Slightly sweet and lightly crunchy, rusks are South Africa’s version of biscotti.

What’s the difference between the two versions, you ask? I’m not exactly sure, but I think rusks are more tender, and less blatantly sweet, than biscotti.

When we were staying at St. Benedict’s in Johannesburg, we sometimes (ie, not often enough) had rusks for breakfast. They were heaven with my morning coffee, but I could’ve eaten them all day long. Something about that subtle sweetness and starchy crunch, mmm.

When my plan to buy a whole bunch of rusks before heading back to the states was foiled by my lack of planning, I consoled myself by promising to learn to make them myself.

Which I did, of course. You know me.

So far I’ve made two kinds — muesli and buttermilk — and while both are fantastic, we’ve taken a particular liking to the muesli version. I keep thinking I’ll branch out and try other variations, but then I never do. Why mess with a good thing?

My husband has recently figured out that eating a little somethin-somethin with his morning coffee eliminates his caffeine jitters, and it turns out that these muesli rusks are just the thing. Most mornings after pouring his cuppa, he reaches for the jar of rusks atop the fridge. They are light yet satisfying, and not too sweet. 

Actually, though, these are a fantastic anytime of day. They store well at room temp, are an easy, portable treat, make a good stand-in for cookies, and please the masses. 

One thing: I don’t like the word rusk. It sounds harsh like a dog’s bark, or raspy and rough like a hacking cough. Though I guess the name is actually fitting, considering the texture of the rusk and all.

And now that I’m thinking about it, the word is actually onomatopoeic: “rusk” is the sound a knife makes when it’s drug across one. 

Muesli Rusks
Adapted from the blog Wander Cape Town.

I use rolled oats, but quick are fine, too. I’m sure you could sub in a bit of whole wheat pastry flour for some of the all-purpose flour, if you want. If you don’t have buttermilk, substitute some plain yogurt thinned with a bit of milk. 

Any kind of dried fruit is fine, but I’m partial to craisins or dried sour cherries. For the seeds or nuts, you can use anything: sesame, pumpkin, or sunflower seeds, or almonds, pecans, walnuts, etc. (In this batch, I used almonds.) To help minimize the inevitable crumbling, I chop my fruit and nuts.

4 cups flour
1½ cups oats
1 cup brown sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup dried fruit, chopped
1 cup seeds or chopped nuts
1 cup coconut
¼ cup honey
250 grams buttermilk
125 grams butter, melted
70 grams oil
2 eggs
3 tablespoons demerara sugar, optional

Mix together the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet ingredients in another. Combine the two. The dough will be stiff and spoonable. Spread the dough in a parchment-lined 9×12 baking sheet. Sprinkle the top with the demerara sugar. Bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes, or until golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

After cooling for about 20 minutes, lift the cake from the pan and place it on a cutting board. Using a serrated knife, cut the cake into fingers — I cut it into thirds longways, and then into thin fingers. (If cut too thick, they are hard to eat.) These rusks are very crumbly, so work carefully and firmly, and plan on making a mess. I waited too long to cut the rusks in the photo above (had to go jump in a frozen pond, whee!), so I think the cooled cake made a bigger mess than normal. (Don’t throw out the crumbs! They’re delicious eaten like a dry cereal, or get fancy and put them on top of yogurt.)

Place the rusks on their sides on a baking sheet, cut-side touching the pan. Bake at 200-250 degrees for 1-3 hours, carefully flipping each of the rusks partway through. The finished rusks should be lightly golden and crunchy all the way through. Store in an airtight container.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.30.23), eight fun things, butter dumplings, omeletty egg bake, the quotidian (1.30.17), crispy pan pizzas, sour cream and berry baked oatmeal, about a picture.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Eat the rainbow.

These crackers elicit strong opinions, from “salty wood chips” to “literally addictive.”

Teriyaki something-or-other in the making.

King cake in a bundt pan: negative 5 stars. (All the edges = painfully dry.)

So glad I stockpiled my ice cream base.

They say US folks consume 6.5# of butter/year: anyone else think that’s absurdly low?

Fozen sunshine.

He won’t make eye contact when he’s where he’s not supposed to be.

Hello, Pittsburgh!
^{photo credit: my sister-in-law}

Watercolor lessons from my aunt, and now I’m even more in awe of her skill.

Winter break workteam.

Imogene. (Catch the drama here.)

