That’s what I paid this morning, at the Farmer’s Market, for all of this:

Does that seem crazy, to anyone else but me? The apples are the only thing that weren’t either certified organic or pesticide-free (after much searching, I still haven’t found an apple farmer who doesn’t have to spray at least once). Is this all a hoax? I keep thinking I’m going to wake up one morning to headlines telling me of the Great Farce discovered at the Broad Ripple Farmer’s Market. How do they sell this stuff so cheap?

The priciest item was the half-peck of apples, straight from the orchard outside Indianapolis. Those totaled $7 (one bag is for eating — the Golden Delicious and Galas, and one is for applesauce — the Cortlands). The acorn squash was $1, purchased from the same farmer who sells me $1 yukon gold potatoes (I am feeling safer with each passing Saturday that the price remains the same — I even refrained from running away after my purchase this morning).

Seriously. Where am I?

And you must understand that I’m not complaining — I’m just nervous. Waiting for this mirage to disappear before my hungry yet unwaveringly frugal eyes.

Is this heaven? No, it’s Indiana.

Remember my recent post, about our Wine Benefactor? Well, we had dinner with his family again this week, along with another guest (I’m beginning to think it’s a nonstop party at that house). We volunteered to bring something, and I had all these locally-grown, organic yukon gold potatoes, purchased for one dollar a pound at the farmer’s market (I bought more this morning, and each week I pay very quickly and run, because I’m afraid that they’ll eventually figure out they’re giving the potatoes away).

So, I looked at the potatoes. It was either the potatoes, or a green salad, since that’s all we had in our house, and I’m on a spending freeze until payday. Remember, too, last time at the dinner, that I made a fingerling potato salad? With that option out for redundancy, I pondered my options.

Sometime between lunch-cleanup and diaper-folding, the kitchen muse presented me with a photographic memory from Cook’s Illustrated. It was a photo of pommes anna (potatoes anna for those of us who don’t speak French). Lovely in presentation, I remembered reading about it once, and thinking it wouldn’t be too hard to pull off. I first went online to cooksillustrated.com, but for good measure looked for direction from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My copy of Julia’s tome left me with nothing (perhaps it’s in the other volume?), for which I was secretly thankful, lest I end up with a more difficult challenge in the kitchen than I needed on a Thursday afternoon. Alone. With three adorable children who would eventually be done with “rest time.”

It’s basically potatoes and butter. I believe the original recipe was nothing but that, and salt. The Cook’s version utilizes a little vegetable oil too (perhaps to prevent too much browning?). It’s really easy as pie, if you have the following:

• a food processor (or mandolin)
• a non-stick skillet (I wouldn’t recommend using a cast-iron)

You peel the potatoes (3 pounds), and slice them very thin (1/16 or 1/8″). Toss them with some melted butter (about half a stick), and start to arrange them in a pan as it heats. Once you start arranging (I used the most uniform potatoes on the bottom layer, since that’s what you end up seeing), you set the timer for 30 minutes. You salt between layers (I under-seasoned out of fear), and let it cook over med-low heat for a total of 30 minutes. At this point, you press the potatoes into the pan with the bottom of a 9″ cake pan, then pop it in a 450º oven, covered, for about 15 minutes, then uncovered for another 10, or until the potatoes are tender.

Using the same inverted cake pan, you can press the potatoes again and tilt the pan, letting some of the excess fat drip off. Then, VERY CAREFULLY, turn it out onto a oiled, foil-lined rimless cookie sheet (sandwich the pans together before you flip). Then slide the potato cake onto a platter (I didn’t have a platter that was large enough, so I used a cake-stand. How’s that for pretentious presentation?). It really was beautiful, more so than the effort would suggest. A lovely French hash-brown. Cut it into wedges, and serve.

I’ve been on a kick with a new and improved (according to today’s tastebuds) granola recipe (after 7 years of the old one). I’ve mentioned it to a few friends who all requested the details; this led me to the conclusion that an appropriate post was in order.

