Over the years I have amassed a tidy little collection of liquors. To some people it would seem like a crazy huge extravagance, but to others it would appear laughably small. To me (and I’m who matters here, right?) it is pretty close to just right. I have brandy, rum, whiskey, Creme de Menthe, cognac, vodka, Baileys Irish Cream, triple sec, and most recently, a bottle of Kahlua. It’s enough (though I am wishing after Grand Marnier and Kirsch).

(And for those of you who now think I’m a true-blue slushy, I’m not. I’ve never even been drunk in my whole live-long life and most of those bottles have been there for years and years and years. So there.)

I’ve taken to amassing another sort of bottles lately, those of the Asian variety.

I know nothing of Asian cooking. I’ve never traveled to Asia, and I speak no Asian languages. The closest I’ve been to relating to Asians (not counting a few friends and family members who are part Asian but who are completely at home in our culture) was when we hosted a fifteen year-old girl from Indonesia for a summer. She was a sweet girl but lacking in her z’s—zip and pizzaz. She had one serious downfall: she didn’t know how to cook Indonesian food (the consequence of housemaids and education-driven parents), so I didn’t get any good cooking lessons out of her. I was sorely disappointed.

(I did teach lots of Asians when I was an instructor in the local Mennonite university’s English as a Second Language program. It was the year I got married to Mr. Handsome, and I was outrageously in love and I guess my giddiness eeked out around my professional [HA!] edges because during the final program the students did a spoof of the teachers and they had me talking constantly about Mr. Handsome. I laughed till I about peed my pants, and from then on made it a point to censor my chatterbox. I’ve only been mildly successful.)

Even though I have no handle on Asian food, I still like it. It’s totally different from our normal fare, and considering that my cabinets are filled with sacks of oats, boxes of chocolate, and ketchup and mayonnaise, I knew if I was going to cook anything Asian, I would need to make a few purchases. So I did. So far I have fish sauce, Tamari soy sauce, Sriracha, Chinese five-spice, oyster sauce, rice vinegar, sesame oil, chili oil, and coconut milk. I have fresh ginger and a big old bag of cilantro in the fridge. (I also have matzo meal, chickpea flour, tahini, and dried chickpeas for a Jewish kick I was planning on embarking upon but haven’t gotten around to executing yet.)

I collect all these goodies from our local Oriental Food Market. When I go there I always end up taking longer than necessary (I do that with most grocery stores, though), creeping through the isles, peering at all the strange labels (half of which I can’t even read), and imagining the exotic dishes that they’re used to create. It gets my creative juices flowing.

Two of my favorite spots in the store are the freezer section with its huge heads of cabbage, bags of sprouts, oysters, and chicken feet (not that I’m planning on buying chicken feet any time soon—we had our chance to harvest a beautiful bouquet of feet but I chose to pass them up—I can always buy them, cleaned and neatly packaged in plastic wrap, if I so desire—which I don’t) and the fresh produce isle. This past time there were bags of fresh tamarindo, which looked exactly like the brown brittle pods that littered the dirt road in our Nicaragua community. I was never crazy about the fruit when we lived there—I didn’t know how exactly to use it and couldn’t google it to find out—but I squealed with delight when I saw it here in the states, more over the collision of my two worlds than over any real desire to actually eat the fruit.

I’m fully aware that my slew of new jars will take me eons to use up, considering that I only use them sporadically, but they keep forever, so I don’t regret my purchases at all. Why? Because these bottles have helped me to create the most fabulous peanuty noodle dish I have ever made.

Granted, I haven’t made many peanuty noodle recipes, but I have tried several and that has to count for something. In each of the previous recipes I could sense potential but I just didn’t have the know-how to harness it. Now I know. I have harnessed it. I’m happy about that.

One of the bonuses about this pasta is that it’s good warm or cold, making it perfect for packed lunches. Remember when I asked Mr. Handsome if he liked his lunch and he gave me a quick yes answer to get me off his back? Well, when he got home from work that day, I asked him again what he thought of his lunch, and he said, with heartfelt umph, “It was delicious!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it!” I replied, happily, firmly, á la Julia Child. (You know the scene—when Paul walks into their little kitchen and dips his fingers into one of the many bowls cluttering the table and Julia says, It’s good? and he says Yum, and she says, all confident and self-satisfied, Yes, it IS good, isn’t it.)

(I apologize if all the Julia Child references are getting to you. That movie—and the subsequent food—really made an impression. Be patient with me, please.)

Peanut Noodles
Adapted form the November 2009 issue of Food and Wine magazine

The original recipe called for two teaspoons red pepper, but I dialed it way back to about a half teaspoon in deference to the children. I love heat though, and the kids weren’t crazy for the dish (a couple of them did claim to love it after several hours of playing on an empty stomach), so next time I might make it my way. Ooo, my lips are tingling already!

