buttery polenta with parmesan and olive oil-fried eggs

 

I haven't been cooking.  

Well, I've been boiling pasta a lot, if you count that.  It's been rice pasta because Sadie's all off wheat again.  Rice pasta is good, but just a little bit less good than wheat pasta.  I've been making dinner in a few minutes because that's how the days have been lately.  I have made no plans.  I have not defrosted the meat.  6:00 will often find me standing at the shelf in the corner of the kitchen looking at a can of sardines and a jar of tense raisins, trying to figure out what to cook for this hungry and grumpy family. It would be omelets, but Sadie's off eggs too, and she asks so sweetly that she not have to eat something else for dinner than the rest of us so usually it's pasta.  With stuff.  Olives and parmesan.  Frozen swiss chard that inspires Rosie to reject the whole dish. Honestly, the whole thing happens so fast that I barely taste a thing.

It's okay.  I'm getting my kicks out at breakfast.  

Joey and the girls tumble out of here in a wave of backpacks and lunchboxes by seven.  The cat runs outside, I gather him up, and then it's just me, the green bathrobe, and the last few sips of my coffee.  

I love me, my green bathrobe, and the last few sips of coffee.  

Dishes washed, bags of goldfish and odd seaweed snacks swept back into the pantry, and this is the time before the day begins.  Sometimes it is quiet enough that I can actually close my eyes and imagine what I want to eat for breakfast.  Often  it is a perfect croissant and I am out of luck.  In most other cases, though, I can bring it to fruition.

I just got my copy of Melissa Clark's new book from the library, and we had breakfast together this morning, me and the book.  I can tell that this one is going to pass the "if I get it out of the library 3 times, then I'll buy it" test.  The recipes?  Yes.  But the headnotes?  They wander around her life and her refrigerator until you just want to give a little nudge, and say, "what were we talking about again?" Then she says, "Oh yeah!" and she gives you her recipe for coconut fish stew with basil and lemongrass.

I really love that.

Because there are four bazillion cookbooks.  Because there is a recipe for anything you could ever want.  Because there is google, and epicurious, and a reliable Martha Stewart book on every single thing.  

But a conversation is a unique experience.  And there's only one of those.

Melissa Clark's book is filled with all sorts of lovely recipes--I'm going to cook my way through this one.  But she also shows us how she cooks; she takes the day and her mood and her leftovers and her cravings and what's in her fridge  and she makes something of the whole lovely mess.  This is a book that you could stand in front of at 6:00 searching for something to make for dinner, and while you might not have all of the ingredients for the recipe that you open up to, you will have Melissa Clark cheering you on.  She's aiding the narrative in your hungry head.  You don't have basil?  No problem.  Isn't there some parsley in the fridge--use that instead.  And if you don't really want the bacon tonight, that's fine, but add a little paprika so that you still have the smokey flavor.  She's hopeful that you'll figure out what to make for dinner, and there's nothing like a hopeful friend to get you going.

So breakfast this morning was buttery polenta with parmesan and olive oil-fried eggs.  This is as good of a dinner as it is a breakfast, and you could, as she suggests add some garlicky sauteed green for a true thrill.  I made use of what I had and what I wanted, and so for me, it was a bit of sausage on the side.  

Buttery Polenta with Parmesan and Olive-Oil Fried Eggs

from Melissa Clark, In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite

(I made this just for me, but I'll give you her recipe for four servings, just because it would be a lovely dish to share.  But quarter it at your own pleasure)

4 1/2 cups water or broth

1 1/2 cups polenta or grits

3/4 teaspoon salt

2-4 tablespoons butter

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more, to taste

1/4 cup grated parmesan

2 tablespoons olive oil

8 eggs

coarse sea salt

Bring the water or broth to a low boil.  Whisk in the polenta and continue to whisk until entirely combined.  Switch over to a wooden spoon, lower the heat, and stir frequently until thickened, about 15 minutes.  Stir in the butter, salt and pepper, remove from heat, and cover. 

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a large skillet over medium high heat.  Fry four of the eggs until the white is cooked but the yolk is runny.  Transfer to a plate and repeat with the rest of the oil and the other four eggs. 

Divide the polenta into four bowls and fold the parmesan into each of them.  Top each with two eggs, and garnish with salt and pepper.

light

 

Something is helping.

