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FOOD
Cottage Cheese Wraps
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There was a point a couple years back when the algorithm decided I needed to know about cottage cheese wraps. They looked so tasty! They were everywhere! They seemed to be a breeze to make! You pool a quick-blended mixture of cottage cheese and eggs onto a rimmed sheet pan and bake until golden on the bottom. Pile on a bunch of fillings, roll up tight, and enjoy.  I was on-board. It’s a great concept, a satisfying meal, and endlessly adaptable. I’m still not sure where the concept originated, but I’ve learned a number of tips and tricks related to making these wraps (and favorite fillings) that I’m going to share today. The deep dive.
Cottage Cheese Wraps
Cottage cheese wraps are a breeze to make, but you do have to be mindful of a couple details the first few times through the process to avoid issues:

Don’t over-process the mixture in your blender. 15-20 pulses does the job, resulting in a smooth batter.
Yes, you need to use parchment paper.
Spread the batter across your sheet pan gently, to a uniform thickness. Too thin, it is more likely to crack.
Bake until the wrap is very golden on the bottom, this is right around 30 minutes in my oven. This is the color you’re after, or even a bit darker!
After removing from the oven, let the wrap set for a bit. Roughly 3-5 minutes is about right. It’s less likely to break apart as you’re filling and rolling.

The Ingredients
To make the wrap component of cottage cheese wraps you need three things: cottage cheese, eggs, and a bit of salt. You can accent from there with abandon. I tend to spice my batter with whatever spice blend I’m fixated on at the time, but herbs, peppers, and pastes are also favorites.

Cottage Cheese:  For this recipe I always use low-fat cottage cheese. Typically 1.5%-2% I’ve found that different brands of cottage cheese impact the thickness of the batter, sometimes it is more runny than other times. If you feel like your batter is regularly too runny, use 2 eggs instead of 3. If you feel like your batter is too thick use 3 eggs in place of 2. I find two eggs usually gives me a nice consistency that is easy to pour and work with on the pan.
Eggs: Good quality, large.
Accents: Some favorites include chopped chives (pictured), chopped serrano chile, a couple pieces of turmeric plus freshly ground black pepper, madras curry powder, toasted onion powder.

Cottage Cheese Wrap: Variations
The variations here are endless. A few ideas to flavor the wrap component:

Furikake: add a couple teaspoons of citrus furikake to the wrap mixture prior to baking.
Turmeric & Black Pepper: add 1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric and a few cranks of freshly ground black pepper to your batter.
Double allium: Add some good onion powder along with a bunch of chopped chives to your batter.
Za’atar: add a teaspoon or two of za’atar to the batter. This goes especially well if you use labneh as a spread filling.
Olives: Finely chopped black olives work well here, just make sure to chop them extra fine, and stir them in after blending.

Cottage Cheese Wrap Filling Ideas:
My goal when I make these is: one wrap meal. I’m going for an all-in-one situation. Filling the wraps with something green is usually where I land.

Kale Salad: I like to stem and chop a half bunch lacinato kale. Massage with 1-2 teaspoons of good-tasting vinegar, and 1-2 teaspoons of olive oil, and a bit of salt until it collapses, add some avocado, toasted seeds, cherry tomatoes, etc. and use for your wrap filling.
Broccoli and Winter squash: Pictured below is a wrap smeared with chive-flecked labneh, and topped with simple oven-roasted broccoli, thin crescents of delicata squash, sliced green onions, and a smear of sriracha. Calabrian chili paste is a good alternate here on the spicy front. Also, a few toasted pumpkin seeds. To roast the vegetables, toss them in a bit of olive oil, sprinkle with salt, and roast in the 350°F / 176°C oven until golden brown. You can do this at the same time you are baking the cottage cheese mixture. It’s the wrap also pictured in the lead photo.
Labneh: Use a smear of labneh (homemade labneh is the best!) across the wrap before adding other fillings and rolling. You can see labneh used as a spread in the lead photos here.
Chili crisp
Roasted cherry tomatoes
Pesto
Pan-blistered artichoke hearts

