“Breaking news at this hour. For more, we turn to correspondent Richard Tweed in Dover, Ohio.”

I stared at the yellow graphic emblazoned across the television screen. My mind—as it always does when I hear those two words—filled with a parade of tragedies. What new catastrophe had befallen the globe?

“Don, I’m here at Bread Head Bakery, purveyor of yeasty goodness and caffeinated beverages, where the Earl of Dover, member of England’s Royal Teas, is making his first coffeehouse appearance!” The bespectacled Englishman flashed a toothy smile. “The shop has rolled out the proverbial red carpet for the Earl and his entourage, and the enthusiasm of those gathered to welcome him is palpable!”

A heady aroma of cinnamon wafted through the air as a disposable cup emerged from the limousine that had, seconds earlier, nosed alongside the curb. “Richard, is that Chai Tea Latte?” news anchor Don Applebaum inquired.

“It is! Her spicy scent is unmistakable. Chai Tea Latte seems to be pulling her lid tighter, perhaps to avoid a repeat of last year’s humiliating wardrobe malfunction.”

“We all remember the backlash she endured after that tea bag fell out of her cup.”

“Indeed. Yet, here she is, radiant as ever, waving her tea bag tag at the crowd. An admirer has just handed her a bouquet of cinnamon sticks; Chai looks to be a bit milky-eyed.”

Excited shrieks pierced the air as a delicate tea cup shimmied out of the vehicle. “It’s Lady Earl Grey, the Earl of Dover’s fiancée!” Richard gushed. “She is positively resplendent in a herringbone china cup and matching saucer. Lady Earl, known for her line of fragrances, has won the hearts of people around the world with her charitable works.”

An elderly gentleman grasped Lady Earl Grey’s handle. “Don, a man has attempted to accost the tea, but the always gracious Lady Earl Grey has deflected the maneuver with a kiss to the perpetrator’s cheek.”

A thunderous cheer erupted as the Earl of Dover exited the limo. “The atmosphere is electric as the Earl of Dover greets this energized group,” related the reporter.

“I love Earl!” screeched a teenage girl.

“He’s soooooo hot!” another echoed.

“The Earl’s reputation as a dashing charmer is well deserved, as women here are fawning over—no, miss!” A note of urgency crept into Richard’s voice. “Don’t hug him! He’ll fall—”

Splash.

“The Earl of Dover has tipped over! The Earl of Dover has tipped over!” Richard Tweed cried amid the panicked shouts of people scurrying to escape the chaos. “The smooth combination of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea, amaretto syrup and creamy steamed milk, topped with a silky cap of foam and a dusting of ground clove, has spilled across the ground! People—dear Lord—are trying to drink what’s left of the Earl!”

I turned off the television. The media had the story all wrong. Oh, they’d eventually discover that the drink they thought to be the Earl of Dover was actually a talented impersonator employed by the Royal Teas in situations when physical harm was a concern. Eventually.

“Put me down!” a voice demanded.

“Shut up!” I snapped. I took a generous swallow from the cup I clasped and smiled. The real Earl of Dover had been imprisoned inside. Now, he was gone.

Bread that makes great French Toast: Plain Jane, Hippie, Cinnfully Raisin Chai

So you’ve got a loaf of bread from yesterday that looks a little worse for wear. Chunks have been taken out, looks like the dog might’ve gotten a piece, and it is a little hard. Not so perfect for a sandwich, but perfect for some late night French toast. The French toast recipe is a scaled down version of a recipe made Elise Bauer (www.elise.com) while the blueberry reduction sauce is done by ear.

French Toast for 1

1 egg

1/6 Cup milk

Liberal amount of Cinnamon

2 thick slices of bread

Blueberry Reduction Sauce

6 oz. carton of blueberries

Sugar

Water (or red wine)

Blueberry Sauce

Step 1. Assemble the troops. I’m using a little under ¼ cup of sugar, and that was too much. Add berries, sugar, and a splash of water to a small saucepan over medium-high heat and stir. When the mixture is about to boil over, reduce heat.

Step 2. Continue stirring occasionally until it looks as if the skins of the blueberries are wrinkled. At this point, the longer the sauce is left on the stove, the thicker it will be. I prefer a waterier sauce, so I took it off the stove soon after this point. When desired consistency is reached, take off heat and move to a suitable container to cool. Serve warm.