I'm back on the ridiculous hour, the crazy time between the end of the official end of the day and dinner time.   It doesn't seem like it has to be so hard, and I think it's a worthy project--figuring this one out.  

The time switch has made it all feel more urgent.  We get home from work and school and dance and meetings and all of those things in the day and its dark.  Everyone is starving and tired and done.  Even the cat is hungry.  The girls either cry because they don't want to set the table for dinner or they fight over who gets to set the table.  They fight with great volume, and I have to leave the kitchen.  The cat is still hungry.  Meow.

And it's only 4:30.

Everyone's ridiculous hour looks different.  In some families there are two parents coming home from different jobs, picking up kids, spilling into the house by 5:30 or 6:00.  The cat is hungry.  Meow.  And the meat isn't defrosted yet.  And the little one fell asleep on the way home and now she'll never go to bed.  What the hell is for dinner.

Or maybe one parent is home and the other is at work out of the home.  And the out of home parent comes home ravenous, and he or she just wants to walk in the door and sit down for a minute, but at home parent says, "Thank God you're home.  The kids are driving me nuts.  How was your day and I need your help RIGHT NOW." Meow.  Has anyone fed that cat yet?

However it looks, the situation seems to span across families.  It is a common element, and bonding squeeze the hands kind of circle that links us all.  

We can figure this one out.

I've got a few things that have been helping.  Here and there, there seems to be a bit of a way to ease through the hour a bit.  Tonight, one tip.

I have been lighting a candle on the table almost the moment I get into the door.  I walk in, drop all the lunchboxes and backpacks that the girls have refused to carry onto the floor, press play on the answering machine, shoo the girls into the bathroom to wash their hands.  Try to remember what I'm making for dinner.

Then, I light a candle on the table.

I guess there are all different reasons why it might help, but it probably has something to do with the point of focus.  It calms the room, and because it's on the table, it's like a little sign that everyone can see. It says "calm yourself, you crazy child.  This table is a warm and welcoming place, and if you chill out enough for me to be able to get to it, I will give you dinner on this table very soon.  Calm down, and go read your book in your room."

Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, but it always seems to help a little bit.  

I am aware that this is my second post about candles in a row.  It's a coming into winter thing, I guess. And it helps.  

So, yes, of course this would be the place to chime in, if you're so inspired.  Cea mentioned her evening family dance parties in the brussels sprouts post--that's a good one too, I think.  Any one else have any ridiculous hour creative ideas?  Besides walking out and letting the kids fend for themselves while we all meet for a drink?  

quince rosemary polenta bread

There is a candle dynasty around here, and its main headquarters is about an hour away in the Pioneer Valley.  The sign, outstandingly visible from the highway, claims the location as "the scenter of the universe."  I drove by the place on my way to a wedding this past summer; it was a gorgeous summer saturday that one would imagine would involve lots of outdoor idyllic swimming and hiking and lazy grilling, but the endless span of parking lot around the candle factory was filled to the brim.  I haven't been inside the scenter of the universe, but I have had the opportunity to smell its many smaller branches scattered throughout surrounding counties, and although the combined smell of "frosty air," "maple pancakes,"and "almond cookie" does create quite a sensory extravaganza, I marveled at the draw of Yankee Candle.  At the time, I put it aside and sped on to my summer wedding, but the scented candle mystery continued to linger.

I have a memory for peculiar details, and just this week an entire smell experience popped into my mind. It must have been three years ago, and I was at a play date with Rosie.  We walked in and stomped the snow off our boots as the mom rushed around the kitchen.  She was in the middle of too many projects, she confessed, and she hadn't gotten a chance to finish the breakfast dishes because a work call had just come in.  "I was going to make muffins, but I didn't get to it."  I remember that much, and I probably laughed with some comment about how she should have seen my kitchen right then and what a mess it all was.  But here's the moment that I remember most--she whipped out a candle in a jar, lit the wick, and set it on the counter.  "That's better," she said, and although I already had a bit of a prejudice against the candle company in question, it was.  The scent of pumpkin pie or some other thing wafted through the air and the house just felt warmer.   