The next time I make this, I think that instead of reserving most of the sauce to add at the last minute, I’ll toss it all together the first time around—it seemed like an extra unnecessary step (though I could be wrong about that—I guess I’ll find out). I’ll still hold the celery back, though, adding it immediately before serving. (Updated on June 21, 2010: no, it’s better, if anything, to keep the cooked noodles in the fridge, undressed, and then heat them up in the microwave before spooning the peanut sauce on over top. I’ve been keeping a jar of peanut sauce in the fridge, cooking up pasta for whenever the craving hits…which is quite often.)

1 pound spaghetti
3/4 cup smooth peanut butter
½ cup unseasoned rice vinegar, divided
3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon sugar
6 tablespoons soy sauce
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sesame oil
½ – 2 teaspoons crushed red pepper
1 2-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1 large garlic clove
3 stalks of celery, trimmed and thinly sliced
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro
lime wedges, optional

Cook the spaghetti according to package directions. Drain and set aside.

In a small bowl, combine the celery, fresh cilantro, 2 tablespoons of the rice vinegar, and 1 teaspoon sugar. Stir well and set aside. (It can be refrigerated for a day or two, though it will lose a bit of its crispness.)

In a blender, whiz together the peanut butter, 6 tablespoons of rice vinegar, 3 tablespoons of sugar, the soy sauce, water, sesame oil, red pepper, ginger, and garlic. Add a half cup of the dressing to the noodles (run a fork through the sauce to make sure that there are no chunks of ginger) and toss to coat. Serve the noodles with the extra sauce and top with the celery. Don’t forget the lime (like I did).

Update, January 28, 2010: I made this again, but with 1 teaspoon of hot pepper flakes. It was the perfect heat for me, but Mr. Handsome said it was a bit too hot for him, so I’ll stick with 1/2 teaspoon from now on and just sprinkle extra pepper over my food. (Silly me forgot the lime the second time, too. I’m hopeless.)

About one year ago: On not wanting, the origins of the current bet.

One of the lasting impressions from the Julie and Julia movie, aside from when Julia forces Paul to sample the fish she is swooning over and then tries to drag a compliment out of him but only gets a noncommital shrug in response (that’s me and Mr. Handsome to a tee—well, minus the balding head and big heels), was when Julie made that chocolate almond cake and then Eric tore into it with his fingers while she was still icing it. And she laughed.

You wouldn’t catch me laughing if someone grabbed a hunk out of a cake I was working on. Just last night Miss Beccaboo snaked her hands under my arm to snitch from the pans of granola I was stirring, and she was duly rewarded with an elbow in the head. It was completely accidental (I think), but I was kind of glad it happened. Her fingers are always everywhere, poking and snitching and grabbing. She’s been this way ever since she was a baby, touching everything, so the natural consequence of a bonked head was rather gratifying (poor kid).

I did, though, dive into the cake fork-first myself, though the cake was fully iced when I took the plunge. (I think that pretty much explains from which parent my daughter has inherited her snitchy fingers.)

Now that I finally got around to making the cake, I can’t believe that I’ve had Mastering the Art of French Cooking on my shelf all this time and have never made it before. Of course, there are probably a lot of other equally divine recipes in that book that I don’t know about, and somehow I get by without any notable pangs of regret. (My logic is skewed, I know. It’s like lamenting that my kids don’t know the whole periodic table right now. But, might I point out, you can’t eat the periodic table.) However, discovering a spectacular chocolate cake has a way of erasing any logic one might (or might not) normally possess.

The recipe makes just one eight-inch layer cake. I don’t know about you, but two-layer cakes can feel daunting some days—by the time you get down to the last couple pieces you’re pretty much sick of cake. This cake, on the other hand, is so elegant and rich that it still lasts a long time despite its petite size.

Of course, it would disappear faster if I stooped to share it with my family, but seeing as I’m pretty much the only one eating off of it (because I’m being greedy and make a point of sneaking pieces during the kids’ rest time), it has stretched out to cover a week’s worth of afternoon coffee breaks. And it doesn’t tempt me (too much) in between eatings because it’s so rich (though I look forward to my allotted slice all day long).

Now, the icing is a different entity all together. It’s the very last recipe in the book, so that in itself says something (you know, best for last and all that jazz). All you do is this: melt some semi-sweet chocolate with rum and then whisk in five tablespoons of butter, one tablespoon at a time. The resulting mixture is runny, runny, runny, but! Just set it over a pan of ice (or in my case, run outside and set it in the snow) and beat it steadily and before you know it, it firms up into a creamy, whipped chocolate butter. It’s magic.

While the icing is deliciously tender and creamy, I prefer the cake without it (so much so that I scrape off the icing before I eat the cake); instead, I find a big dollop of whipped cream to be the perfect pairing. However, if you do want to make the icing (and I firmly believe that everyone should try this icing just once, if only to make yourself feel like a wizard), you must use unsalted butter. I didn’t, and the icing was disturbingly salty.

Confession: after boasting that I’m able to restrain myself all day without eating any cake, I went and ate the last piece after I wrote the above paragraphs. And it’s not even ten-thirty in the morning! The Baby Nickel discovered my soiled plate, ran over to the counter to look at the cake platter and came back crying. Now I have a problem (besides the broken-hearted baby): what to eat with my afternoon coffee?

