tortured pear

Tortured.

We've all felt that way at one time or another. Right?

It's not that I'm feeling particularly tortured myself. Well, maybe just enough to write this post in response to a conversation with someone who accused me (specifically) and modern cooking (in general) of torturing food.

"Why all the manipulation? Why torture food? Why make cooking so complicated? You take a solid, turn it into a liquid, then make it solid again. Why denature something just to make it look natural?

They were valid questions— certainly ones I've heard before— and they were asked out of genuine curiosity. But they were designed to provoke a defense, so she looked a little letdown when I nodded in agreement and told her that she was absolutely right.

But I wasn't letting her off that easy— I pointed to the sandwich that she was eating during our conversation and told her that it was a very tortured thing indeed. In explanation, I took her along the path that put it in her hand. I think I used words like thrashed, crushed, pulverized, whipped, beaten, fermented, and intense heat. And that was just addressing the bread. I started in on the pastrami, cheese, and mustard, but stopped short because she was looking a little tortured herself.

Regardless of what we put in our mouths, its inception was to rob something of its vital force. All food was once alive. Is it more honorable to pluck food directly from its habitat and eat it raw, letting our teeth grind and pulverize it into something that can be digested, or to use our wit and skill to render it delicious and magnificent? Isn't that a decision we must all make for ourselves?

Cooking is violent. We casually violate food with knives and fire and think nothing of it. Is chopping less of a crime than juicing? Poaching less brutal than sous-vide? In an alternate universe where the plant and animal kingdoms ruled, wouldn't we all be accused of torture?
To cook is to transform. When we claim to cook simply, we deny the complicated processes that we initiate and fail to acknowledge the everyday miracles that take place in our kitchens. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a pound of butter are wonderfully complex things.
We coax,manipulate, torture, because it makes food better; more palatable and enjoyable.

If we could just cook and let cook, maybe we could all relax, explore, and enjoy.
And stop feeling so tortured.

rooibos- poached pear
tonka bean brioche
candied bitter orange
smoked bourbon buttermilk

consuming passion

heart fortune cookies

There is some room to play with the flavor of these cookies— the oil, juice, and extract can be varied according to your desired flavor profile and the sugar can be infused with strongly-scented products such as herbs, vanilla beans, citrus peel, or rose petals.

❤cookie batter:
2 egg whites
46g sweet almond oil
13g beet juice
4g raspberry extract
100g sugar
67g AP flour
6g cornstarch
red food coloring

Place the egg whites, oil, juice, and extract in a medium bowl and whisk lightly to incorporate. Sift the sugar, flour, and cornstarch together and add to wet ingredients. Stir with a wooden spoon until batter is smooth. Add food coloring to desired shade and blend well.

❤stencil:
cookie template
thick sheet of acetate or plastic
X-acto knife or sharp blade
slips of paper printed with fortunes, folded in half

trace cookie template onto acetate or plastic. Cut out center with an X-acto knife or sharp blade.

❤to make cookies:
Preheat oven to 163C/325F. Place stencil on silpat or parcment-lined baking sheet. Spoon about a Tablespoon of batter onto center of stencil cutout. With a small offset spatula, spread the batter thinly and evenly to completely fill cutout in stencil. Carefully lift stencil and rinse and pat dry for next use. If you have experience with shaping hot tuiles, you can bake up to 4 cookies at a time— beginners should start with one. Place baking sheet in the oven and check after 4 minutes. The surface should be glossy but not wet to the touch and the edges should be just starting to brown. Remove baking sheet from oven and carefully (they're hot!) but quickly (they must be worked hot) peel cookie off of silpat and flip it top side down. Place a folded fortune in the center of the cookie. Lift pointed edge that is nearest to you and fold up and over to meet and align with other pointed edge, enclosing the fortune. Lift the cookie with the points facing up, pinching them together and lightly drape the folded bottom edge over the rim of a cup or bowl to create the crease that will form the top of the heart. Hold the cookie in place over the rim until it hardens while working the sides together so that they meet and close. The cookie must be shaped while it is hot and flexible— if it hardens too quickly, it can be returned to the oven for 1-2 minutes to soften. Place cookies in a muffin tin to hold their shape until they cool.

sticky toffee foie pudding

I remember the moment I fell in love with textiles. I was studying fashion design at Parsons when the draping instructor suggested I attend an exhibit of 18th century textiles at the Met. I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to see a bunch of dusty old fabrics. "Go", she said. "they will inspire you."