Now, I'd go so far as to say that I'd have to search deep in the corners of my world to find a traditional housewife.  Honestly, I don't even quite know what that means these days.  Working in the home or out of it, all the homemakers (male and female) that I know are balancing far too many hats to seem reminiscent of that image of the wife in the home.  But I'd also say that domesticity is stronger than ever, that the skill and art of housewifery is alive and well--it's just that the way that it manifests evolves in its own way in every home and through every family.  My sense is that times can change all they want, but that the power of a good smelling kitchen spans through all time.

If I had my way, I'd roast quinces in my oven all fall and winter.  I'd roast so many quinces that the smell would stick to me as I made my way through the world, and that would be my mysterious and exotic scent that brought back memories to people that they didn't even know they had.

That's what a roasting quince does.

Unfortunately, quinces are not so easy to come by.  I have a friend who has a pretty study supply through the fall, and I swear the next tree I plant around here will be a quince.  But when you can find them?  Roast them.  Sit in your kitchen with your eyes closed and live through your nose for a little while.

Maybe Yankee Candle makes a roasted quince votive?  Somehow I'm not sure that it could be captured by anything other than a roasting quince, but I challenge them to try.

I made this bread two days ago, and my kitchen still smells good.  I was in love with the bread and now it's gone and I'm thinking about finding more quinces.  It's a cake, but I served it with roast chicken and that turned out to be a very good idea.  As the night wore on it was also exceptional with cream cheese, and with butter, and in the morning with coffee when the new day had begun.  I've just had the last piece now, you know, so I could have it fresh in my mind when I was trying to get you to make it.  It was even better today than it was yesterday.  And better then than the first day.  It's a moist and substantial cake that you could wrap in parchment and give as a gift.  And if quinces are scarce, make it with pears.  It will smell different, but still lovely.

This bread takes forever to bake.  The recipe that I was working from told me this, and I didn't believe it, but I'll tell you know it takes forever to bake.  That's not including baking the quinces, either.

But it's worth it.  Really really worth it.

Quince Rosemary Polenta Bread

adapted from ReadyMade, October November 2010

makes one loaf

3 medium to large quinces

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup polenta

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

3/4 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup sugar

1 cup canola oil

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon lemon zest

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Rinse the pubescence off the quinces if it's still on them.  Set them in a baking dish and roast, uncovered for 45 minutes.  Let cool enough so that you can handle them, peel, core, and cut two of the quinces into bite sized pieces.  Peel the third and cut into longer slices.  

Lower the oven temperature to 350 degrees.  Spray a loaf pan with cooking spray.  

Whisk together the flour, polenta, baking soda, and salt.

Combine the sugar, oil, eggs and vanilla in the bowl of a stand mixer.  Beat on high speed until smooth and yellow, about a minute.  Lower the speed on the mixer and and add dry ingredients to batter.  Mix until just incorporated.  Using a spatula, fold in the rosemary, lemon zest, and smaller quince pieces.  Pour batter into the prepared pan and arrange the larger quince pieces on top.  Bake for 1 hour and 40 minutes, or until a tester comes out clean.  Cool in the pan for at least 20 minutes, then remove from pan to cool completely.  

brussels sprouts gratin

I love how so many of the fall fest cooks are writing about brussels sprouts.
They have a reputation, those tiny wee cabbages, and somewhere along the line they became something that people thought they didn't like.
We all know that's just a big fat lie.
Brussels sprouts are so, so good. We all know that, right?
When I started making Heidi's golden brussels sprouts, I stopped looking for new recipes. Those babies never make it to the table--I eat them out of the pan as if they were peanut m&ms. Only I can eat more and not feel gross--just vaguely brussels sprout-y, which I appreciate. But I've hit that point in the fall, that moment where everything calls for butter and breadcrumbs and heavy cream. It's cold, and I don't know about you, but my heart (and by my heart I mean soul) needs extra fat. And breadcrumbs too.

By the way, anyone else's kids freaking out this week? Daylight savings transitions seem to get into their cells and make them scream. Anyone else? Tell me I'm not alone.

I'm just going to keep piling on the breadcrumbs and hope for the best.

Brussels Sprouts Gratin
loosely adapted from Alice Waters, the art of simple food

1 pound brussels sprouts, outer leaves removed and stems trimmed
1/3 cup breadcrumbs
1/4 cup grated parmesan
1/2 cup half and half
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Cook the brussels sprouts in the water for 10 minutes, then drain. Chop them roughly, and transfer to a small casserole or gratin dish. Pour the cream over the brussels sprouts, then the parmesan, then the breadcrumbs, and then a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Dab bits of butter here and there, and bake for 20 minutes.