Again.
^{photo credit: my husband}

This same time, years previous: one drunk pig, banoffee pie, ricotta pancakes, I need new slippers – help!, launching, the quotidian (1.27.20), overnight baked oatmeal, vindication, women’s march on washington, through my lens: a wedding, the quotidian (1.27.14), and then we moved into a barn.

Yesterday afternoon after kickboxing class, I headed back to that pond. 

When we’d ice skated, we’d had to skirt a hole where some teens had cut through for a plunge earlier in the day. The whole time I was out there, that hole called to me. I’d never done a plunge. What was it like?

The next day, after playing Ultimate (and after learning that my older son and daughter-in-law had done the plunge on their way home from the game that afternoon), I texted the family chat: When the next cold snap comes this week, let’s do it! Half the family said yes, and we set the date.

I was low-grade anxious about slipping into an ice-covered pond, so I messaged a friend who routinely hurls himself into freezing bodies of water, and who had done a plunge at the same pond that weekend. “Since you’re the expert,” I wrote, “tell me what I need to know. Like, besides not dying, what are the logistics? What to bring? How to get warm afterward?” 

Those were rational questions. Subconsciously, the questions went something like, Do your feet bump the bodies of frozen fish? Are there icy hands hiding in the dark depths to grab my ankles and pull me under? Is it possible to immediately freeze into a human popsicle? Can you spontaneously go blind from the shock? Is it possible to have a heart attack from cold?

He sent back a thorough series of messages, the gist of which was:

• Wear loose, warm clothing (swimsuit underneath) that you can take off and put back on easily with wet feet.
• Slip-on boots would be nice, 
• Take a big soft towel. 
• The hole isn’t very big; keeping your hands on the edge makes it easy to slide in safely and quickly. 
• If you don’t mind keeping your eyes open, it’s easy to see the hole above you and get back out. 
• The hardest part is staying relaxed; the cold water makes breathing difficult and it can take your breath away. The other hardest part is getting your feet dry.
• Make sure there’s not a thin skim of ice in the hole. Sometimes it hides under a film of water and can give you abrasions.

My husband and younger son came to watch, and it’s good they did, too, since thick ice had formed over the hole. (My older son, who had been planning to do the plunge and was going to bring tools to cut through the ice, had a last-minute schedule conflict.) My husband used a digging iron to chop through the hole, and my son raked out the ice so we wouldn’t cut ourselves. Watching them, it seemed impossible that I would be getting into that water.

Outside temps were about 37°F/3°C. My daughter-in-law went first. 

She wanted to stay in for a minute, but called it quits after thirty seconds. 

Next, my older daughter. 

She made it a full minute.

Both of them were super calm and focused, breathing deeply, centered, like ice water goddesses. They made it look easy. 

Then it was my turn.

It wasn’t being in the water that was hard — that was actually the fine (though I wasn’t in for more than a few seconds, so I can’t really speak to that). What was scary was the mental game and all the unknowns, mainly: whether or not I’d be able to pull myself out.

I mean, I knew I could pull myself out, technically speaking, but how would I get a grip on slippy-wet ice that’s painfully cold and really really hard? That was the nerve-wracking part.

I got in — went under — and then hauled myself back onto the ice like an unhinged walrus with vocalization issues.

Seriously, people. I was such a baby, hollering and screeching, as though caterwauling would warm me up. I made less noise giving birth. 

^{photo credit for the pictures of me: my daughter-in-law}

As soon as I toweled off and got clothes on, I settled. My body felt comfortable and my feet were actually toasty warm. Only my hands were cold. I didn’t get any euphoric zippiness from the plunge (aside from the thrill of having not died), but I did feel quite proud. Also, disappointed, because I hadn’t really felt the experience. In the moment, I was too rattled to enjoy myself. 

But then last night when I was writing this post, I found this exchange between me and my plunge-happy friend:

Me: Do you do anything special with your breathing to help stay relaxed/calm?
Him: I haven’t learned anything special. I just berate myself afterwards for not relaxing and breathing deeper.

So I wasn’t the only one! Even people who regularly plunge deal with regret issues. I decided to cut myself a break. That was my very first cold plunge and I had no idea what to expect. Now I know.

Next time, I’ll be calmer. 

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.17.22), pozole, no-knead sourdough bread, all the way under, the things people say, day one, polenta and greens.