The Search for Deliciousness

Some things, dear reader, this food-obsessed writer cannot do without. For instance, Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce or pumpkin pie would be a sad affair. When I was twelve, my family spent Thanksgiving in a cabin in the middle of the Panamanian rainforest. We had to hike a mile through jungle, cross a rushing stream on a halved-log with only a single wire as a railing, and ride forty minutes down a road that seemed to consist only of boulders in the back on a real jeep (the kind you go sit in at the Africa exhibit at the Oregon Zoo) just to get to the hotel with a restaurant where we could eat our meals. A twelve year-old on their first out of the country trip in ten years cannot be expected to appreciate the exotic and fascinating environment. The uninspiring pizza and gamey burger that constituted my Thanksgiving meal (we ordered American food in an attempt at something familiar) were severely disappointing and could not be entirely saved by the sheer awesomeness of the french fries that accompanied them. Today, stemming perhaps from that traumatic meal, I have an unreasonable need to consume all the traditional foods at Thanksgiving. Thus, I have recklessly promised to help host a Thanksgiving party for the gluttonous holiday deprived group of Europeans I am friends with.

However, cranberries seem to be unknown outside of the continent of North America, definitely not in Spain, and while winter squash is sold fresh in stores, canned pumpkin does not appear on the shelves. Not even in the snobbish gourmet supermarket I shop at. This, dear readers, presented an enormous problem as you have probably already deduced. Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce and with strange pumpkin pie? Say it isn't so! (Although, to my credit I actually produced a dessert resembling pumpkin pie for my piso's highly successful Halloween party using pumpkin that I cooked and mashed myself.)

I turned where many troubled souls in this day and age turn for the answers to their confounding questions: I turned to the internet. And lo and behold, I found a store in North-Eastern Madrid, the Salamanca barrio, that sells "American" food and is named "Taste of America." The website promised to have everything one might need for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other holidays.

So, today I trekked to "Taste of America." For a girl accustomed to central Madrid and to walking everywhere she needs to go, this was a real trek. I had to take two different metros and then walk about a mile to the store. It was really tiny, about the size of a small convenience store in the US, but then everything is smaller here. More importantly, they had Ocean Spray canned cranberry sauce (the whole berry and jellied varieties both), Libby's Canned Pumpkin Puree, and (dear reader this was a miracle) Libby's Pumpkin Pie Mix. I have to admit that I wandered around the store for a good twenty minutes and bought a lot more things: Quaker oatmeal, ground ginger (which is the only spice it is impossible to find here), vanilla extract, two kinds of tea, English ginger biscuits, and peanut butter filled pretzel nuggets.

Using my handy knit market bag, a birthday present from my friend Sarah, and my Portland Farmer's Market cloth bag to conceal the plastic bags that had "Taste of America" written in enormous letters on the sides, I triumphantly walk and rode the metro home. This year I have vanquished chance; I will not be deprived of my culinary tradition.

Greetings Spaniards, take me to your Starbucks

It's always interesting when you find yourself suddenly looking at things from a fresh perspective. More often than not, when we see ourselves through others eyes we discover things that we had not realized before. I've been feeling pretty down and out about my Spanish. After two months in Spain I felt like I was struggling to be understood and that things kept coming out in English. I also had a general case of the blahs.

Yesterday a girl I lived with last Spring, who is studying in Paris, came to Madrid with her two friends. I took them out in the afternoon and the evening. Spending time with Americans who didn't speak Spanish, and especially Americans who haven't been in Spain for a while, was really shocking to me. "Un choque cultural" is a cultural shock (literally a "choque" means a collision or crash) in Spanish, a term that I think communicates the violence with which cultural differences sometimes can hit us. It didn't help that these Americans were, well, pretty married to their American ways. Just to give you an idea, we spent the first hour in the H and M shopping, and then they wanted to go to Starbucks.

I flatly refused, because this is Spain and not Seattle. I was not going to go into a Starbucks in Madrid, sit there lazily with Americanized coffee, and speak English. I offered to go back to my apartment and meet up with them later, but they said they wanted to do what I wanted to do. So I took them out for chocolate with churros.