It's brassicas this week, but brussels sprouts are king. Kales, cabbages, broccoli? What are you steaming up this week? Here's the party line up around here...

Todd and Diane: Spicy Brussels Sprouts with Mint

Paige at The Sister Project: Solving the Too-Sweet Potatoes Thanksgiving Problem

Liz at Healthy Eats: Kale 5 Ways (Including Kale Chips!)

Alison at Food2: All About Broccoli and Cauliflower

Michelle at Cooking Channel: Cauliflower with Sweet Potatoes

Kirsten at Food Network: Cheesy Brussels Sprouts

pickled daikon with lemon

I woke up this morning to the sound of little pieces of ice hitting the windows. It was not Sunday, but Monday, and so instead of being cozy in my little winter tree house of a room, my stomach started to churn, just a little.

A secret about me that is not very secret but is not something that I'm proud of, is that I am terrified of winter roads. One would perhaps suggest that I shouldn't be living in the nether hills of Western Massachusetts, but here I am, and I must say that I really love everything else about the winter, as long as I don't have to drive to get to it. I am married to a very savvy Colorado driver an we have a sturdy and safe little chugging Subaru, but still, the stomach churns.

I wasn't actually the one who had to drive anywhere this morning, but the fact that the precious ladies in the backseat of the Subaru heading through the hills are in the car even with their savvy Colorado driving papa is enough to make me pace, not to mention the safety of the savvy Colorado papa himself. I have been known to keep those ladies home, just so I don't have to think about them in that car. I've only done it once or twice when most of the county schools were closed, but I've done it. Today, after some repetitive and anxious checking of the school closures and weather report, I decided that it would be neurotic and silly to keep them home. A few schools were delayed, but none closed, and I had a chapter to finish today. Joey went to scrape the inches of ice off the car, and he said that it was really just slush, not ice, and so I shouldn't worry.

We've gotten good at this, and now I take his word. I won't worry, I say, but call me when you get there. A kiss for Joey and a prayer to whatever God might watch over this family. The ice fell harder. I settled down at my desk. It took a while for the phone to ring, but when it did, I said, "not so bad, right?"

"Actually terrible. Someone spun out in front of us on the mountain, but we went slow and listened to The Hobbit, and we were okay."

Shit. And so winter begins. I know that it's a rational kind of fear, and the truth is that I've got it because a few people I've known and loved have left the planet behind the wheel of a car. But I don't like being ruled by a fear--I don't like how it takes over my body and makes me want to scoop everyone I love under my wide and sweeping cape. I've heard a lot of reasons not to have children, but the only one I might at moments agree with is so that you don't have to be so afraid of losing them.

But miracle of miracles, we tend to make it through the winter. And on this first day of ice, I'm going to think about all of those winter-y things that I love. Snowshoeing in the woods out back, Christmas music even though we're supposed to be Jewish, braising, the coming succession of holidays starting out with my very favorite, days when school is actually closed and the mudroom is filled with wet snowpants that don't have a chance to dry before they get stepped into again. I especially love this beginning of winter, before we are tired of it and the snow banks are dirty and there is salt everywhere and all of our savings have gone to oil to heat the house. I love the fall part of winter, this one, the November and December part.

And for now, I love the food that we have to be creative to keep around a bit longer. I try not to buy vegetables in the winter when I can feed us with something in the freezer or from jar. Inevitably we buy lettuce for sandwiches, but the freezer is filled with greens that I'm still packing in here and the kale palm trees in the back will continue to produce for a while still. Our CSA had its last week, and as is their yearly ritual, there was a big sale there this past weekend. Bargain basement prices on roots and greens and other things too, and every year I curse my lack of inventiveness that I don't have a root cellar. But I pack the fridge and the understairs closet, and that should get us through December, at least. I bought a few daikon radishes with the thought of pickling them, and I figured I'd have a bit of fun with it and then the jar would languish in the fridge for awhile. Turns out we ate the whole jar that day.


