Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Have you seen those magazine and website series called “Separated at Birth”?  They usually feature two celebs (sometimes, a celeb and an animal or even a celeb and inanimate object) that–in that one particular photo, at least–eerily resemble each other.

The phrase, of course, refers to the phenomenon popularized by certain nature-vs-nurture studies revealing that sometimes, identical twins who were, indeed, separated at birth still remain very much the same and may develop similar features, behaviors, or personality traits over the years, perhaps marrying spouses with the same names or giving their dogs the same name, even though they’ve lived most of their lives unaware of the other’s existence.

Having grown up with identical twins in my family (my Uncle S was an identical twin) and with my two best friends being twins (I’ve known Gemini I and Gemini II since we were all 4 years old), I’ve always been fascinated by twins and how similar they are–or not.  Everyone knows (or has heard of) at least one set of twins who, at some point, fooled a teacher/ babysitter/ cousin/ neighbor by switching roles and pretending to be the other.  (And remember that creepy novel--which Canadian director David Cronenberg made into an equally creepy movie–about those two twin doctors?  Or how about Bette Davis’s Oscar vehicle, Dead Ringer , in which envy prompts her character to appropriate her (richer, happier) sister’s life (and to eradicate her fingerprints, in a scene that still haunts me on occasion)? On a less deadly note, there’s always Hayley Mills in The Parent Trap or Danny DeVito and Ex-Mr.-Governator-cum-Philandering-Maid-Paramour in Twins.).

I’m glad to report that the Geminis were not like those other identical counterparts.  Thankfully, their parents treated them like two distinct individuals with their own (different) sets of clothing,  hairstyles, interests and friends (well, except for me, I guess).  And that’s how they grew up: even though their teachers had trouble differentiating them as kids, there’s no mistaking their unique personalities and looks today. (In fact, when the HH first met Gemini I and Gemini II, he noted that  “they kinda looked like sisters” but that he would never have guessed they were twins (even though they share identical DNA!).   That’s a true testament to the power of nurture, I’d say.

In the realm of apricot-swirl cheesecakes, think of these lovely, luxuriously creamy  bars as the long-lost twin of that earlier raw version I posted a couple of weeks ago.  It started with our organic produce delivery, which I love receiving every week (and which has introduced me to a plethora of new fruits and veggies over the years, at times in a David Letterman-at-the-Oscars sort of way: “Ricki, meet Rapini.  Rapini–Ricki”). But there are also times when we receive far more than can be consumed by two childless adults in a single week.  (“What do you mean, “childless,” Mum? Did you forget about us??”).  These bars hail from the same (very large) bag of apricots that arrived on our doorstep that week.

In this case, though, this latter half of the summer stone fruits were nurtured a little differently from those in the Raw Mini Pies.  With these, I baked up a bar much more similar to the original one I spied on the Everyday Food site.  These Apricot Swirl Cheesecake Bars offer a more classic vegan cheesecake base, one made with silken tofu.  With a shortcake crust and a tangy, cooked swirl of apricot preserves, these are bars you can serve with pride to your bridge club, your PTA meeting, your family on Sunday evening, or your kids after school–and they’ll be equally welcomed by all.

While I really enjoyed the bars, the HH was truly besotted (he liked them better than the raw version; I was the opposite.  The HH and I had differing opinions? Quel surprise!).  The similarities between the two desserts are obvious, and the differences subtle.  Which makes sense, of course, since they were, after all, born from the same crop.

Rather than choose one cheesecake twin over the other, why not just make them both?

If you’re interested in the raw version of this dessert, check out Raw Apricot Swirl Cheesecake Mini Pies.

“Mum, were Elsie and I separated at birth, too?  Because we both share lots of the same traits, like being insanely cute, smart, loving the same treats. . . yep, we’re sisters, all right!”

“Zip it, Chaser.  Mum, say it isn’t so!”

I’m submitting this recipe to Wellness Weekend this week, as well as Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays, Gluten Free Wednesdays,  Allergy-Friendly Fridays. and Foodie Fridays.