Note: The sugar and water is added to taste, so amount is completely up to you. If made with a seedier berry, such as raspberry, make sure to have a sieve handy to separate the seeds out.

French Toast

Step 1. Again, assemble the troops. I prefer to pre-measure things because time is always of the essence.

Step 2. Whisk the egg, milk, and cinnamon together. Cinnamon is my favorite spice, so I use a lot of it.. The mixture should turn a little brown from the cinnamon. At this point, begin melting butter over medium heat in a skillet/griddle.

Step 3. Pour the egg mixture into something with a flat surface, like a casserole dish, and let both sides soak up some of the mixture. The bread should not absorb all of the mixture in the dish, otherwise it will taste less like French toast and more French egg.

Step 4. Place the bread on the skillet and let cook until browned, and flip. Flipping, like everything else in life, is easier with the power of the dark side. After the other side is browned, transfer to a plate and serve with the blueberry sauce. The sauce should be sufficiently cool by now.

Enjoy!

Note: Some bread is more absorbent than others. Simple Italian bread is basically a sponge and won’t need to sit as long as a big ole slice of hippie bread. If serving for four, the recipe becomes 4 eggs and 2/3 cup milk with even more cinnamon.

The blueberry sauce can be refrigerated and re-heated.

“Drop it, Zarnov!”

Ever since Romanian émigré Joseph Zarnov moved to Ohio, Tuscarawas County had been beset by a string of unexplained disappearances. Derek Moore had suspected that the mysterious doctor was, for some nefarious purpose, behind them. Now, he was certain.

The scissors Dr. Zarnov held slipped from his fingers. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

“You’re finished!” crowed Derek.

The doctor’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? And”—Dr. Zarnov gestured at the gun clasped in Derek’s hand—“is that really necessary?”

“I’m not taking any chances with Bolo lurking around.”

Dr. Zarnov’s confusion was evident. “Bolo?”

Derek sighed impatiently. “Bolo! Your assistant, henchman—whatever you call him!”

Lightning slashed the sky. The ensuing crash of thunder was the distraction Dr. Zarnov needed to knock the weapon from Derek’s grip. “The switch, Bolo!” he shouted.

A loud chink-chink-chink pervaded the room; seconds later, Derek was shackled to the wall. “I apologize for being an ungracious host,” Dr. Zarnov offered, smiling beatifically, “but I cannot allow you to interfere with my work.”

Derek struggled against his restraints. “Is Bolo gonna get rid—”

“Bolo?” the scientist interrupted, chuckling. “He’s as cuddly as a kitchen.”

Derek blinked. “Did you say ‘kitchen’?”

“No, I said ‘kit-ten’.”

“Really? Cuz it sounded like ‘kitchen’.”

“It’s my accent,” Zarnov acknowledged. “Although I’ve lived in America for years, it’s still quite heavy.”

Another clap of thunder sounded. “Bolo!” the doctor called. “It’s time!”

A shadow skittered across the wall. Derek’s heart hammered in his ears. If I can win Bolo over, he thought, maybe I can overtake the doctor and save Bread Head Bakery from destruction. “Bolo, c’mere!” he commanded.

Meow.

A large white cat pranced into the laboratory. “There’s Bolo!” Zarnov exclaimed, stooping to stroke the animal’s fur.

Derek’s newfound optimism tumbled. “Bolo’s a cat?”

“I said he was as cuddly as a kitten.”

“Actually, you said ‘kitchen’.”

“We’ve discussed this.”

“Your cat,” Derek rattled his chains for emphasis, “is responsible for this?”

“He’s very intelligent. I trained him when he was a kit—”

“So, there’s no mutant waiting to turn me into pudding.”

Dr. Zarnov cocked an eyebrow. “Someone’s been watching too many monster movies,” he told Bolo, then turned his attention to a stack of colorful paper.

“I know what you’re doing, Zarnov!” Derek nodded at the crumpled wallet-sized cards that littered the floor. “You’ve been hoarding Bread Head Bakery’s Bread Club and Specialty Drink punch cards for weeks! How’re customers supposed to get the free loaf of bread or espresso drink they’ve earned?”

“With Bread Head’s brand-new Loyalty Card!” Bolo pressed a button, releasing Derek’s manacled wrists. “Take a look!”

Derek warily accepted the vibrantly-colored card offered by the doctor. “Whoa!” he enthused. “Free bread, specialty drinks…and free lunch?”

Dr. Zarnov beamed. He grabbed the card from Derek and turned it over. “It gets better!”