Daikon is a Japanese radish, and you will often find a tiny pile of it grated next to your tempura at a Japanese restaurant. The unspoken instruction is to pick up the whole pile with your chopsticks and to swirl it around in whatever salty and warm sauce came with your tempura. The Japanese are smart about this, and you know that there is always a reason. I've been told that daikon is magic for the liver--it helps your body to deal with the grease and oil clinging to your delicious fried vegetables or fish or what have you. Leave it to the Japanese to offer you the medicine along with the food; we could learn a thing or two there, I think.



So of course Daikon doesn't have to be grated--it's a radish but not spicy at all, and it's good peeled and chopped into soups or salads or anything really. It's crisp and lovely and quite neutral tastewise, so of course it makes a good pickle. This is based off of Karen Solomon's recipe--it's a quick fridge pickle with a lemon base, which is addictive in a good way and especially good with beer. Make a few jars, and maybe they'll last through November.



Quick Pickled Daikon with Lemon
adapted from Karen Solomon, Jam it, Pickle it, Cure it

1 1/2 pounds daikon, peeled and thinly sliced
1/4 cup kosher salt
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon brown rice vinegar
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 clove garlic, minced
3 pieces lemon zest, about 2-inches long

Put the daikon in a colander over the sink. Pour the salt over the daikon, and mix it in with your hands. Let it sit for 15 minutes, it will give the daikon a quick salting and will let go of some of its moisture.
Whisk together the honey, vinegar, lemon juice, zest and garlic in a large bowl.
Rinse the daikon under running water, spread it out to dry on a kitchen towel, and roll up the towel to squeeze out the moisture. Transfer the daikon to the mixing bowl and toss in the lemon mixture. Let sit for at least an hour in the pickling brine. It's ready to eat now, or you can transfer to a jar in the fridge where it will last (so I'm told) for up to a month.

the photo piece

When I was trying to figure out how this whole book thing would come together, I must admit that the photo piece was a mystery to me. Who would take the photos? Who would decide what they looked like? Who would make the food? These all felt like secrets that I knew I would have to learn in the process--I hoped that when I got initiated into my life as a real writer that the information would just absorb into my cells, just like everything else I knew I had to learn.

Except of course it doesn't work that way, and so the only other option is that I ask every single question I can, dumb or obvious as it might seem to someone who's been doing this for a while.

I've found that I'm not the only one who's fascinated by this stuff, that the actual story of how pictures are created for cookbooks is, well...fascinating.

So I thought that while I'm in the middle of all of this, I might share it with you--maybe you're working on your own book and this could be useful, or maybe you just a shelf full of cookbooks and have always wondered what a food shoot might look like? Either way, pipe in with any questions or experiences you might want to share here--I'll just start out at the beginning.

So first of all, my sense is that every publisher does things differently, and then within that, different books have different photographic needs. Some publishers handle the photographs without much author input, and some authors hire whole teams, but they don't necessarily participate in the shoot. Others authors are super hands on, and of course sometimes authors take their own photos as well. Really, there doesn't seem to be one way to do it, but in my case, I hired a photographer, and Clarkson Potter approved her. The photographer hired her team, and then we all went about thinking about how the photos would look. We had a meeting with my editor and art director, and from there we made a shot list of all the photos that would be in the book. Because I'm still writing, this list stays fairly fluid, but when I submit my manuscript in the spring, my photographer will submit the photos, and within those shots on the list, there will be variations so that the editor and art director will have some room to decide which photos will work best. In the case of this book, I'm participating quite a bit in the photo process, and I'm there for every shot. I give my input as we go along, and I help set up the shots, and when there are hands in the shot, they're my hands.

Before we go any further, let's meet the team.

This is Jennifer May. She is magical, this woman. When I was looking for a photographer, I spent quite a bit of time searching through local publications in the hope that I would find someone close by. Jen had done some beautiful work for Edible Hudson Valley, and when I went to her website, I knew I had found the one. Lucky for me, she had a soft spot in heart for canning and good family food, and even luckier for me, she was already working on a book for Clarkson Potter, so they were familiar with her work. She's a wonder to work with and her photos? Sometimes I feel like I'm looking at my dreams of all of this stuff, but better and more beautiful.

This is Jessica Bard, food stylist extraordinaire. She makes most of the food, and she makes it all look lovely, and then messes it up when I say "more homemade!" She's a cook and a stylist and recipe tester, and when I'm not setting up shots I'm hovering over the stove grabbing impromptu cooking lessons.