Last Year at this Time: Flash in the Pan: Fresh Plum Sauce or Topping (ACD Stage 2 and beyond; GF)

Two Years Ago: Déjà Vu Blondies (not ACD friendly, not GF)

Three Years Ago: Banana Berry Breakfast Cakes (not GF, not ACD friendly)

© Ricki Heller, Diet Dessert and Dogs

Back in my callow twenties (and even into my thirties), I was one of those annoyingly punctual people who submitted essays three days early, was always the first one at the restaurant, or who arrived with 30 minutes to spare at the dentist.  I’d cast a scowling glance at friends who arrived late for our meetings, implying that their behavior was both inconsiderate and an indication of how little they valued me and my time. (How on earth did they put up with me. . .?).

Then, when I finally acquired a car of my own and could finally drive everywhere. . . suddenly I, too, was also late at least 50% of the time.  These days, if I can make it to appointments without forgetting altogether, I consider it an accomplishment. (And sorry about that missed appointment last week, Dr. Chiropractor).  Needless to say, I’m much more tolerant of tardiness in others these days. (And sorry for those scowling glances, Gemini I).

That pernicious lateness vibe seems to have permeated other aspects of my life in recent years, too.  The HH and I have become notorious for our exorbitant late fees at the video store (so much so that last week, the cheerful cashier suggested, “Hey, why don’t you just purchase the used DVDs instead? When you buy three, you get one for free!”–which meant that the cost of three DVDs was less than the single late fee we paid for one.  Thanks, Mr. Video Store Cashier. Oh, and would anyone like a gently used copy of Date Night?).

One of the most vexing aspects of my perennial lateness is my tendency to miss out on myriad blog events in which I’d love to participate.  Every month, I read over the contributions to the Adopt a Gluten-Free Blogger roundup, for instance, and think, “Why didn’t I join in?  Oh, yeah–too late.”  Or I browse the wonderful soups or salads in No Croutons Required and ask myself, “Gee, I made a salad this month–now why didn’t I enter it?  Oh, yeah–too late.”  Or maybe I pass by the post for My Legume Love Affair one month, and wonder, “Hey–now how come I didn’t submit something to this?  Oh, yeah–too late.”  Just call me the female version of Alice’s Lapine  friend (well, minus the red jacket and whiskers, that is. Though now that menopause is imminent, I’m told it may become just “minus the jacket” soon. Sorry, HH. )

Well, I’ve been following Lisa and Nicole’s raw challenges for a few months now, and I always intend to participate. But then. . . .yep, you guessed it, I’m too late.  When I read their post about the Raw Mini Pie Challenge, I decided that this time, I’d start early and be sure to get my entry in on time.  One can dream. . . . And now, here it is, the Friday night of the event deadline, and I am just writing up my post. Well, better late than. . . . oh, no, wait.  Not this time!

I found my inspiration for this raw dessert in yet another Martha Stewart recipe (this one, which was baked), as well as on Lisa’s own blog.  I decided to reproduce the concept of  apricot cheesecake in a raw mini pie.

These little confections pair a gingerbread “cookie” crust with a satiny smooth cashew cream cheese base and tangy fresh apricot swirl.  The luscious cheese presents the perfect yin to the lemon-infused apricot’s yang (and the pattern even resembles the yin-yang a little).  I’d say the cheese filling in these, a cross between a New York style cheesecake and a mousse,  is better than any dairy-based cheesecake I’ve ever had, hands down.

The HH and I adored these indulgent little treats a few nights ago, right before we watched The Social Network. And since we now own the DVD, there were no worries about being late for the movie.

Now if only I can manage to make it to the dentist on time. . . .

NOTE: You might also be interested in the twin baked version of this dessert, Baked Apricot Swirl Cheesecake Bars.

I’m submitting this recipe to Lisa and Nicole‘s Raw Mini Pie Challenge (for once, I’m not too late!), Brittany’s Seasonal Sundays and Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays this week.

Last Year at this Time: Celebration Pear and Cranberry Cornmeal Cake (Gluten-Free; ACD Stage 3 and beyond)

Two Years Ago: Beet the Heat Mint Salad (Gluten Free; ACD All Stages)

Three Years Ago: Jalapeno Pesto Pizza (easily Gluten Free; ACD Stage 2 and beyond if made with GF crust)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Happy (early) Valentine’s Day, everyone!  The HH and I have a special celebration planned, which I’ll share in a day or two.  In the meantime, I’ve got a guest post up today over at Go Dairy Free for Sweet Sundays: these ridiculously decadent, luxurious Chocolate Covered Cheesecake Bites.  After all, what’s guaranteed to melt your sweetie’s heart if not chocolate?