Not to mention the fact that I’m not finished with a post that will name the Top 10 Athens Food Loves that will be sorely missed by our family. It’s gonna take another few days, so this will tide us all over.

I started making this recipe, adapted from one in my new More With Less cookbook, because I wanted crunchier granola (a feat difficult to achieve during hot and humid weather). I also decided to grind the nuts, in hopes that my children would actually start eating it. My five-year old did, but that lasted all of 2 days. Someday they will, though, right? My children might actually eat most of the food I prepare?

Before I present the secrets of my new breakfast, I will say that our life is about to be somewhat dismantled for about 2 weeks, while we finish packing, see our belongings off to Indiana, follow them in kind, and unpack in our new crib. So, while I hope to continue to post a reasonable number of times, do forgive me if my prose tends to seem a bit… lowfat. Here’s to living large again in the Midwest.

Crunchy Granola

Preheat oven to 350º.  Stir together in a very large mixing bowl:

• 6 cups rolled oats
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• 1 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
• 1 cup raw wheat germ
• 1 cup Kashi Nuggets cereal (or Grape Nuts)
• 1 cup nuts (almonds, pecans, or walnuts), ground in a food processor or pounded fine in a ziploc bag

In a separate microwaveable bowl, combine:

• 1/2 cup water
• 1 cup oil
• 1/2 cup honey
• 1/2 cup light brown sugar
• 1 tsp salt

Heat mixture in the microwave for about 1 1/2 minutes, until very warm. Stir to combine, then add:

• 2 tsp vanilla extract

Pour the liquid ingredients over the dry ingredients, and stir to completely coat. Pour mixture into 2 lightly oiled sheet pans, and press into the pan with an oiled spatula. Bake for 13-15 minutes, until starting to turn golden. Remove from oven, and gently flip the granola with a spatula. Return to the oven (reduce the temperature if your granola is getting too brown) and bake another 10-15 minutes, until nicely golden. Remove from oven and stir. Turn the oven off, and return the granola to the oven for about 30 minutes (this allows the granola to dry out more without getting much darker in color). Remove from oven and let cool completely. Once cool, immediately place in an airtight container (exposure to humid air makes the granola turn soft and chewy).

Does anyone else get a mental visual of Robin Williams dressed in red polyester when viewing this empty wrapper? If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: those crazy Swedes, with their umlaut-ed vowels.

So I was back at Ikea this week. And while I didn’t get a chance to down a dozen meatballs, I did stop for a bottle of water at the cafeteria and was met with a display full of chocolate bars. Some milk, some dark. Being the person that I am, surprise, surprise: I picked up the dark (it was the perfect thing to pair with my water, and nourish me for the attack of a shopping list replete with lightbulbs, rug underlays, and kid-art frames).

And it was good. Especially considering the fact that it cost me one dollar. That’s twice as much as the hotdog that I ate a few hours later, on my way out of the Euro-Wonderland, but a third of the cost of most dark chocolate bars I purchase.

Several years ago, when my husband started his PhD, and we were “poor graduate students,” (even though I was finished with my studies and, in fact, somewhat gainfully employed), we used to buy a five-dollar double-bottle of wine from a warehouse club. And we thought, you know, this is pretty good. And so that’s the wine we drank, for almost a year. And then one day we happened to drink some decent wine — and realized almost instantly that what we had been drinking for a year was closer in relation to a beverage that came in a large box with a pour spout. Therefore, I’m the first to admit that, in times of economic desperation (or just pressure), I can put on my own pair of culinary rose-colored glasses. So, this chocolate. This bar of one-dollar dark chocolate. Maybe, somewhere down the line, after eating through a case of them (bearing in mind that I didn’t even buy a single extra bar to bring home with me), and then splurging on some organic, fair-trade, 70% dark something-or-other, I’ll realize how I’ve been fooled.

But, until then.

Anyone going to Ikea?