Coming out of a lifetime of denim, polyester, and cotton jersey, I was hopelessly unprepared for the opulence of that exhibit. Printed chintzes, sumptuous velvet brocades, luxe silk damasks, allegorical Toile de Jouy, gossamer laces—each one a masterpiece of fiber and thread. Collectively, they told a story of a pre-industrial era of impeccable craftsmanship and a soignee world of extravagance and luxury. I had no desire to possess them, I wanted only to bask in their splendor.
I was, indeed, inspired.

If ever there was to be an exhibit of Pure Luxury, foie gras would make a salient display. The luxury of foie is not in its price, though considerable, but in the sensual experience of consuming it. I've always found it's velvety mouthfeel and resonant flavor to be more hedonistically aligned with a rich dessert.

Among other things, studying fashion instilled in me an awareness of trends and the cycles of design; most are just revivals of old elements made new for modern taste. Looking through a book of medieval cookery, I was struck by how many savory dishes were made sweet with honey and fruits. Now, it seems, the dessert cycle has leaned towards the savory— adding salt, savory herbs, vegetables and animal. The latter— lest we forget— includes eggs, butter and cream. How to take it to the next step? Are we ready for fish, flesh, or offal even, in our dessert? Maybe we'll never be ready for candied kidneys, but in regards to foie gras, I can only wonder "what took so long?".

Brandy-soaked cubes of foie, embedded in moist cakes redolent of dates and muscavado, an arabesque of sticky sweet brandy-spiked sauce— it is the stuff of baroque fairy tales; a decadence fit for kings and queens— the gustatory equivalent of brocade pillows and damask sheets.

sticky toffee foie pudding
red currant jelly ice cream
sugared red currants

sticky toffee foie pudding
serves 6

40g foie gras, cleaned of veins
130g Tuaca or brandy
60g dates, roughly chopped
86g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie
56g unsalted butter at room temperature
55g muscovado sugar
97g eggs
84g flour
4g baking soda
6g baking powder

sauce:
78g muscovado sugar
1.5g salt
175g heavy cream
25g butter
30g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie

Cut foie with a heated knife into 6 cubes, each measuring 1.25cm x 1.25 cm x 2cm and place in small bowl. Pour Tuaca or brandy over foie to submerge (use more if needed). Set aside to marinate for 2 hours. Strain through a fine sieve, reserving brandy for cake and sauce.
Heat 86g of reserved brandy in a small saucepan to 43C/110F. Add dates and cook over very low heat for 5 minutes. Remove pan from heat, cover, and set aside for 10-15 minutes to soften dates. Stir the dates and brandy vigorously with a wooden spoon until they break up and the mixture looks like a chunky puree. Set aside to cool.
Preheat oven to 176C/350F. Grease 6 small dariole molds. Cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and beat for 2 minutes, then add the date/brandy puree and beat for 1 minute. Sift together the dry ingredients and add to mixer. Beat for 1-2 minutes, or just until incorporated.
Spoon batter into each of greased molds until half full. Place a cube of marinated foie in each of the molds, then cover with remaining batter until molds are nearly full. Place filled molds in a baking dish, spacing them 5cm apart. Pour boiling water into baking dish until it comes halfway up the sides of the molds. Immediately cover tightly with foil and place in oven. Bake for 12 minutes or until the top of the cake springs back when pressed. Remove cakes from water bath, cover loosely with foil to keep warm while making sauce.
To make sauce: Place all ingredients except brandy in a medium saucepan. Set over medium heat and whisk while cooking until thick and smooth, about 4- 5 minutes. Remove from heat and whisk in 30g of reserved brandy until smooth and silky.
To serve: Unmold the warm cakes and dip each one in the sauce, rolling around until well coated. Transfer each to serving plate and carefully spoon a small amount of sauce over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Serve warm.

jelly ice cream

"His ideal of dessert is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich." She offered that as an explanation right after she said there would be no birthday cake.

"Maybe ice cream and cookies… something we can stick some candles in."