Head on over to Go Dairy Free to see the recipe!

I’ve never been what I’d call a “good” flirt.  In high school, I hung out with the nerdy crowd (hard to believe, I know!), so there wasn’t really any opportunity to flirt.  Then, when I was finally old enough to attract the opposite sex in my 20s, it seemed too late to get the hang of it. I do remember loathing, admiring and envying (all at the same time) the most popular girls in my high school.  It seemed as if their hair, or their eyelashes, or their limp wrists somehow possessed an invisible male adhesive as they giggled and nodded and caressed the guys, just so, on their forearms; or maybe it was just the pheromones they exuded. 

In any case, the flirty girls would always be surrounded by an inverse seraglio, an ever-shifting, amorphous cloud of doting males.  The boys would fawn over them, open doors for them, carry their books, offer them lifts, or request their phone numbers in a continuous stream.  Just how did the girls manage that, I wondered?  How did they get away with teasing the guys so overtly, implying lace and perfume and breathless embraces, yet, in reality, yield nothing?  These girls were whip-smart as well as beautiful, or they couldn’t have perfected their technique; yet they appeared vacuous and helpless and fragile all at the same time, thereby rendering themselves irresistible to the guys around them.

I had the opportunity to observe a consummate tease after my divorce, when I lived in the same flat as another woman who had previously been married to two of the richest men in Canada (and she was only 32 when I met her).  She was one of the smartest cookies I’ve ever known (and funny, witty, sweet and fun to be with, too) yet, the moment she came within a few feet of any attractive male, she appeared to devolve into–how shall I say this?–a helpless, needy, pouting little girl.  She’d bat her eyelashes at the nearest specimen and feign incompetence with the lock on the car trunk, the dial on the stereo or the squeaky door on the kitchen cabinet.  Then she’d throw up her hands in mock despair and emit a giggle that resonated across the room, like the clang of forks on wine glasses at a wedding, encouraging the newlyweds to kiss. 

There must have been something to it, too, because by the time I moved out, she’d snagged yet another of Canada’s wealthiest bachelors (they’ve since divorced, but let’s just say she’ll never have to work again–no, scratch that, she’ll never even have to brush her own teeth again).  

My own efforts at flirting have produced less than stellar results. True, some playful flirting resulted in four months dating Rocker Guy (he of the black leather pants); as it turned out, Rocker Guy himself really enjoyed flirting, too–he enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he continued to do so throughout the time we were dating. And his definition of “flirting,” unfortunately, encompassed ”sleeping with.” 

Thus ended my flirtation with flirting.

Today, however, I’m afraid I’m going to play the tease once again.  After finding out at the last minute that I’d be away at a conference all day today, I wasn’t able to photograph the dish I’d originally intended to post about. Instead, there’s a slew of goodies I’ve been working on for the cookbook, and with the holiday season almost upon us, I thought it might be a good way to get in the mood for holiday baking. (Oh, so how’s the book coming along?  Well, I’m still working on the manuscript, which should be complete in less than a month, after which the materials are shipped off to the printer.  Ultimately, I’m still aiming for a release date in early 2009–February or March.  Whoo!). 

Some of these sweets have already been published elsewhere on this blog, with recipes included. You may have also seen some on the testers’ blogs (ie, the absolute BEST TESTERS any cookbook author–or baker–could ever want). 

Following are some of my recent favorites from the book, and those that would make good holiday treats. And even if it’s not out in time for this year, you may wish to make some of these next time round.

Chocolate Covered Caramels:

Old Fashioned Spice Cake:

Sugar-Free Sugar Cookies (plus recipe–great for decorating):

Chocolate Mint Chocolate Chip Cookies:

Cupcakes with Gluten-Free, Soy-Free Chocolate Buttercream:

Chocolate Satin Tarts:

Dalmatian “Cheesecake” Brownies:

Vegan Butter Tarts: (plus recipe):

And here’s a little preview of tomorrow’s sweet treat (recipe to follow).  I know, what a tease. . . 