“‘Uber Groovy VIP Loyalty Reward’,” Derek read. “A Bread Head t-shirt, gift certificates, food—”

“And more, merely for being a dedicated patron of Bread Head Bakery.”

“So this was your plan.” Derek grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Doc.”

“Nonsense!” Dr. Zarnov brushed aside the apology and slung an arm around Derek’s shoulders. “You’ve had a trying day. Let’s pay Bread Head Bakery a visit. I think you could use a hazelnut latte!”

]]> http://breadheadbakery.com/2012/02/28/invasion-of-the-card-snatcher/feed/ 2 http://breadheadbakery.com/2012/02/17/lettuce-talk/ http://breadheadbakery.com/2012/02/17/lettuce-talk/#comments Fri, 17 Feb 2012 18:56:02 +0000 Muffinman http://breadheadbakery.com/?p=343 Continue reading →]]> Let’s say you go into a restaurant and order a salad. Unless specified, what lettuce are you most likely going to get? Iceberg. Iceberg lettuce is essentially water. The bitterness has been bred out of iceberg and replaced with water. And water has no nutrients in it. Compared to other lettuces, Iceberg is low on antioxidants and it shows. Remember, the greener something is, the healthier it is.

Now, all lettuce contains the same type of nutrients, but nowhere near the same amount. While romaine and iceberg lettuce have the same amount of calories, romaine contains five times as much folate, ten times the vitamin C, ten times the beta carotene and nearly twice as much of other nutrients like calcium and potassium. The leaves are much greener and romaine hasn’t been bred to have a ton of water floating around in it.

One of the other types of lettuce we use in our salads is radicchio, named for the radish color of the leaves. Again, it absolutely towers over romaine nutritionally with a quarter of the water and five times the amount of Vitamin K and two times the amount of Omega-6 fatty acids. Radicchio has a unique peppery taste to it which adds much needed flavor to a salad that isn’t coming from an incredibly fatty dressing.

We also use a mesclun salad. It is a mix of young greens and is quite sweet. All of the lettuces contained in mesclun are green as can be with not a hint of iceberg in sight. As I’ve said above, the greener the leaf, the healthier it is and mesclun mix is as green as a forest canopy.

What I am trying to get at, is that our salads the healthiest around. And I bet you they taste a hell of a lot better too.

From the first time I sat next to her in that shipping carton, I knew that Cherry was the syrup for me. Back then, I liked her because she was nice to everyone—even Almond, that pasty-faced weirdo who talked to himself. Later, when I stood near her on the shelf below Bread Head Bakery’s espresso machine, I noticed her all natural good looks, her rosy cheeks and sweet perfume.

Other guys noticed, too: Amaretto; that tall, dark green and handsome guy, Mint. Even my hip-hop obsessed best friend, Coco Nut—C-Nut, for short—dated Cherry. When Mocha P. Owder, heir to his father’s chocolate empire, swept Cherry off of her bottle, I hit the milk jug. Hard. Whole, skim—it didn’t matter, I drank it. Don’t get me wrong. Mocha’s a nice enough guy, but he’s a little dense. My gallon a day habit ended when Cherry’s friend, Raspberry, blabbed all over the bakery that Cherry had—

“—dropped Mocha like he’s hot, yo!” C-Nut grinned, turning his dispenser pump sideways.

Since Cherry broke up with Mocha, I’d tried everything to win her over: flowers, the Lovely Miss G’s Brutus Buckeyes….I even asked her to a Michael Bolton concert, but she refused.

“She hates me,” I told C-Nut.

C-Nut opened his mouth to respond—probably to tell me to shut up. Instead, he poked an elbow into my stomach. “Shhh!” he furtively hissed. “Miss G’s coming!”

We resumed our rigid positions around the espresso machine. Miss G paused by the refrigerator. A moment later, I found myself lounging at the bottom of a 16 ounce cup.

“What are you doing here?”

The accusing look on Cherry’s face reminded me how inadequate she thought I was. I’d had enough. “Why do you hate me?” I asked her exasperatedly. “You never talk to me.”

“I do, too,” Cherry responded.

“Yeah, to tell me ‘no’ when I ask you out!”

Three ounces of smooth Capri espresso joined us inside of the cup. “Hello there,” he greeted us, raising a lascivious eyebrow at Cherry.

