden’s plants, disposed of sick and turned-mean animals, witnessed puppy births, witnessed a human birth (only Miss Becca Boo), fed dead pet fishies to the chickens, guarded (and destroyed and built) robins’ nests, endured pet bites and scratches, cried over and buried a dead puppy, gutted and dissected a squirrel, tasted fried locust, helped cut up a deer killed, er, harvested by their grandaddy, and swatted flies and smooshed potato bugs. As a result, my children are nonplused when they see a dead chicken sitting on the kitchen counter.

I take that back—when Miss Becca Boo and Yo-Yo saw the chicken, they yelled and squealed and jumped up and down for joy. They love chicken.

I shooed the thrilled kids out of the kitchen and went about preparing the bird, slipping some pieces of fried bacon into the chicken’s cavity, pouring the bacon grease mixed with brandy over the top, and then slipping the chicken into the oven to roast.

The chicken took longer to roast than I had anticipated, so the kids were plenty hungry when I called for dinner. After they ate their obligatory serving of peas and mashed potatoes and gravy, they had seconds of chicken, and thirds, and fourths, and fifths. In exasperation, I moved the chicken out to the kitchen, but they followed, sticking their hands into the cavity, pulling off the succulent morsels, searching for the wishbone, even crunching into the bones to see what they tasted like.

We’re easily impressed, that’s for certain. And we like our chicken.

Brandied-Bacony Roast Chicken
Adapted from Nigella Express by Nigella Lawson.

The bacon and brandy flavor the chicken in a mild and unobtrusive way, but as Nigella says, “It’s still what it is.” Meaning, it’s still just roast chicken. But! The drippings make the most fantastic gravy, so don’t make the mistake of overlooking them.

one dead chicken
2-4 pieces of bacon, cooked
1/4 cup of bacon grease, or whatever you get when you fry the bacon
1/4 cup brandy (I used triple sec)
the neck and giblets, reserved for the gravy
½ cup flour, approximately
salt and pepper

For the gravy:
Put the neck and giblets in a saucepan, cover them with about a quart of water, bring the water to a boil and then simmer for a couple hours, till the water has reduced by half. Remove the giblets and neck and either save them to add to the soup pot for broth, feed them to the animals, or pick the meat off the bones and cut it up to add to the gravy—you choose.

Put a cup of water in a pint jar, add the flour, screw the lid on tight and shake vigorously for thirty seconds. Pour the flour water through a strainer into the saucepan of hot, giblet-less water. Put the saucepan back on the heat and whisk continuously till it has thickened. Set it aside until the chicken is done, at which point you add the pan’s drippings to the gravy and stir some more. Season with salt and pepper, heat through, and serve.

Yield: at least a quart of gravy, maybe even a couple cups more.

For the chicken:
Put the chicken in a roasting pan, breast-side up. Rub salt and pepper over the chicken and put the cooked bacon in the chicken’s cavity. Mix together the bacon grease and brandy in a little saucepan, heat through, and pour over the chicken. Bake at 350 degrees till tender (or until the little pop-up do-hickey pops up). Transfer the chicken to a serving platter (scrape the rich drippings into the gravy), and serve.

Broth:
Collect all the bones and uneaten chicken parts, cover with a couple gallons of water, and simmer for 6-12 hours. Cool, strain, and freeze the resulting broth.