It was only as I was licking cinnamon sugar off a plate after rapidly devouring three slices of bread that I managed to put a finger on the word I was looking for to describe the cinnamon raisin walnut loaf I had just made.
Trouble.
And this is coming from someone who has generally preferred savory or plain loaves to sweet cinnamon-raisin breads.
Peter Reinhart’s recipe for cinnamon-raisin bread? It’s trouble.
People have been asking — what do you do with all this bread you're baking?
To which, I have my own question: Have you seen my behind lately?
But the truth is, I don't eat all, or even a quarter, of my bread. Giving it away has been a sound strategy. And, I have a freezer full of brioche, waiting for the day when a handsome bread pudding recipe comes along.
When I made challah, however, I broke the rules.
The moment I set eyes on my braided loaf, I knew French toast was a must.
We had heard about The Omelette, of course.
About how Annette Boutiaut, a late-19th Century innkeeper in Mont-Saint-Michel, had begun keeping eggs in store to whip together quick omelettes for hungry guests waiting for their dinner. We knew it was a key component of the town’s history — one that has thrived over the decades as a big tourist trap draw.
Even so, as we approached Mont-Saint-Michel and marveled at its imposing medieval abbey on a mount rising from the water and towering over a vast expanse of grayish blue, it seemed like there should be more.
If this grande dame of a town had to have a gastronomic one-trick pony, shouldn’t it be something more than a trifling breakfast dish masqeurading as dinner?
But there it was in every restaurant — most notably as the main course on a 55 Euro set menu at La Mère Poulard, where Annette’s omelettes first appeared.
What could possibly be so special about a bunch of beaten eggs fried in a pan?
Making bagels — in New York.
The task, on its face, seemed like it would be so simple it was almost laughable. After all, I’ve baked. I happen to live in bagel-central. What could be difficult?
It turns out, a lot.
In every relationship, there inevitably is that one early thing that you disagree on.
Ours was pancakes.
Mike, he’ll eat them any and every day of the week for breakfast, lunch and/or dinner. Me, I love me my sweets but even at brunch, give me noodles or a hunk of red meat and eggs over pretty pancakes anytime.
You learn to compromise, of course. And so over the last eight years, Marion Cunningham and I have become well-acquainted.