Cherry slid closer to me. “What’s going on, Vanilla?” she asked nervously. We gazed upward. I could see—

“Ow!” A wave of creamy milk swirled around us, splashing into my eyes.

Cherry clung to my arm. “Are you O.K.?”

“Tell me why you can’t stand me,” I demanded, wiping milk from my face.

Cherry sighed. “Vanilla, you’re seeing Hazel Nut! I—“

“Me?” I interrupted disbelievingly. “Dating C-Nut’s kooky sister? She’s crazy! Besides,” I added, “she’s got a thing for Almond.”

A dollop of whipped cream blanketed us. Cherry smiled. Is it too corny to say that, when Cherry’s lips met mine, I knew we’d spend the rest of our latte enhancing days together?

“I hope Laura likes this Love Potion #9,” Eddie, a regular customer, remarked as Miss G handed us to him. “I need to get her attention somehow. She barely knows I exist!”

*  *  *

      It’s been three years, now. Cherry and I were married last year—we’ve even got a little bottle on the way. Eddie and Laura? Well, they’re tying the knot next week. Maybe it was Eddie’s charm or wit that won Laura over. Maybe. But I’m pretty sure that a Love Potion #9 latte had something to do with it.

I drew in a breath, steeling myself for whatever was behind the door. I had conversed with numerous offbeat personalities—from musicians to professional wrestlers—yet neither experience nor research could prepare me for what would be my most unusual subject. Sure, I knew that Bread Head Bakery’s 4.20 loaves were delectable, but how does one interview a loaf of bread?

I entered the house. I was about to find out.

“Duuuuude!” A hefty loaf crusted in fresh rosemary and basil greeted me from his perch on a sofa. “Grab a chair!”

Plastic bread bags littered the floor. Thyme spilled across the coffee table. This had to be my subject, Herbed 4.20 Loaf.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. 4.20,” I responded.

The loaf gazed at me and offered a lazy smile. “Call me Herbed.”

“Hey, man,” A darkly tanned loaf seated next to Herbed poked his companion. “Where’re your manners?”

Herbed grinned. “This handsome loaf is my homie, High Rye.”

High Rye gave me a nod. “’Sup?” he asked.

I eased onto a stool. It was time to unearth Herbed’s story, beginning with the obvious question. “Why are you called a 4.20 loaf?”

“Dude!” Herbed exclaimed rapturously. “I’m two pounds of yeasty goodness for only $4.20! I’m a cheap date!”

“What makes you so delicious?” I inquired.

“That’s easy!” the loaf enthused. “I’m made from the finest, all natural ingredients—none of that artificial junk—I’m versatile—”

“Plain Jane makes awesome grilled cheese and French Toast,” High Rye interrupted. “And you should see her baker’s rack!”

“Dude!” Herbed jostled his friend in what I assume was a shoulder. “That’s my sister! Not cool!”

My curiosity was piqued. “Do you have a large family?”

Herbed rolled his eyes. “Huge. My father, the Bread Man, is always baking new members of the 4.20 clan. There’s my peacenik brother, Olive Branch—he’s loaded with sliced black olives and basil—and my uncle, Crusty Italian—”

“Are you dill weeds ever gonna clean this place up?!” a voice roared. A furious golden loaf emerged from the kitchen. “You’re to be on the dinner table tonight! If this room ain’t picked up in ten minutes, you’re going in the freezer! Capisce?” With a parting glare to his nephew, Crusty Italian wobbled out of the room.

High Rye was nonplussed. A large portion of his chest appeared to be missing. “Man,” he breathed through a mouthful of himself, “I’ve got the munchies.”

“Me, too,” Herbed agreed, chewing on a hunk of his shoulder.

“I just ate a caraway seed.”

“They’re the best part!”

My mouth watered. The aroma of freshly baked bread was irresistible. Hungrily, I grabbed a hunk of Herbed in one hand; High Rye in the other.

“Spread butter on me,” High Rye suggested.

“Dunk me in pesto sauce!” Herbed chimed in.

I was possessed. Again and again, I popped chunks of bread into my mouth, and it wasn’t long before Herbed and High Rye’s chants of “Eat me!” were silenced.

The kitchen door opened. “What the….” Crusty Italian faltered, spying the crumbs upon my lap. His eyes met mine, and I smiled.

Herbed was right. He had told me he was delicious. So was his uncle.

Peace, love & happy holidays,

-The Bread Head team

So… Happy Thanksgiving and hope to see you Saturday!