It’s common knowledge that my tiny-little brother is weird.

Let’s chronicle the evidence, shall we?

*He likes math, and not only that, but he reads entire books filled with nothing more than mathematical equations.
*He used to bolt up and down the wooded hill behind our WV house to get in shape for soccer.
*He likes to dig holes for fun.
*He wipes out a la Napoleon Dynamite and then writes about it for the university paper.

Let me stop right there and quote from that story.

It was a pretty, almost-fall day and I had just finished chorus class. Happily I pranced down the sidewalks leading from Martin Chapel to Elmwood where my bags were packed and ready—I was about to go home for the first time since coming to school. As I passed the Commons, I broke into a sprint like an Olympian on the hundred meter dash. You know how they lean way front at the beginning, when they’re trying to speed up really fast? Well, I guess I must have leaned front just a little too far. I desperately strode ahead, tying to regain balance, moving my legs as fast as I could to bring my rear end back underneath my front end, but it was too late. My heavily laden backpack slid forward over my shoulders and I had no choice but to dive onto the mercilessly abrasive concrete.

As I slid to a halt, my first thought was, “Am I okay?” I had to be okay. I didn’t want to have to explain to people that my injuries were a result of my clumsiness. It would not have felt so bad if I had been run over by a crazy driver or something like that; then I would have been only a victim of someone else’s stupidity. But I had no excuse, not a single one. I don’t even remember tripping on anything. Still hoping that I wasn’t really hurt, I jumped to my feet and assumed the prettiest smile I could muster for my friend Derrick, who was running to the rescue. By this time, I was no longer deceiving myself about my pitiful state, but I still tried to make up for my clumsiness with wit. “I don’t think I have dain bramage,” I said.

See what I mean? He’s a goon. Pressing onward…

*He chops veggies with a cleaver.
*He rides his bike in snowstorms.

*He makes enormous fire mushroom clouds with wax and water.

*He bungee-jumped from the Bloukrans Bridge in South Africa. (When I look at this picture, I have to remind myself to breathe.)
*He recently used a pair of needle nosed pliers to remove a wart on his hand. (Dumbbell.)

In case that isn’t enough to convince you, let’s move along to the food weirdnesses. Consider the following:

*He lives off of pumpkin pie, cereal, pancakes, pasta, and enormous hunks of beef.
*He refuses to measure when he cooks. It takes too much time, he says, or some such stuff-and-nonsense. (Regardless, he makes a kick-butt pumpkin pie in his gigantic cast iron skillet.)
*When he’s doing lots of physical labor (like digging holes) in hot weather, he ensures that he gets enough salt by sprinkling some in his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. On nice, thoughtfully prepared homemade bread and strawberry jam! What is the point? I ask you. Why bother making good food if it’s going to be so royally blasphemed?
*He packs his whole lunch in one big plastic container, everything all mounded together. For example: a sandwich topped by a carrot, a wedge of skillet-baked pumpkin pie, a cucumber, and a cold baked potato. And perhaps a couple shakes of salt.
*He adds orange juice to his milk.
*When he was little and he didn’t know any better, he killed and ate a mockingbird.
*In college, he dumpster dived like it was an Olympic sport.
*He once fried up a pan of locust and served them with a choice of honey, ketchup or Ranch dressing. He got Miss Beccaboo to eat one.
*He also caught a live locust and ate it raw, just to see what it tasted like. Or maybe because he was practicing to be a prophet.
*He chews up chicken bones.

Keeping all that in mind, the other week I got an email from him: “I had some exceptional chickpeas at a gathering Saturday. The link to the recipe is below, because I had asked to pass it on to you.“

My brother never sends me recipes. Perhaps because he doesn’t use recipes, or perhaps because it takes away from valuable time otherwise spent bicycling, fiddling, or computating. In any case, I took heed.

The recipe was for an appetizer, smoky fried chickpeas. It called for lemon zest, thyme, garlic, and smoked paprika. I had a one-pound bag of dried garbanzos lounging on my still-overfull pantry shelves, so I ripped into the plastic and set the legumes to soaking.

Even though this recipe came to me via my brother, these chickpeas are not weird. Or maybe if they are weird (the rest of my family thinks so), at least they’re also delicious.

Perhaps they’re simply deliciously weird.

Or weirdly delicious.

In any case, they’re crispy, nutty, crunchy, sometimes tender-creamy, smokey, garlicky. I had to set the plate up on top the fridge to put an end (kind of) to my first-rate binge snacking.

Smoky Fried Chickpeas

The original recipe calls for frying the sliced garlic after frying the chickpeas, but I think it would make more sense to first fry the garlic and then proceed with the rest of the frying—that way the garlic-scented olive oil would have a chance to flavor the peas as they take their hot oil bath.