I’ve mentioned these more than once, and figured it was about time they got their own post. The little flavor-boosters deserve it, working so hard to enliven recession staples like Brazilian black beans (guess those guys need a post, too… so many good meals, so little time!).

Aren’t they pretty in pink? Something happens when the purple color inherent in the red onion meets the ruby hue of red wine vinegar. As they sit and meld, the onions turn bright pink. And without a drop of FD&C red#3.

Before you pickle-haters recoil in horror, let me describe in detail: remove from your mind anything resembling a brined cucumber. Because I am not the biggest fan of jarred dill pickles; sure, I’ll eat them on an occasional burger, or maybe chopped up in a tuna salad. But, even when pregnant, I’ve never opened up a jar and started crunching (ahem… Nan). I occasionally eat other “pickled” things, like okra or radishes; and the pickled banana peppers I ate recently atop a pork shoulder at The National were like little gems of vinegarized glory. These red onions, probably like several of the other vegetables mentioned, are pickled quite simply in a mixture of vinegar and sugar. They are tangy-sweet, with a touch of heat (from either jalapenos or black peppercorns). They are a wonderful topping for Mexican-type-fare, making interesting the most straightfoward quesadilla, and also do wonders for cooked beans. I’ve used them in sandwiches, or to top huevos rancheros or a tofu sauté. Most important, though: they are ridiculously simple to make, don’t require canning, and keep for quite a while in the refrigerator, making them useful to top a variety of dishes for a couple or more weeks.

I implore you to try them. If I could, I’d whip up a batch, and send a small jar to all who read — because tasting will make you a believer. There is a great recipe for a large batch in Molly Katzen’s Moosewood Cookbook (the recipe is hard to find in the book — it’s on the same page as “Just White Beans,” on p. 60 in my edition). It uses 4 red onions, cider vinegar, and whole peppercorns; it fills a quart Ball jar to the brim, and lasts for many weeks. I used to make this version, but now my refrigerator space is more limited, so I’ve been making them in smaller batches, as-needed. I’ve combined Molly’s recipe with one I saw in Cook’s Illustrated; here’s my small-batch version:

Pickled Red Onions

• 1 red onion, sliced thinly
• 1 cup red wine vinegar
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp whole peppercorns

Place onions in a medium heat-resistant bowl. In a small saucepan, combine vinegar, sugar, salt, and peppercorns; bring to a simmer, and stir until the sugar dissolves. Remove from heat, and pour vinegar mixture over the onions. Cover loosely with foil, and allow to sit until cool to room temperature, about half an hour. Use immediately, or store in an airtight container (in the liquid) in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.

No, the “poor” in the title is not a reference to our socio-economic standing — although one might wonder, as much as I complain about budgets, recessions, and bone-dry embibing funds. I do actually realize that I’m not only not poor, but quite fortunate in countless ways. Just so you know that I know.

The title is just a lame attempt to put a fancy name on one of my favorite afternoon treats. You know, the one that I so deserve because my life is so hard? A take on poor man’s fill-in-the-blank seemed appropriate, since my version of pain au chocolat is not a croissant, and uses Nestlé chocolate chips. From a whopping 72-oz “chocolate-lover’s size” bag that I buy at a warehouse club.

The photo looks like Nutella — and there is definitely a place for that in the history of my kitchen. But I think I overdid the chocolate-hazlenut spread at some point, because a half-empty jar went bad in my pantry (I didn’t realize it could go bad, either). No, this snack consists of bread, butter, and chocolate chips. And a toaster oven.

Say you buy or make a loaf of dinner bread — a French or Italian loaf. The next day, you have some leftover. It’s 3 or 4 o’clock, about time for an afternoon snack. If it’s winter, something that would nicely accompany a cup of tea. You simply slice off a thick piece of day-old bread, and lightly toast it. Then you spread a little butter on top, grab a handful of chocolate chips (semi- or bittersweet would work), and scatter them evenly on the top (it really doesn’t take much). Stick it back in the toaster oven for another minute or so. When you pull out the bread, the chips will still look perfectly formed, albeit a bit shiny. Just grab a butter knife, and spread the chocolate across the top of the bread.

