The most divine interpretation of a blintz we have ever heard of — Orange Ricotta Pillows With Lillet Kumquat Compote. [Food 52]
A great primer on single malt scotch. Just in time for Purim. [Serious Eats]
Borscht no longer comes just in a bowl. Here are some recommendations for beet and dill ice cream as well as a beet-horseradish pie. [Fork in the Road]
Incase you missed Prince Charles’s seminal speech on healthy, sustainable farming last year, you can now read excerpts of it from his new book. [the Atlantic]
In my family, there is one dish that is quintessentially for Shavuot, affectionately known as the “Big Blintze,” which takes the central ingredients of a cheese blintze and turns them into a delectable casserole. I try to make it every year for the holiday, or for the Shabbat closest to it, a creamy reminder of the custom of eating dairy food to commemorate the Revelation on Mount Sinai and our historical entrance to the land of milk and honey.
The recipe is from my mother; the tradition of eating it on Shavuot is not. While food played an outsized role in my childhood — a college roommate, on a visit to our home, said she never heard a family talk as much about food as ours did — I did not grow up particularly observant and, honestly, have no memory of anything special on Shavuot until my synagogue confirmation late in high school.
“Blintz break!” This was the catchy alliterative phrase repeated over and over at my family’s all-nighter Shavuot fetes, throughout my childhood. Annually, on the holiday known for its winning combination of marathon night-long Torah-learning and dairy consumption, we’d read a few passages and then – predictably – scream “blintz break,” amped up on coffee, as we ran to grab a couple from one of the steaming pans.
Fall with its crisp chill seems a lovely and perfectly appropriate time for a “blintz break.” No, it’s not Shavuot, but what better or more warming dish could there be for the palette after a summer of cold tomato salads and lemonade?
My love for the little wrapped treats, my general lust for food – and particularly food that feels connected to my Jewishness – makes me something of a blintz purist. A blintz is a blintz is a blintz – be it frozen and consumed at midnight as a part of a Jewish ritual or fried up expertly at one of New York’s dairy counters, it has an identity.