*apologies to Geneen Roth

[Well, I really hadn't meant to write about my mother for two entries in a row.  Maybe it was all of your wonderful comments about yesterday's "mom story"; maybe it was an offshoot of Mother's Day earlier in the month; maybe I'm just feeling all mushy and sentimental after watching the over-the-top , tear-filled finale of American Idol last night. 

Or, maybe, it's Sarah's fault. Over at Homemade Experiences in the Kitchen, Sarah is hosting a blog event called "Tastes to Remember," that asks us to write about "those tastes and smells that immediately bring you back to your childhood."  Of course, my mother came to mind once again, this time for her baking (which, unlike her cooking, was quite exceptional).  So forgive the bathos. And here's my own little contribution to this week's sappy ending.]  

* * * * * * * * * *

In the house in which I grew up, food often spoke louder than the people. When my mother was too hurt, too angry, too stubborn or simply too out of touch with her own internal landscape to speak, the dishes she cooked were imbued with their own telegraphic properties. Food could be either a reward or a weapon, and, like each of those, was often withheld until the situation truly warranted its use.   

On schoolday mornings, I’d sometimes wake early and stumble into the kitchen before my father left for work (he was usually gone by 6:15, off to a 12-hour day at the butcher shop to kibbitz with customers, haul sides of beef, or trim stew meat just so before wrapping it expertly, as if swaddling a baby, in waxy brown paper). Squinting and still shielding my eyes from the electric light, I’d encounter my dad hunched over his breakfast at the kitchen table. I could always sense immediately whether or not some earlier argument between my parents had been resolved overnight.

Was he enjoying two soft-boiled eggs, an orange cut into eighths and his usual cup of black tea? That meant the air had cleared with the sunlit sky; equilibrium had been restored. If, instead, the plate proffered a lone slice of blackened toast, glistening with a hasty swipe of margarine; if the kettle was left boiling unattended (it was understood he’d have to go get his own), then I knew that tension had prevailed, and it would be at least one more day before détente was re-established.    

Food also conveyed silent, unspeakable messages of sorrow.   

When I was about six or seven, my mother acquired a recipe for “Potato Boats” from one of her Mah Jong friends, and they were quickly adopted as our staple Friday night dinner. Each week, Mom would cut the potatoes in half, scoop out the nubbly, steaming flesh and mash the innards with butter and milk before packing the mixture back into the empty shells, topping each with an orange haystack of grated Kraft cheese. The “boats” were then replaced in the oven and baked until the cheese oozed and bubbled, drooping over the potato edges to form charred rounds of ash on the baking sheet. We all loved the Friday suppers, and my sisters and I waited eagerly for them.   

Then my grandfather got sick.  As the only grandparent still alive when I was born, he’d been a fairly constant presence in our lives—living, in fact, right upstairs in the upper duplex of our house, with my aunt’s family. Diagnosed with liver cancer, Zaida was given little chance of recovery. Only two weeks after the diagnosis—on a Friday–he was admitted to hospital.    

That afternoon, my mother operated in a haze, her eyes perpetually wet, leaking silent rivulets down her cheeks. She moved aimlessly through the house like a fly caught in the window frame, shifting from one spot to the next as if the counter, the table, the cupboard, were each invisible barriers blocking her path, causing her to recoil and try again, over and over. She somehow still produced the requisite potato boats and salmon patties–I couldn’t understand why we were having them for lunch instead of dinner–and we ate in tense, confused silence.  The following Friday, we were served a different menu; she never attempted the potato boats again.   

On days when I arrived home from school and was greeted by the rich, eggy aroma as it sneaked out from under our front door, I’d race up the stairs in excited anticipation, knowing my mother would be in good spirits.  My sisters and I would sample the cake as soon as it was ready—only a tiny nibble was permitted—before allowing it to cool on the kitchen counter until my dad came home.    