This is Kari Chapin, the prop stylist. Most of the items in this book belong to me or Kari, for the past few months she's been searching the antique fairs and thrift stores for the perfect pieces fot the book. She gets them ready and puts them together in magical ways that I could never think of. Kari is also a writer and is, I think, the most helpful advice giver on turning your creativity into a business while still staying inspired. As an added bonus, Kari has the most perfect apron collection, and she lets me wear any one that I want.

We're shooting the pictures for the book over the span of a couple of months. Some are in my kitchen, and others are in a studio that we set up in Jessica's kitchen. Joey and the girls make several appearance, so some days are more at a kids pace, and with others we pack a little more in. But we average about 10 shots in a 9 or 10 hour day. When we're in my kitchen I'm doing some of the cooking, and in Jessica's I just focus on setting up shots.

The girls are completely in love with Jen, and they want all the photos to be of them.

And as she shoots, we all look, and after one or ten or fifty tries, we call the shot and move on to the next.

And that's how it's been working around here. I'll keep sharing little bits of this process here and there if you like--and finally there will be a book!

maple oatmeal steamed pudding

I know it's October and everything, but New England's got me, and I'm starting to think I might be set in my ways. There was controlled rebellion for so long, trial separations in the Southwest and California and even Europe. In the past, New England just was never other enough for me, essentially for that reason- it was not other at all. But I think I just might be older.
I'm starting to call myself a New Englander, even when it's unnecessary. All of these red and orange trees reaching into the crispest blue October sky, and three people this week have said to me, "If we go over to the tea party-ers, let's go to Canada."

Hell no. I love Canada, but I'll fight for Massachusetts. There's spirit in the ground of this place, I swear it. If things go poorly this week, I'm sticking around anyway.

I'm not saying it's easy. If there's one thing I'm learning as a local politician, it's that when it comes to money and property, the word "victim" gets thrown about a little too loosely, and the compassion and empathy are the first to go. I wrote a play about a small town selectboard meeting when I was in sixth grade, and it won a contest and actors put it on. The characters shook their fists at each other with silly threats. I thought it was probably an exaggeration--but it wasn't. Turns out I was dead on.

Sometimes all I can do is say, "eesh. I hope you're happier in other moments." I go home and I recommit to optimism. I read Amos and Boris to my children. I insist on believing in altruism.

New England will live on. We'll help each other through the winter--we'll share our last meal with our neighbor. We can make anything grow in the rockiest of soil. We can.

There is a New England thing called a steamed pudding. There are all sorts of them, but I must admit I'm often scared off by the descriptions of molds that need to be made involving coffee cans and wires. A steamed pudding is made in a mold which must be slightly submerged in a vessel of water where it mustn't touch the bottom. Easy, I think, when you have some special pot hanging over the hearth, but I just couldn't figure out how to do it.

But then I took another look at my canning pot. And I realized that it was more than just a canning pot. It was a steamed pudding pot. Reason number 47 to love your canning pot.


Sadie woke me up last weekend by gently hitting me over the head with Marion Cunningham's Breakfast Book, which incidentally is one of those books that makes me happy just to hold it in my hands.
"What are we making for breakfast?"
I grumbled something about how she should figure it out and I would join her as soon as I finished my dream.
And that is how we came to make maple oatmeal steamed pudding.

If you like oatmeal but don't like how sticky and glutinous it is, this is a revelation. It is steamed oats, really, so every oat holds its shape, and the maple syrup blends into the fiber of every single oat. It's a little custardy, and really quite wonderful and simple.

I can take these late night meetings filled with fist shaking. I can take them, as long as there's an optimistic breakfast the next day.

Maple Oatmeal Steamed Pudding
from Marion Cunningham, The Breakfast Book

4 cups rolled oats
3 cups milk
1/2 cup maple syrup
1 teaspoon salt

Butter a 1 1/2 quart souffle dish or mold or even a small cast iron dutch oven. Set the wire rack in your canning pot, and fill with enough water so that it will come up about halfway up the sides of the interior dish. Bring to a boil.
Meanwhile, combine the oats, milk, maple syrup and salt in the dish and stir well. Cover with a lid or a piece of foil. Put the dish on the wire rack in the canning pot, and lower the heat to a simmer. Cover the canning pot and cook for 1 hour.