More Cottage Cheese Recipes

Cottage Cheese Muffins
Cottage Cheese Pancakes
Lemon Ricotta Pancakes

Continue reading Cottage Cheese Wraps on 101 Cookbooks



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FOOD
sidecar – smitten kitchen
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If there’s anything that’s been consistent about this site in its near-20 years of beaming (babbling?) hypertext to servers and back to you, it’s that I’m very bossy when I get into something new, especially cocktails. When I fell in love with Porch Swings, I wanted you to as well. Ditto for Blood Orange Margaritas (but only when in season), a Perfect Manhattan era that spanned over a decade, Boulevardier that has been woven into almost every year since, and a Slushy Paper Plane phase last year. This past winter and spring still, it’s been Sidecars, 1920s-era cocktails with about as many conflicting stories as my kids regale us with when they didn’t do their homework.

In the one I find the most amusing, an American army captain in World War 1-era Paris would apparently roll up to a bar in a motorcycle sidecar — I have many questions including: who was the driver? — and became a regular at Hôtel Ritz Paris or possibly Harry’s New York Bar, depending on who is telling the story. The captain would order a mix of cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon juice and eventually, bartenders named the drink after his particular vehicular quirk.

In other origin stories, bartenders serve the drink with a little extra leftover from the cocktail shaker poured into a second glass… that they called the sidecar. Again, maybe it’s true, but I’m a skeptic, albeit a bemused one. I’m far more interested in its taste. I saw it referred to as the French cousin of a margarita, and honestly, I get it — it’s strong (from cognac), bright (from lemon), and slightly sweet (from orange liqueur) but balanced, as daisy drinks often are. Typically the sidecar is served with a sugared rim which I find completely unnecessary for taste (it is sweet enough) but cannot resist the way raw sugar gets a golden glint to it and include it here. We all need a little extra sparkle sometimes, right?

 
P.S. My cookbooks are on sale through the wonderful, independent Porchlight Books and if you order any one, two, or three of them, they will include a Mother’s Day card signed by me (and occasionally my 10 year-old). Order by Monday 4/27 to get the gift(s) in time for 5/10. [Smitten Kitchen Cookbook Sale]