So I set out to make a special birthday dessert for someone who doesn't like cake, but likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and, apparently, ice cream and cookies. Easy, I thought, I'll make peanut butter cookies and grape ice cream sandwiches. As luck would have it, I had a concord grape puree in my freezer that would serve as the base for the ice cream. And I had a recipe for killer peanut butter cookies that I had refined over the years and recently tweaked to include miso. But you know what they say about the best laid plans…

Unpacking in the client's kitchen, I had a sudden vision of the grape ice cream… still sitting in my freezer at home! I wanted to panic but there was no time. My schedule was tight even before I was asked to move dinner up a half hour.

As I began preparing dinner, my attention turned to a replacement for the ice cream. With a kitchen full of professional appliances, but no cooks in the house, I knew there was little chance of finding an ice cream maker tucked away in a cupboard. I had plenty of cream, but nothing for a flavor base or sugar. A search through the kitchen produced neither, but I did find three jars of grape jelly. I assessed the situation: no equipment to churn— but I had cream and a sweetened flavor base. A plan was quickly put in place: melt the jelly, blend in the cream, freeze in a shallow tray, whisk often, hope for the best, and pray that I wasn't turning into Sandra Lee. I got the base in the freezer just as the first guests arrived. They were hungry. And impatient. And I had to focus on dinner.

It wasn't until dinner was on the table and I returned to the kitchen that I remembered the neglected ice cream base. I opened the freezer expecting to find a solid block of grape-flavored ice crystals. To my surprise (and relief) it yielded easily to a spoon and out came a scoop of creamy smooth ice cream!

Since then, I've made this ice cream several times with both commercial and homemade jellies. I've tried churning it in an ice cream machine to test the difference. It was slightly creamier, but not dramatically so. I've even kept it uncovered(!) in the freezer for 4 days with no loss of texture or ice crystal build up. I believe this works because jelly is largely invert sugar and pectin, a combination with a high freezing point that stabilizes texture by preventing it from freezing solid and forming ice crystals.

While it may not be the most refined of ice creams, it comes together with only two ingredients and minimal effort. That alone (and that it saved my ass) is worth adding it to my emergency food kit.

stupid-simple jelly ice cream

measure by weight:
7 parts jelly
10 parts heavy cream

Melt the jelly until it is completely fluid. Add the heavy cream, a little at a time, while whisking. Pass through sieve into a bowl or container. Freeze thoroughly.

peanut butter miso cookies

Some time ago, I mentioned adding miso to peanut butter cookies on twitter. I received a number of requests for the recipe/ratios, which I promised to post.

You wouldn't know that it's miso that makes these cookies special unless you were privy, but you'll notice the difference in the rounded flavor. Sweets that are nuanced with savory and salty are always a winning combination in my book.

peanut butter miso cookies

makes 24 7.5cm/3" cookies

106g unsalted butter, at room temperature
130g peanut butter
40g shiro miso (light miso)
88g dark brown sugar (preferably muscavado)
80g granulated sugar
8g glucose
53g egg
5g baking soda
10g boiling water
175g all-purpose flour

Place the butter, peanut butter, miso, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and glucose in a mixer bowl. Beat the ingredients with the paddle attachment at medium speed until light and creamy. Add the egg and beat just until incorporated. In a small bowl, dissolve the baking soda in the boiling water and add to the mixer bowl along with the flour. Mix on low speed for 2 minutes until all of the ingredients are well combined.
Preheat oven to 163C/325F, or 157C/315F if using convection. Using a 3.80cm/1.5" scoop, lay out level scoops of dough on a silpat or parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving about 5cm/2" between cookies to allow for spreading. Chill cookies for 20 minutes to firm dough. Scoops of raw dough can also be frozen for future cookie cravings, then packed into ziplocks. Remove cookies from refrigerator and press with the tines of a fork in a cross-hatch pattern, if desired. Bake for 10 minutes for a softer cookie, or 12 for a crisper cookie.

Miso and peanut butter are so similar in appearance and texture that I'm surprised I haven't made the connection before. In addition to improving a classic cookie, the peanut butter-miso connection captured my imagination for another product: peanut miso.

Most people don't realize that peanuts are in fact legumes. Culinarily, we use them like nuts, but botanically they belong to the plant family Leguminosae, or Fabaceae, and are more closely related to peas and beans. This connection begs the question: if miso is made from soybeans, can it also be made from other beans?