Voila. A treat in which the sum is much greater than its meager parts.

Several years ago, my mother-in-law gave me her well-worn copy of the original More With Less cookbook. If you’ve never seen a copy, it’s a collection of “recipes and suggestions by Mennonites on how to eat better and consume less of the world’s limited food resources.” My mother-in-law is not Mennonite, but lives in an area of rural Pennsylvania where the denomination is quite common. I had never heard of the cookbook when she gave it to me, but was impressed with its concern for world food shortages and its call-to-action to act responsibly with the resources we’re given. Not the typical vibe you get from Christian people, where I come from (and I can say that because I am one).

I tend to go through phases with all my cookbooks (excepting JoC and the Kimball books, which I use very regularly). This cookbook tended to fall in with Laurel’s Kitchen and the Moosewood publications; all of them are great resources for understanding food, how to use up all you buy, and how to eat a variety of foods across the spectrum that give you complete proteins and balanced diets. But they aren’t always good recipes, per se. My husband gives all three books a 50% success rate for attempted recipes. Sometimes you’re just left thinking, what was Laurel smoking that day? Or, ok Doris — it’s fine if you want to dump everything in your fridge into a pot, no matter what it is, but I just don’t see myself eating pizza soup.

So I hadn’t cracked open the falling-apart copy of MWL in quite some time, when my Mom gave me a brand-new copy for Christmas. This was quite the perceptive gift, I thought; she had no idea I had even heard of it, and picked it out of all the cookbooks in the bookstore. And what a timely gift it is; I have been trying to reduce our grocery budget for months now, while still eating as many local foods as we can, and while continuing to shell out extra bucks to cater to my son’s allergies. I was due for a refresher course in eating on limited resources.

But the cookbook has its quirks. I’m not a fan of using the word bake as a noun (for example, “Mandarin Rice Bake” on p. 132) or of using the word skillet in any way other than describing the vessel in which your dinner is cooked (”Spanish Noodle Skillet” on p. 121). There’s also many a recipe calling for “leftover meat scraps,” which I think is best followed by the phrase, “for your dog.” These frugal women use canned goods a bit more than I like (other than tomatoes and the occasional emergency-can-o-beans), and while they use fat sparingly, rely on animal varieties a great deal. But reading the cookbook can get a person into a mindset of being aware of what you have, and trying hard to use it. For example, it was after being inspired by my new cookbook copy that I saw that container of mushrooms, going bad, and decided to find a way to use them instead of letting them get worse and having to be thrown out. I need these types of reminders, since it’s so easy for me to slip into doing what’s convenient. Which is probably why my grocery bill is what it is.

I think I’ve mentioned before (to you, blog-readers? Who knows. To someone, probably yet another cornered listener) that the old term “home economics” gets a bad rap. It doesn’t signify cookie-making and hem-sewing; it signifies the fact that, if you have some part of the responsibility of feeding your family, it is an economic work (as I remember from that one required class in college). It is supply and demand, cost-benefit analysis, and return-on-investment. It’s not easy work, and I think we grew up in a society that told us it should be.

At the end of the day, it also means that sometimes you eat something for dinner that just doesn’t sound that great (though I refuse to name said dinner a fill-in-the-blank loaf). But in my limited experience, sometimes that is exactly what it takes to discover something new, something really tasty. I have a husband who, thankfully, is willing to go with the punches on this. My kids are a different story, but I’m still sticking with my “you-must-try-one-bite” and “if-I-know-you-like-it-you-don’t-get-anything-else” policies. Tough love, right? Just more fodder for their therapists when they grow up.