When my mother placed a slice of this cake in front of my father, his face, no matter how tense or furrowed from the day’s work, would soften and a smile overtook him as he brandished his fork. He’d relish his little gift of generosity, savoring every morsel along with his cup of tea.  “Just like my grandmother used to make,” he’d murmur, grinning. Then my mother would retreat to the sink; as she passed the soapy dishcloth slowly over each bowl or plate, her face was limned with satisfaction. No words were required, as we all knew what she was feeling.  

So you see why I was determined to recreate that cake. I wanted to achieve a vegan version with the same harmony of cookie crust, tart, lemony filling and light, pillowy texture. It took several attempts, but I think I finally found a suitable rendition.  And while it may not quite do the original justice, but I’m still pretty happy with the outcome.  With its irregular lattice crust and home-made appeal, this cake does approximate the Farmer’s Cheesecake of my childhood.   

Tonight after dinner, I padded over to where the HH sat and, without uttering a sound, placed a big slice of the cake in front of him. At first he cut into it tentatively, sampling a tiny bite.  Then he dug in to the rest with gusto, and in an instant had already scraped the plate clean.   

I could tell from the smile on his face that he’d understood exactly what I meant.  

 Vegan Farmer’s Cheesecake

This is a great everyday cake, one you can easily mix up for a daily treat, but so delicious you’ll want to share it with friends.

Crust:

1/3 cup (85 g.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

1/3 cup (100 g.) light agave nectar

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) plain or vanilla soymilk

1-1/4 tsp. (6.5 ml.) pure vanilla extract

1 heaping Tbsp. (15 ml.) organic cornstarch

1 scant cup (130 g.) whole spelt flour

3/4 c. (80 g.) barley flour

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) baking powder

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) baking soda

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) sea salt

Cheesecake Filling:

1 pkg. (350 g.) firm silken Japanese-style tofu packed in aseptic package  (such as Mori-Nu)

1/2 cup (125 ml.) smooth cashew butter

grated rind of 1 lemon

1/2 cup (150 g.) light agave nectar

2 tsp. (10 ml.) fresh lemon juice

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) pure lemon extract

1 tsp. (5 ml.) pure vanilla extract

pinch sea salt

Preheat oven to 350F (180C).  Grease an 8 x 8 inch pan (about 18 x 18 cm) or line with parchment.

Prepare crust: In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the oil, agave, soymilk and vanilla to emulsify. Sift the remaining ingredients over the mixture in the bowl and stir with a wooden spoon to combine into a soft dough (it will be slightly sticky, but firm enough to hold a shape). 

Remove about 1/3 of the dough and set aside.  Press the remaining dough evenly into the bottom of the pan with wet fingers or a silicon spatula (the spatula works well to avoid sticking).  Set aside.

Make the filling:

Combine the tofu and cashew butter in a food processor until well blended, scraping down sides to blend any bits of tofu.  Add the remaining ingredients and process until perfectly smooth and velvety (there should be no bits of tofu visible).

Pour the filling evenly over the crust in the pan.  To smooth the top, grab the pan on opposite sides with your hands and, keeping the bottom of the pan against the surface it’s on, quickly rotate it once to the left and then to the right.

Divide the remaining dough in half, then divide each half into 3 equal parts (you’ll have 6 balls of dough).  Pinching about 1/2 of each ball at a time, roll it between your palms to create a thin rope about 3/8″ (just under 1 cm.) thick. 

Starting at one corner and working diagonally across to the opposite corner of the pan, place ropes of dough next to each other in a straight line from one corner to the other (the dough doesn’t necessarily have to be rolled in a single rope that spans the whole distance across the pan–you can line up shorter pieces next to each other).  Next, place ropes of dough on either side of the first rope and parallel to it, so you end up with diagonal lines across the pan.  Continue until you have 5 lines in one direction across the pan (shorter lines toward the edges).

Repeat with ropes of dough in the opposite direction, crossing over the first ropes.  You should end up with a criss-cross pattern over the surface of the cheesecake.

Bake the cake in preheated oven for 30-40 minutes, until the filling appears firm and the edges of the dough are beginning to brown.  Cool completely, then refrigerate until cold (at least 2 hours) before slicing. Makes 9 large servings.

[This recipe will also appear in my upcoming cookbook, Sweet Freedom, along with more than 100 others, most of which are not featured on this blog.  For more information, check the "Cookbook" button at right, or visit the cookbook blog.]