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LIFESTYLE
Iris Murdoch on Imperfection and How to Be More Unselfish – The Marginalian
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To recognize that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives is to step outside the self, beyond its particular conceptions of beauty — which includes, of course, moral beauty — and walking beside it with humble, nonjudgmental curiosity about the myriad other selves afoot on their own paths, propelled by their own ideals of the Good.
Such recognition requires what the great moral philosopher and novelist Iris Murdoch (July 15, 1919–February 8, 1999) termed unselfing — a difficult, triumphant act for which, Murdoch argues in her 1970 masterpiece The Sovereignty of Good (public library), nature and art uniquely train us.
Dame Iris Murdoch by Ida Kar (National Portrait Gallery)
A century and a half after Emerson observed that “the question of Beauty takes us out of surfaces, to thinking of the foundations of things,” Murdoch defines what we commonly call beauty as “an occasion for ‘unselfing’” — an occasion most readily experienced in our communion with nature and our contemplation of art. She writes:
Beauty is the convenient and traditional name of something which art and nature share, and which gives a fairly clear sense to the idea of quality of experience and change of consciousness. I am looking out of my window in an anxious and resentful state of mind, oblivious of my surroundings, brooding perhaps on some damage done to my prestige. Then suddenly I observe a hovering kestrel. In a moment everything is altered. The brooding self with its hurt vanity has disappeared. There is nothing now but kestrel. And when I return to thinking of the other matter it seems less important. And of course this is something which we may also do deliberately: give attention to nature in order to clear our minds of selfish care.
Art from Trees at Night, 1926. (Available as a print.)
Oliver Sacks would come to echo the sentiment decades later in his observation that meeting nature on its own terms and timescales broadens our perspective by effecting “a detachment from the timescale, the urgencies, of daily life.” But this unselfing, Murdoch cautions, cannot arise from a straining of the will, for the will is a clenching of the very self which true beauty deconditions; rather, it comes as a gladsome relaxing of the spirit, of our essential nature, into the shared pulse of existence:
A self-directed enjoyment of nature seems to me to be something forced. More naturally, as well as more properly, we take a self-forgetful pleasure in the sheer alien pointless independent existence of animals, birds, stones and trees.
Art by Arthur Rackham for a rare 1926 edition of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. (Available as a print.)
This “self-forgetful pleasure” calls to mind Jeanette Winterson’s wonderfully paradoxical notion of active surrender as the crucible of our joy in art and the fulcrum for art’s transformative power over the self. But while there is a distinct difference between how nature and art each effect unselfing, Murdoch argues that what separates great art from the bad and the mediocre is precisely this capacity for stripping down the self rather than inflating the ego — a notion evocative of Tolstoy’s insistence that “a real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist.” Murdoch writes of this dissolution of the self in the presence of great art:
The experience of art is more easily degraded than the experience of nature. A great deal of art, perhaps most art, actually is self-consoling fantasy, and even great art cannot guarantee the quality of its consumer’s consciousness. However, great art exists and is sometimes properly experienced and even a shallow experience of what is great can have its effect. Art, and by “art” from now on I mean good art, not fantasy art, affords us a pure delight in the independent existence of what is excellent. Both in its genesis and its enjoyment it is a thing totally opposed to selfish obsession. It invigorates our best faculties and, to use Platonic language, inspires love in the highest part of the soul. It is able to do this partly by virtue of something which it shares with nature: a perfection of form which invites unpossessive contemplation and resists absorption into the selfish dream life of the consciousness.
Art by Lia Halloran for The Universe in Verse: The Astronomy of Walt Whitman. (Available as a print.)
And yet, Murdoch argues, any real understanding of goodness is necessarily an embrace of imperfection — something philosopher Martha Nussbaum, in many ways Murdoch’s only worthy intellectual heir, would argue brilliantly a generation later in her incisive case for the intelligence of emotions. Murdoch writes:
The concept of Good… is a concept which is not easy to understand partly because it has so many false doubles, jumped-up intermediaries invented by human selfishness to make the difficult task of virtue look easier and more attractive: History, God, Lucifer, Ideas of power, freedom, purpose, reward, even judgment are irrelevant. Mystics of all kinds have usually known this and have attempted by extremities of language to portray the nakedness and aloneness of Good, its absolute for-nothingness. One might say that true morality is a sort of unesoteric mysticism, having its source in an austere and unconsoled love of the Good. When Plato wants to explain Good he uses the image of the sun. The moral pilgrim emerges from the cave and begins to see the real world in the light of the sun, and last of all is able to look at the sun itself.
[…]
We may also speak seriously of ordinary things, people, works of art, as being good, although we are also well aware of their imperfections. Good lives as it were on both sides of the barrier and we can combine the aspiration to complete goodness with a realistic sense of achievement within our limitations.
Art by Margaret C. Cook from a rare 1913 edition of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. (Available as a print.)
With an eye to the legacy of the Romantics, who married nature and art in their model of happiness and transcendence, Murdoch returns to the notion of unselfing and the beautiful tessellation of possibility and limitation that defines our nature:
The self, the place where we live, is a place of illusion. Goodness is connected with the attempt to see the unself, to see and to respond to the real world in the light of a virtuous consciousness. This is the non-metaphysical meaning of the idea of transcendence to which philosophers have so constantly resorted in their explanations of goodness. “Good is a transcendent reality” means that virtue is the attempt to pierce the veil of selfish consciousness and join the world as it really is. It is an empirical fact about human nature that this attempt cannot be entirely successful.
The Sovereignty of Good is an immensely insightful read in its entirety. Complement this particular fragment with Robinson Jeffers on nature and moral beauty and Oliver Sacks on the healing power of gardens, then revisit Murdoch on art as a force of resistance to tyranny, the key to great storytelling, and her uncommonly beautiful love letters.



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