As you can see from the proportions, there is a good bit of flexibility. I used two cups of cooked chickpeas, but the recipe called for two cans which equals 3 cups, I think. I dialed back the seasonings accordingly, but I don’t think it was necessary to reduce the lemon. You can never have too much lemon, right?

If you have fresh thyme on hand, eliminate the dried and add a sprig of fresh to the hot oil at the same time as the lemon.

One note about smoked paprika. If you don’t have any, for heaven’s sake go out and buy some! This spice is new to me, but it’s fast becoming one of my favorites. I use it in everything from cream of tomato soup to baked corn to sauteed Swiss chard.

½ – 1 cup olive oil
2 – 3 cups cooked chickpeas, drained
2 – 3 teaspoons lemon peel, in ribbons
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
2 – 3 teaspoons smoked paprika
½ – 1 teaspoon coarse salt
3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

Spread the drained chickpeas on a towel and gently pat them till fairly dry.

Heat the oil in a heavy bottomed, high-sided pot. When it’s hot (I didn’t measure, but if you’re inclined to use thermometers, aim for about 355 degrees), add the garlic and fry till golden brown. Keep a close watch—it cooks quickly. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels, a couple coffee filters, or a torn open brown paper bag.

Add half the chickpeas, along with half of the lemon and thyme, to the hot oil and fry for about five minutes, stirring frequently. When they are crispy brown, transfer them to a paper-towel lined plate to drain. Sprinkle with half the salt and paprika.

Repeat with the remaining chickpeas. Add the toasted garlic slices and toss to blend. Taste to correct seasonings. (Hot pepper might be a nice addition.)

Store any leftovers in an airtight container. Because they soften over time, they are best eaten the same day (though I still thought them plenty delicious the second day).

Serving recommendations: make these for an afternoon snack or for an appetizer for a schmultzy party. (I imagine they’d pair nicely with fried locusts.)

About one year ago: Brandied-Bacony Roast Chicken.

I’ve missed writing about food. I’ve been filling all my blog posts with holy, dramatic, competitive, child-based content (or, holy dramatic, competitive child-based content—the wondrous comma, oh how I love it) and neglecting to tell you about any gustatory pleasures. Part of the reason is that I’ve slapped a lid on my culinary creative streak in an effort to empty the freezers, and the other part of the reason is that I’ve been either out-and-about (gardening and meetings) or in-and-reclining (Kinky Boots [I want a pair of bright red, crotch-high boots!], Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, Dumbing Us Down, The Endless Steppe).

All that is about to change.

I have three new recipes for you. The dessert one comes first, of course, and the other two may or may not follow, depending on how much more gardening and reading I feel pressured to accomplish in the next several days. But first, I must tell you about Mennonite in a Little Black Dress.

Have you read it, this hit book by Rhoda Janzen? My book club read it last month (except I didn’t start it till after the meeting—I’m all wonky these days), and they did not give it good reviews. I already had some pretty strong biases towards it, even before the group tore it to shreds, so it was with a begrudging, resentful attitude that I finally got around to cracking the spine.

And then I cracked up, giggled, snorted, and guffawed. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t really like the book (or the author, or something) but not for the same reasons as the book club ladies. And don’t get me wrong—I really like the book (or the author, or something) for some of the reasons the book club ladies don’t. Capiche?

Rhoda is a non-Mennonite who grew up Mennonite. (Problem number one: the title is a lie.) Her life slams to a halt when her husband leaves her for a guy named Bob, so she heads home to her Russian Mennonite family to recuperate. Leaping ahead so I can get to what I want to talk about: in her book Rhoda recounts the “shame-based” Mennonite foods she was raised with, foods that I, another ethnic Mennonite, have never even tasted. (Problem number two: she portrays her Mennonite culture as The Mennonite culture.) Even as an adult she admits that she is reserved about serving these weird (but delicious! she claims) foods to non-Mennonites. Embarrassed by food? Still? At forty-three? (Problem number three: pervasive immaturity.) All that said, and knowing I’m not done with the book yet, I haven’t found it nearly as offensive as I thought I would. In fact, I find it rather endearing.

And I happen to find Mennonite food to be endearing too, especially when it involves chocolate and cream. Me, embarrassed by ethnic cooking? No sirree! I’m so cocky-proud about it that I’m liable to fall kersplat on my face if I don’t watch where I’m going.

I grew up with whoopie pies. They are a classic Mennonite dessert (keep in mind I’m speaking for the East Coast Mennonite groupies), and they were always a huge treat since they take considerably more prep time than, say, brownies. But oh my, there is something delightful about two cookies mortared together with fluffy vanilla frosting. Each whoopie pie comes wrapped in plastic so you get what amounts to a brand-spanking-new dessert—from an unjaded child’s point of view, it’s almost as good as a candy bar! And then there is the two-in-one factor—you’re getting two cookies for the price of one! A veritable boon, this is indeed, one that quickens the heart of frugal Mennonites-in-training.