I’ll leave you with a new recipe that has nothing to do with using up leftovers — I just like it. It’s adapted from the same-titled recipe in MWL. I’m watching two loaves rise in their pans right now*; it’s been a good distraction from our regular, wheat sandwich bread. I’ve added more whole wheat flour — primarily because it’s cheaper for me, since I’ve been milling my own wheat berries into flour, and since a bag of unbleached, all-purpose King Arthur is over FOUR DOLLARS right now. I’ve also reduced the sugar a good bit, since the original recipe seems like it would be quite sweet. The original also calls for quick oats, but I typically buy regular rolled oats, and they work fine (although it might make the bread more hearty).

^*which, subsequently and frustratingly burned, when I turned off the oven timer without taking the bread out of the oven. In the words of Alexander’s mom, “Some days are like that. Even in Australia.”

Oatmeal Bread (adapted from More With Less, p. 60)

• 1 cup quick or rolled oats
• 1/2 cup whole wheat flour
• 3 Tbsp brown sugar, turbinado, or honey
• 1 Tbsp salt
• 2 Tbsp vegetable oil

Combine above in a large bowl, or in the bowl of a stand mixer. Pour over the mixture:

• 2 cups boiling water

Stir to combine, and let cool to lukewarm. Combine in a small measuring cup:

• 1 pkg (about 2 1/4 tsp) active dry yeast
• 1/2 cup warm water

Add to the oatmeal batter once it has cooled. Then stir in (or add, then mix using the dough hook on your mixer):

• 5 cups flour (any combination of whole wheat and unbleached all-purpose, though I wouldn’t go more than 3 cups of whole wheat)

Knead by hand, or in your mixer for about 8 minutes (longer if you’re kneading by hand). If kneading by mixer, stop it 2-3 times, remove the dough, and rearrange it in the bowl for more even kneading. The dough should be somewhat stiff, but also still cling to your fingers a bit. Place in a lightly oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap or a damp towel, and let rise until doubled (45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours, depending on the temperature of your kitchen).

Remove risen dough, and divide into equal halves. Knead each half into a ball, and let rest, covered, for 10 minutes. In the meantime, grease two loaf pans with shortening. Shape the loaves and place into pans. Cover, and let rise about an hour (preheat your oven to 350º about 45 minutes into this rising). Place pans on lower-middle rack, and bake 40 minutes. Remove baked loaves from pans, and cool completely on a rack before slicing.

First things first: my apologies if you’ve tried to visit sometime in the past few days, and had to swallow an error message. My server was a bit under-the-weather, but after a call to the doc, is now feeling much better. Thanks for your patience. What follows is the post I was working on when it all crashed down.

Way back when, I thought all soup came from a can with a red logo and a little gold seal in the middle. You know, the one immortalized by Andy Warhol. Back in those days, about the only variety I would eat was Cream of Mushroom.

Earlier this week, I opened my refrigerator to fix lunch for the kids, and saw half a container of sliced mushrooms, looking like their glory days had passed. None of my dinner plans this week would benefit from the addition of over-oxidized mushrooms, so my head began churning for a plan while I made sandwiches.

I remembered landing briefly on a random food blog post last week, and reading about using old mushrooms to make soup. So while I cut up carrots and apples for the young ones, I flipped through The Joy of Cooking, in search of direction. I only had about 4 ounces of mushrooms, so I couldn’t make the blogged version, inspired by one of Anthony Bourdain’s creations. My childhood can-o’-dinner-love came back in a flash; I scanned the recipe for Cream of Mushroom soup, and realized that if I halved it, I could pull it off in about 20 minutes.

I did, and it was the soup I never had. Cream of Mushroom, before Campbell’s hijacked it. I ate it for two consecutive lunches, and planned to get a picture of it, but just couldn’t put the spoon down long enough to go get the camera.