For those of you who don't know this delicacy, when the Spanish youth get the drunk munchies or hung over cravings, they go to chocolaterias where they dunk churros (which are like long, plain donuts) into hot chocolate that almost has the consistency of melted chocolate chips. Basically the most decadent treat in the world, and unbelievably Spanish. Unfortunately I took them to one of the most popular chocolaterias in Madrid when it was rainy, and the only table we could find was outside. It didn't help that we moved tables after we had ordered, making the waiter incredibly grumpy. I actually became quite embarrassed as these Americans got fed up with the service (which was typically Spanish), upset about the cold and the rain, and started cussing all over the place. My friend asked an English buy for a cigarette and he joined our table where he started to spew all sorts of travel advice. We were so obviously American and tourists that I felt we stuck out like a sore thumb.

Then I made the mistake of taking them to eat at a Greek restaurant my Greek-German flatmate had found. Little did any of us know that it was not very authentic and involved dinner theatre with a drag queen in a toga and red wig who called herself Aphrodite. Had I been with just my flatmates it would have been okay and hilarious. One of the Americans, however, was Greek and he got more and more offended, even though he couldn't understand what they were saying. He complained about the food, about the show, and then all three of them freaked out about the price and got in the way of me sorting it out with the waiter by talking at him in English. I felt caught between a rock and a hard place. I both understood that in Spain this wasn't a big deal, but I also understood the American abhorrence of anything not PC. It was almost a relief when the three decided they wanted to go back to the hostel instead of going out. I didn't know if I had the strength to spend a night on the town with them.

However, spending time with the Americans helped me look at my situation with markedly different eyes. I noticed for the first time how fluent in Spanish I have become, how sometimes I speak in Spanish automatically, how it is almost difficult for me to speak in English at times. I noticed how European I am becoming, how comfortable I am with the culture, how easily and painlessly I take care of things like speaking to waiters and ordering food. I realized how independent I have become, how cool my apartment is, and how much I love Spain.

Probably hanging out in the US, I would have had fun. They seemed like really nice people. But here in Spain, encountering such bold Americanism was an enormous "choque cultural."

I got my birthday wish: Obama was elected President

How often do you get to turn 21 years old on the day of a historic Presidential Election, which happens to be the first time you can vote for President? Once in a lifetime, so I decided to make the best of it. And I had a seriously epic November 4.

The day started out pretty calm. I wore a new sweater, skirt, and tights to school where I gave a presentation in my literature class. Then I went out to lunch with this girl from the program that I am getting to know. We went to a café connected to this gourmet chocolate shop, so we got chocolate desserts of course. And then I bought myself a box of chocolates filled with liquors as a personal birthday present.

I had invited a group of my European friends over for dinner, so on the way home I stopped and bought soda and Mahou Cinco Estrellas, which is the favorite beer of Svante, our Swedish friend. There was an obligatory meeting that I thought was at 6 but then at 5:30 we checked on Jane’s email and it said the meeting was at 5. So, having accidentally missed the mid-semester meeting I didn’t really want to go to anyway, I went instead to a wine shop and bought four bottles of pretty good wine. Mostly I asked the lady behind the counter of recommendations and she helped me pick out one white, one red, and two bubbly. The Spanish equivalent to Champagne is called Cava.

Svante was the first friend to arrive. He cooked a pasta sauce loaded with cream, Justine (my French flatmate and friend) cooked Spanish tortilla, and I made a salad with vinaigrette. We sat down to eat at about 9:30, with some of the people from my apartment and Vincienzo, the Italian guy. They decided to sing “Happy Birthday” to me, starting in Spanish and then each person sang in their native language, so I ended up getting sung “Happy Birthday” in eight different languages: Spanish, English, Chinese, German, Greek, French, Swedish, Italian, and Ana tried to sing to me in Catalan, but forgot half the words.

Shortly afterward three of the other guys showed up, turned out the lights, and brought in a birthday cake in from the kitchen with lit candles. The cake was pretty odd, one layer with a concave surface and a hard, kind of transparent icing, but they had made it themselves. They had tried to write “Feliz Cumplianos Miriam” in the middle, although the icing ran and pretty much all that was readable was “Feliz.” It was probably the cutest birthday present I had ever received. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in Spanish, again. To my complete surprise I also got other birthday presents: dessert wine, a bottle of sidra, candles, birthday cards, and a large box of chocolates. Between the wine I had bought, the sidra we opened, and then the shot of rice liquor that Yao, our Chinese flatmate, insisted we drink to my health, I was nicely tipsy. While the other washed the dishes and dealt with the plugged up sink (something that we have to call in a plumber to fix, Joe are you avaliable?) I ended up in a conversation with Jane, my American flatmate about our live, our love lives, and our families. We opened my box of chocolates and between us and everyone else finished off about half before we realized we were eating too much of already full stomachs and cut ourselves off.