Julia’s Chocolate Almond Cake
Adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child

This cake is supposed to be underbaked. Julia said to bake it for twenty-five minutes, but after twenty minutes the top looked dry and cracked, so I took it out of the oven. It sank a lot, and was wonderfully gooey while warm, like a molten chocolate cake (whipped cream was created for cakes like this), but once it cooled to room temperature, it set up nicely and was simply, and perfectly, moist.

The almond does not overpower—it’s a modest enhancement that really, really works.

4 ounces semi-sweet chocolate
2 tablespoons rum (or coffee)
1 stick butter at room temperature
2/3 cup sugar, plus 1 tablespoon
3 eggs, separated
pinch of salt
1/3 cup almonds, finely ground
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
½ cup cake flour

Using a double boiler, melt the chocolate with the rum over a pan of simmering water, stirring occasionally. Once the chocolate has melted, remove it from above the water and set aside.

Beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt till soft peaks have formed. Sprinkle one tablespoon of sugar over top and beat until stiff peaks form.

Not bothering to wash the beaters, cream the butter with the remaining sugar. Add the egg yolks and beat some more. Add the melted chocolate to the butter and stir well. Add the ground almonds and almond extract and stir to combine. Blend in one fourth of the egg whites to lighten the batter and then, with a folding motion and a rubber spatula, add the cake flour, sprinkling a bit of it on at a time, alternately with the rest of the whites.

Pour the batter into a prepared eight-inch cake pan (greased and lined with wax paper) and bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes. Cut around the edges of the cake with a knife and then let it rest for ten minutes before gently turning it out onto a wire rack to cool the rest of the way.

When the cake has completely cooled, prepare the icing, if using. (You should wait till the cake is completely cooled because the icing must be spread as soon as the icing is ready; otherwise it will harden up too much for easy spreading.)

Chocolate-Butter Frosting
Adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child

2 ounces semi-sweet chocolate
2 tablespoons rum (or coffee)
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

Using a double boiler, melt the chocolate and rum over simmering water. When the chocolate is creamy smooth, remove it from over the hot water and stir in the butter, one tablespoon at a time. Set the pan of liquid chocolate over a pan of ice (or take it outside and set it on a pile of snow) and whisk steadily till it has whipped up into a creamy frosting. Immediately spread it over the sides and top of the cake. Decorate with slivered almonds, if desired.

About one year ago: Five-Minute Bread: Part II (the actual recipe). Miss Beccaboo mixed this up this morning; we’re having pizza for supper.

*I played one of Yo-Yo’s new piano songs for him. It was called “Harp Song” and involved, for the first time, the use of the damper pedal. He stood stock-still while I played through the piece, and when I finished he turned to me, his eyes wide with startlement: I’m crying! It’s so beautiful it made me cry! And indeed, his eyes were watery and red-rimmed. For the rest of the day he mused aloud that a mere tune on the piano had the power to make him cry.

*In a grumpy snit, Sweetsie stomped into the kitchen and declared, “Can I run away from this house? It’s all old and raggedy! The windows aren’t scrubbed good!” I gawked at her for a second before turning away to jot down what she had just said. By the time I turned back around, she had fetched a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, pushed a stool up against the stove, and was diligently rubbing away at the grime on the stove’s back ledge.

I gave her a wet washcloth in exchange for the wads of useless toilet paper and watched as she went on to wipe down the stove and the lower kitchen cabinets. It made me wonder if I could perhaps be better maximizing my resources.

*After a rather rough morning which involved a fight with Yo-Yo and Mr. Handsome, I fled to my room to cry. Miss Beccaboo soon came up after me. She sat down beside me on the bed, wrapped her arms around me, and leaned her head against my shoulder. After a minute she said, “You know, sometimes things don’t go like we want them to.” I sniffled and sighed and patted her on the head, “You’re right, honey, I know.” I resumed crying and blowing into my hankie and after another minute she said, “And you and Papa are different people.” At that, I busted up laughing and shooed her out of the room, my little eight-year-old sage.

*One night at dinner I was showing off for Mr. Handsome, quizzing Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo on the periodic table. We were discussing element number ten, neon, when The Baby Nickel piped up and said, “It’s a gas and then you put electricity in it and it lights up.” Needless to say, Mr. Handsome was totally impressed.

The kids were hungry and Sweetsie suggested “ants on a log.” I said yes.

And then I had an inspiration: instead of fixing the snack myself, I assembled the ingredients (if you can call them that) on each plate and let the kids make the snack themselves. They had a wonderful time and ate everything, down to the last “ant” and peanut butter smear.

Ants on a Log

several ribs of celery, washed, trimmed, and each rib cut into thirds
peanut butter
raisins

Spread peanut butter inside each piece of celery. Poke the raisins into the peanut butter. Eat.

Note: if allowing the children to assemble the snack themselves, it is wise to divvy out acceptable portions and then tell the kids that what they see on their plate is what they have to work with. Otherwise, they’ll eat all the peanut butter straightaway and then beg for more, and that just gets downright annoying.

Variation: Use chopped, dried dates in place of the raisins.

About one year ago: Getting in fixes, and other general impishness-es