This is an ideal time to thaw out one of the bags of chicken stock you made this week (insert emoticon wink) — I can’t imagine it would be nearly as good without it (but even with storebought broth, it would be much better than canned). I’ll write the recipe as I made it, amended from the same-titled recipe from The Joy of Cooking. It should double fine (in case you want to serve more than yourself for dinner), but if you have a copy of the cookbook, it wouldn’t hurt to go there.

Cream of Mushroom Soup

• 1 Tbsp olive oil, plus 1 Tbsp butter
• 4 ounces mushrooms (about half a regular container), sliced
• 1/4 onion, chopped (about 1/4 cup)
• 1-2 Tbsp dry sherry (optional, but really adds flavor; I buy cheap dry sherry, and keep it way too long, but it’s nice to have on hand for times such as these)
• 2 Tbsp all-purpose flour
• 1 - 2 tsp chopped fresh thyme (if using dried, reduce to a 1/2 tsp)
• 2 cups chicken stock (or Swanson low-sodium canned chicken broth)
• 1/4 cup half-n-half
• salt and pepper to taste

In a small saucepan, heat the oil and butter over medium heat until the foaming subsides (feel free to use all olive oil, or all butter). Sauté the mushrooms and onion until the mushrooms are wilted, about 5 minutes. Add the sherry, flour, and thyme. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 2-3 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan. Stir in your chicken stock gradually, add 1/4 tsp salt (omit if you’re using canned broth, or if your stock is already salted, and season to taste at the end). Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium and simmer about 15 minutes. Stir in the half-n-half, taste for seasonings, and serve.

Since 2009 could potentially, in that Chinese-calendar-sort-of-way, be known as The Year of The Financially Burdened (at least for us, anyway), I figured life was calling for another Recession Meal. I also thought it was about time I included one of a carnivorous variety, leaving the afore-utilized lentils behind. But just this once.

For old times’ sake, let’s begin this story with reminiscing my childhood. I believe I’ve mentioned before that I grew up on a diet consisting mostly of self-prepared meals boxed by Kraft. That was the case Saturday through Thursday, and every other Friday. Two Fridays a month, I went to my dad’s house for the weekend. He, in the early-to-mid-80’s, was in his “running phase.” So most Saturdays he ran a race (we always asked if he won, and he always answered with a short lecture on how ‘winning isn’t everything’ — hmmm…), and wanted to get in his carb-heavy meal the night before (not to help him win, mind you — Dad, are you reading this?) So he made spaghetti with meat sauce. Probably the squarest meal I had, twice a month. He would brown a pound of ground beef, and then pour a jar of Prego or Ragu over the top, and stir. We ate it most Friday nights, and I, for one, loved it.

And, again, for old times’ sake, fast forward with me. It’s sometime in the late 90’s, and I’m living in Knoxville. My roommate begins to make spaghetti one night, and opens a jar of something a bit more high-class than my dad’s fare — maybe Barilla? Another friend of ours walks in the door and — I believe — takes the jar from her hand, refusing to let her go through with it. She explains that homemade meat sauce is so simple to make, and here is my grandmother’s recipe we can make it right now!  And that’s what they did. It was quite yummy, and I strolled for a bit down memory lane, back to all those spaghetti dinners at my (non-competitive) dad’s house.

So I got the recipe, and began making it for myself. Over the past 7 years, I’ve changed a few things, mostly adding a sauté step to bring out more flavors and shorten the simmering time. If I have an open bottle of red wine (um, right — a recession meal should most definitely not include red wine — but just in case) I add a quarter cup or so before adding all the tomatoes, and that makes it even tastier. This is not a bolognese sauce — but if you are interested there’s a fantastic one at cooksillustrated.com. This is a bit simpler, chunkier, and more along the lines of comfort food.

Oh, and the reason it qualifies as a recession meal is because you can make the sauce for about $8 (including pasta) and it feeds a family of four (sort of… small children included) for 2 nights. You’ll notice some optional ingredients — use them if you already have them on hand — they all add flavor, so the sauce is better with them, but is also good without). It also freezes well, and doubles well, so it can feed a crowd if so desired.