I do know that [I] can't make miso from citrus rinds, though I gave it a good try. During the 10 month fermentation, I had hopes of transforming all sorts of products by fermenting with Aspergillus oryzae(koji mold), the fungus used in the production of miso, soy sauce, and sake. In my haste to make a new product, I failed to follow two fundamental tenets: understanding of product and process, and groundwork. Had I started with a time-honored traditional soybean miso, I would've had a map for when it was on course and where it veered off. Had I done my research, I would have understood that pectin-rich citrus pericarps were not an inviting environment for the enzymatic reaction that koji forms with protein.

Still, I'm hopeful and excited about roasted peanut miso.
And spicy black bean miso.
And fermented hummus.
But first— I'll start with the basics.

berries and cream

The imagination is a fascinating landscape. But sometimes there are strange, scary things lurking in the corners.

Today started out innocently enough. As with most fond childhood memories, it began with a recollection of food.
If you were around in the early 70's, you might remember Jello 1-2-3, the magically self-separating 3-layer dessert. I have vivid recollections of watching my mother dump the box of powder into a blender with water… pouring out the cloudy liquid into stemmed glass parfait cups… the torture of waiting… waiting… waiting… opening the refrigerator every few minutes despite the scoldings… the layers forming, separating slowly… slowly… too slowly… a spoon skimming the pale froth from the top… then onto the creamy middle layer… digging deeper into the clear, gelled bottom… the sound of the spoon scraping the empty glass… anticipating the next one.
I don't know what triggered the memory, but once it gripped me, I had to work through it. The result is this parfait— not a magically separating one, but deliberate layers; an exploration of variously textured soft gels. Even without the magic of chemistry and memory, I'm certain that the flavors and textures were better than that dessert-in-a-box. But the presentation wasn't doing anything for me.

After recreating the layers, in the same order, in a shallow bowl with a wide rim, I was satisfied. On the surface, it looked innocuous, clean, minimalist. Perfectly simple. Maybe too perfect. A perfect parfait? Redundant, n'est pas?

And then I started thinking about surfaces, skins, shells, and how they conceal. I wanted to reveal.

Remember the strange, scary, lurking things?
I blame them. And the change of season (that always unsettles me). And the lack of sleep. No doubt, the late-night Dexter marathons are not without blame.
Whatever it was, I found myself cutting, gashing, spraying, dripping, staining.
Now, perfectly imperfect.
Now, hideous, even.
Still… delicious.
Dexter would be proud.

Hungry?

Happy Halloween.

coconut fig curry

Coconuts were introduced to Europe by Portuguese explorers who brought them back from India. Vasco da Gama's sailors thought the round, hairy fruit (actually, a seed), with the black eyes and nose, resembled "Coco", a folkloric ghost/witch/monster; the precursor to the jack-o-lantern. When it reached England, "nut" was added to the end and the name stuck.

Although the coconut palm (Cocos nucifera) and the fig tree (Ficus carica) have little in common except for similarity of flavor and aroma, they sure taste good together.

I can't help but wonder if 16th century Europeans, upon opening a coconut for the first time, thought that it smelled like fig leaves. I also wonder what they would've thought of this dessert: a familiar and beloved fruit, married to newly-discovered treasures from faraway lands.

coconut fig terrine ✢ curry tea foam ✢ agastache blossoms

Fig leaf tea makes a light and flavorful base for an aromatic curry broth. Further lightened into a foam, it lands weightless on the tongue and dissipates, leaving only an impression of warm spice.

Download recipe: coconut fig terrine with curry tea

three little figs

Once upon a time, not so long ago or far away, there was a very special fig.

Figgy [as she liked to be called] was no ordinary fig. She was a fig with aspirations.

Indeed, all figs have aspirations; they all want to be immortal. In the glory of their ripeness, they put on their dusky makeup and most alluring perfume in hopes of attracting hungry birds and beasts to spread their seed.
But our Figgy wanted something different for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and to live on as a fond memory.

To this end, Figgy placed ads in dozens of newspapers. She received many replies, but thought none earnest. [She was convinced that they were all just greedy bluejays.] Then she received a call from a chef who seemed genuinely interested. Figgy followed her instincts and agreed to a formal meeting.

The meeting was held at the chef's restaurant. Chef greeted her warmly and seated her at a table in the kitchen, then proceeded to present her with dish after dish of the finest food she had ever tasted. After dinner, Chef joined Figgy for a glass of Port and asked her about herself.