Since whoopie pies involve a couple extra steps (icing, joining, and wrapping), I like to make a lot at one time. And when you take into consideration that a dozen cookies will disappear in just one serving (look, I’ll do the math for you: twelve cookies make six whoopies, see?), it’s important to err on the side of too many. Not that that’s ever the case. Keep in mind, the whoopies freeze well. Not that they get a chance to hang out in their chilly box for all that long (in less than twenty-four hours, I’ve already run down to the basement two separate times to fetch me more pies), but we can pretend, right?

Now, classic whoopie pies call for a fluffy vanilla filling. The main reason that I don’t make whoopies all that often is because I’ve never liked my filling. It called for an egg white, two teaspoons of flour, and an excessive amount of beating; it was picky, finicky, and unpredictable.

But then I saw Pioneer Woman’s latest frosting—one that reduced her to a gushing, raving, blithering fanatic. I was skeptical. I crossed my arms and thought happy thoughts about chickpeas, but man! that woman is convincing. I held out for about five days before ducking my head obediently and whipping up a bowl of (to die for!) frosting…and putting it on chocolate cupcakes and covering it with sprinkles for my delighted chillens, just like she did. Like I said, she’s convincing.

Once I realized that the frosting was perfect for a whoopie pie filling, well, I was sold. And that’s the simple truth.

P.S. I have a little black dress in my closet. Think I ought to write a book?

Whoopie Pies

This recipe yields a fair amount of cookies (but it’s not even close to being too much), so if you decide to halve the recipe, simply use one egg yolk in place of the whole egg (Or, you can be bold and employ the old Mennonite egg-cutting trick.)

Note: Whoopie pies invite variation, and while the chocolate cookie with vanilla cream filling is a classic, I did fill some of my cookies with some leftover peanut butter frosting (because I only made a single batch of the cream fluff frosting and consequently ran out—horrors!). The peanut butter-chocolate combo was really, really, really, reallyreallyreallyreally good.

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup sour milk
5 tablespoons water
1 cup cocoa
4 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
double recipe Cream Fluff Frosting (recipe follows)

Cream together the butter and sugar. Add the egg and vanilla and beat some more. Beat in the milk and water.

Sift together the dry ingredients and add them to the wet. Beat briefly to combine. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill the dough for an hour (or longer, if you’re not yet ready to bake).

Scoop out the dough (a smallish amount) and drop it on a greased baking sheet, keeping the dough blobs a couple inches apart. If the dough sticks to your fingers, slightly dampen them first.

Next, dampen a finger tip or two and lightly shape the cookies into smooth circles and press down on the centers a bit. (This keeps the cookies from rising too high and ensures that their tops stay crack-free and smooth.)

Bake the cookies at 350 degrees for 8-12 minutes (depending on the size of your cookies) until the tops hold firm when lightly pressed. Transfer to a baking rack and cool completely.

To assemble:
Upturn one of the cookies and spread its bottom with a thick (thick, THICK!) layer of filling. Find a similar shaped cookie and set it on top of the filling. Once all the cookies are filled, wrap them in individual pieces of plastic wrap, set the whoopie pies in a large, airtight container and transfer them to the freezer.

Cream Fluff Frosting
From Ree Drumond, The Pioneer Woman

When I told my mom about my new whoopie pie filling, her comment was, “Oh yes. That’s the recipe for red velvet cake frosting.” She’s always known about this recipe and yet never taught it to me? How could she!

This icing is delicious and note-worthy, addicting and dangerous. I’m tempted to keep a batch in the fridge at all times. I just know it would be good on anything and everything: muffins, bread, pancakes, scones, pot roast…

1 cup butter
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup milk
5 tablespoons flour

Put the milk in a small saucepan and whisk in the flour. Cook over medium-high heat, whisking constantly, till the milk thickens. Stir in the vanilla and set aside to cool.

In the meantime, cream together the butter and sugar in a separate bowl.

When the milk has cooled to room temperature (set the pan on snow or ice if you’re in a hurry), add it to the creamed mixture and beat it all together till it is light and fluffy and resembles whipped cream. Taste it. Do you detect any sugar crystals? If so, beat some more, tasting frequently as you go. When the mixture is completely smooth, stop mixing. And for crying out loud, stop tasting, too. Or else you’re not going to have any frosting left.

One batch of frosting will ice a sheet cake or fill a little more than half a recipe of whoopie pies.

About one year ago: Snickerdoodles, and Happy Birthday, Happy Pappy!