Meat Sauce for Spaghetti

• 1 pound ground beef (lean beef works well here)
• 2 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 2-3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 bell pepper (green or red), chopped
• 1 medium carrot, chopped fine (optional)
• 1 celery stalk, chopped fine (optional)
• 4 to 8 ounces mushrooms, sliced (optional)
• 1 can tomato paste
• 1 (14 oz) can Italian style stewed tomatoes
• 1 (14 oz) can tomato sauce
• 1 cup water
• 1/2 tsp salt, plus more to taste
• 1 bay leaf
• 1/4 tsp dried thyme
• 1 tsp dried oregano

In a large saucepan or dutch oven, cook the ground beef over medium heat until no pink remains. Remove the beef with a slotted spoon to a bowl and set aside. Discard all but about a tablespoon of fat from the pan, add olive oil, and return pan to heat. Sauté onions, carrot, celery, and bell pepper until vegetables are soft, about 7-8 minutes (try not to let them brown). Add garlic, and sauté for about 30 seconds, until fragrant. Add the tomato paste and cook, stirring, until it starts to turn brown and is well-combined with the vegetables. Add the mushrooms and cook until they soften a little, 2-3 minutes. At this point, if you have that wine sitting around, pour in 1/4 cup or so and scrape the bottom of the pan. Let cook a few minutes to release alcohol, then add the stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, water, bay leaf, thyme, oregano, and salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer, and let cook barely simmering for about an hour, stirring occassionally. Taste for salt and pepper, and add a few tablespoons chopped fresh parsley if you have it. Serve over spaghetti, topped with grated parmesan cheese and a drizzle of olive oil.

The first time I had something like this was back in grad school, at Lula. They served a dessert special that was a flavor-of-the-day Rice Pudding Empanada. Rice pudding, wrapped in pastry, deep-fried. It was unusual, rich, and comforting. I looked forward to the nights I closed when they had one leftover — it was mine for the taking.

My favorite flavor was chocolate chip, and as I was looking around for a simple desert to make after dinner Friday night, that filling came to mind. I’ve never actually made my rice pudding into an empanada, but the filling by itself is simple and delicious.

If you’ve never made rice pudding, it’s worth a try. A great way to use leftover white rice, and the ingredients are  things you probably have on hand. I didn’t have leftovers on Friday, so I cooked some, which adds about 15 minutes to the prep time. This recipe is based on one from The Joy of Cooking; I’ve added a leftover-rice option and the chocolate chips. Note: You cannot use minute rice, or boil-in-bag rice, to make rice pudding. It has been processed to remove the stickiness, and it won’t form a pudding.

Chocolate Chip Rice Pudding

• about 2 3/4 cups cooked white rice (not minute rice or boil-in-bag rice; make sure the rice was salted)
  (If you don’t have leftover rice, combine 3/4 cup med- or long-grain white rice with 1 1/2 cups water in a saucepan. Add a heaping 1/4 tsp salt, and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer, cover, and let cook for about 15 minutes, until water is absorbed. Proceed with recipe as follows.)
• 4 cups whole milk (I’ve used a combo of 2% milk and half-n-half, with success)
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/2 tsp vanilla
• 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
• a handful of semi- or bittersweet chocolate chips, for each serving

Combine the cooked rice, milk, and sugar in a large, heavy saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, and cook uncovered for 30 to 40 minutes, stirring frequently, especially toward the end of cooking. The pudding is done when the rice and milk have amalgamated into a thick porridge. Remove from heat, and stir in the vanilla and cinnamon.

Let cool for about 15 minutes, either in the saucepan or in serving bowls. Gently stir a handful of chocolate chips into each serving, letting the heat from the pudding melt the chocolate.  You can either leave the melted chocolate in random melted chunks, or stir completely into the pudding to allow the chocolate to flavor all the rice (I prefer the former).

To really go over-the-top, serve topped with whipped cream.