Figgy told Chef that her ancestors had come from a faraway land that was once called Persia, but is now known as Iran. They had lived there for centuries in the most splendid gardens that the world had ever seen.
"Did you know that the word paradise is from an ancient Persian word for walled garden?" asked Figgy.
From there, they migrated west to Egypt, then north to Greece, where figs were held in high esteem by both slaves and royalty.
"My forebears were among the figs that concealed the asp in Cleopatra's basket and flourished in King Alcinous' orchard during Odysseus' visit."
"Fascinating", said Chef and begged her to continue.
"Successive generations continued westward along the Mediterranean: Rome, Provence, Andalucia, and finally the Algarve, where my grandmother settled. When my mother was just a sapling, she was packed in a box and shipped across the Atlantic to New England. That's where she lives now; in a pot on a terrace during the bearing season and winters in a heated greenhouse. She is happy and well cared for."

"And you?" asked Chef, "Tell me why you're here."
"I was born in the greenhouse and moved onto the terrace when I was still very young. The family that cared for us would gather there every night for dinner. From high up on one of my mother's boughs, I would watch them feast on the most sumptuous foods. With every bite, they all agreed that it was the best they had ever tasted and that they would remember it forever. It was then that I realized that I didn't want to be gobbled up by a hungry bird. I want to be savored, to be lingered over, to be remembered! I'm hoping that you can help me with that."

"I will do my best, but tell me… what would you like me to do with you?"
Figgy had thought long and hard about this. It's true; she was a dreamer, but she was also a sensible fig. She understood that in order to make a lasting impression, she needed some enhancement. In her haste to fulfill her destiny, perhaps she had left her mother too soon and was not as sweet and ripe as she could have been.
"I can fix that with a bit of honey." said Chef.

Figgy's mother had taught her many things about her history and her anatomy. She often lamented that figs are mistaken for fruit when they are actually flowers. She had explained that inside herself were hundreds of flowers that looked like long, thin filaments, and that each one held a seed. These seeds, she had said, were what perpetuated their species and held them in regard as an ancient symbol of fertility. But they were often cursed by humans for getting caught in their teeth and interrupting the sensual experience of eating figs.
Chef listened to her concern and suggested that a blender would break down her seeds, if she would allow it.

Figgy was not afraid of the blender or what it would do to her, she was ready to sacrifice herself fully. But she was adamant about retaining her form, of which she was fiercely proud, despite it's phallic shape that has been a source of embarrassment to both men and women throughout the ages. So much so, that the original Arabic word for figs is now considered an obscenity.
"No problem" said Chef "I can mold you so that you will look exactly like yourself, but better."

This pleased Figgy and she was anxious to get started, but Chef was hesitant.
"I think that to make you truly memorable, you will need to share the spotlight with other flavors. If we do it right, they will not rob you of your glory, but make you more delicious. Will you trust me?"
When Figgy seemed amenable, Chef continued, "Great! I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends that I think you will get along with very nicely."

Chef rushed into the kitchen, swept things up off the counter, and laid them out in front of Figgy.

"First, I'd like you to meet Onion Caramel. She may look cloyingly sweet, but she's surprisingly sassy."
"Yes, I like her." said Figgy taking a taste "She's got lots of personality!"

"Next, there's Dark Chocolate. He's smooth, suave, mysterious and seductive, but with a bitter edge to balance your sweetness."
"Oh my, I'd better stand my ground with him or he will sweep me off my feet."

"And, finally" said Chef, lifting the lid off a round, wooden box "there's Epoisses."
Figgy shrieked and stepped back, holding her breath.
"Now don't be afraid. I know Epoisses seems offensive, but I assure you, it's only skin-deep. If you take some time to get to know her, you'll find that she's full of character and actually sweet and mild on the inside."
Figgy watched Chef cut through the rind and expose a pale, creamy heart. She tasted carefully and found Epoisses agreeable and lovely.

"So, when do we get started?" asked Figgy.

The next morning Chef entered the kitchen to find Figgy and her friends engaged in a lively conversation.
When Chef asked Figgy if she was ready, she pulled Chef aside and said in a hushed tone, "I really love my new friends. We couldn't get along any better, but I'm worried. They are all such wonderfully memorable characters, how can I stand out among them?"

Chef understood and said reassuringly, "Figgy, I promise you that when I present your dish tonight that it will only be you that they see. And from then on, when they remember your dish, it will be you that they reference."

Chef and staff worked steadily throughout the day in preparation for the special meal. Every seat for both sittings were full and expectations were high. Course after course of Chef's carefully planned and executed meal was dispatched from the kitchen with only a few minor glitches. Figgy's dish was the final course.
When the last plate left the kitchen, Chef congratulated the staff, cleared the pass, hung her apron, and entered the dining room.

Late that evening, Chef was alone in the kitchen writing menus, taking inventory, and listing orders for the next day's deliveries. Intermittently, she paused to reflect on the evening's accolades. There had been so many kind words from her guests: enthusiastic bloggers snapped photos and offered praise, critics hinted at rave reviews. There was even conjecture of a Michelin star. But the words that pleased her most were: "…the fig dish…", followed by various adjectives, " fantastic!… delicious!… brilliant!… memorable!"

As Chef turned the lock on the restaurant for the night, she felt overwhelming gratification.
For giving her best.
For pleasing her guests.
For making her staff proud.
But most of all, for keeping her promise to Figgy.

left to right:
dark chocolate-covered epoisses
onion caramel
Figgy

cherry bombe

Being a mom is hard work.
There are days when you want to hand in your resignation. Or, at the very least, renegotiate your contract. But you don't. You hang in there. You wring your hands. You fret. You worry. You hope. You make wishes.

But then there are days of such luminous rapture that you think your heart will burst out of your chest. And in between there are moments of quiet joy. Smiles. Laughter. Hugs. Flowers and cake.

Give your mom a hug today. If that's not possible, give someone else's mom a hug. Tell her that she's doing/done a good job. Bring her smiles and laughter. Flowers and cake are good, too.
We all need a little appreciation.

Download recipe: Cherry bombe

gingerbread goat cheese ham

The birth of this dish started around the holidays, when I picked up the mingled scent of gingerbread and baked ham and thought that they made sense together. After all, we stud ham with cloves and glaze them with brown sugar— not such a big leap to gingerbread.

My first inclination was to go basic: bake a loaf of ginger bread and make a ham and cheese sandwich. Maybe grilled or toasted a la Croque-monsieur. But then citrus season got in the way and it was forgotten.

The idea popped up again when my son, who has a penchant for spice cookies, requested gingersnaps. I happened to have on hand some petit billy, a soft, tangy goat cheese from the town of Billy in the Loire Valley*. I also had reserved a nub of Pop's magic ham, not enough to slice, but just enough to microplane into a soft heap of ham filings. Together, these flavors were a fantastic combination— sweet spice, milky tang, savory smoke— and inspired a different kind of sandwich that befit the season; an ice cream sandwich.

For the ice cream, I took my base recipe and swapped out the petit billy for some of the heavy cream and cut the sugar by half. I tweaked my gingerbread cookies to render them softer and toned down the spices. The whipped rhubarb (rhubarb syrup whipped with 2% versawhip) was added for color, texture, and fruity acidity.

soft gingerbread cookies
makes about 4 dozen 3" cookies

1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup (200g) sugar
1 egg
1/4 cup (72g) molasses
1/4 cup (72g) honey
1/2 cup (115g) heavy cream, whipped
3 cups (375g) flour
1 1/2 tsp (7g) baking soda
1 tsp (2g) cinnamon
1 tsp (2g) ground ginger
1 tsp (2g) ground cloves
1 Tblsp (7g) grated fresh gingerroot

In a mixer bowl, cream the butter with the sugar until pale and creamy. Add the egg and beat until incorporated. On low speed, beat in the molasses and the honey, followed by the whipped cream. In another bowl, combine the remaining ingredients until well blended. Add half to the butter mixture, beating well until incorporated. Repeat with remainder of dry ingredients.
Chill cookie dough until it stiffens, about 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 375F/190C. Roll out dough 1/4" thick on floured surface. Cut into desired shapes. Transfer to parchment-lined baking sheets.
Bake cookies for 6-10 minutes, depending on size, or until edges darken and crisp, but centers remain soft.

*I love the word-play of a goat cheese made in a town named Billy, and sandy cookies in Sablé-sur-Sarthe, both in the Loire Valley. Oh, those ironic French.