People trickled out and at about 1 AM, Jane and I left for the Democrats Abroad Party in the Circulo de Bellas Artes, a prestigious building in central Madrid, not fifteen minutes walk from my piso. It was good that we didn’t go before because we met up with people who had been waiting in line for an hour and a half. Apparently the Democrats had over sold the tickets, but they opened another floor of the building and so after about forty minutes wait, in which Jane and another girl got a bottle of wine and then were interviewed (with the wine) by a Spanish news station. When we finally got inside it was totally crowded, but we made our way up to the top floor and spent hours standing around, watching CNN on giant screams, screaming for every projected Democratic win, and drinking. At one point I went to the bar for a rum and Lemon Fanta with Ana, this girl who is super friendly but I haven’t really talked to, and we had an hour long conversation about politics and then art, her drunk and me tipsy.

Finally, at about 5 or 5:30 in the morning, we counted down to the closing of the West Coast polls (represent Oregon!) and then when we reached zero and CNN flashed up the words “Barak Obama Elected President” everyone went freaking insane. Everyone was screaming, jumping up and down, hugging and kissing each other, and (in my case) tearing up and saying “Oh my god!” over and over. It felt so surreal and yet so amazing. We watched McCain’s concession speech, which was a little hard because a number of people were drunk enough that they wouldn’t be respectful and shut up so we could listen. At the end of the speech they belted out the goodbye song from “Remember the Titans.” Then we waited around until Obama’s acceptance speech, which was a long wait because my feet were hurting. At 6 AM Spain time, Obama walked onto the stage with his family, and I have to admit that I teared up again. We lost about 4 minutes of the audio of his speech due to technical malfunction, but we heard the beginning and then end. That man is one hell of a speaker. I hope he becomes one hell of a President.

At 6:30 in the morning I walked home along the streets of Madrid. The fruit store below my piso, which doesn’t seem to have a set schedule, was open. At home I got out my computer and called my family. I finally went to bed at about 7:40 when it was getting light outside.

So yes, my birthday was freaking epic.

Madrid: I can't beleive it is already October 25th!

I spoke to one of my best friends this morning on the miracle that is Skype. For me it was 10:30 am and I was sitting on the balcony of my urban apartment in Madrid, Spain. For Sarah Wiley, my friend, it was 9:30 pm and she was sitting in her house in Dunedin, New Zealand. Twenty or even ten years ago we might have been reduced to communicating by letter and postcard for the six months that Study Abroad is separating us, but now an ingenious site on the internet makes it possible for us to talk over a live connection, sometimes even to video chat. We talked for over an hour and at some point near the end Sarah said
"Mimi, what have you been up to? You haven't posted on your blog in four or five weeks!" And I guiltily remembered that I had promised myself to write on the blog at least once every week.

So, Sarah Wiley, here is your update.

What I have been doing for the past four or five weeks:

• I spent a weekend in Barcelona. Rode a bus overnight to get there and then spent two days sight-seeing and having fun with my French flatmate Justine. The eight-hour bus ride each way was too long by six hours, but the city was absolutely wonderful.
• Classes have been picking up and I have set up an independent study for voice, which is awesome and means I got to drop a class to make time for the work I am doing. Thus I am studying more and learning a lot. Every Wednesday I get free admission to one of the two modern art museums here in Madrid and my Art History class takes place in the museum.
• My piso (my apartment) hosted two botellons (getting together to drink and eat kind of parties). One where we drank homemade sangria, and another where Justine and I cooked crepes for about ten of our guy friends.
  
• Now that everyone has started their classes the social side of things is beginning to quiet down. We still go out, but mostly on weekends, and I tend to turn in early (2 or 3 am).
• I went insane and bought this huge butternut squash at a fresh market. To use a large portion of it I made an enormous pot of butternut squash and white bean soup. By enormous I mean I had to get three or four people to help me eat it and I still had enough to save some and freeze some.
• I made applesauce for this International Dinner at the school. I shlepped it warm and steaming about a mile across central Madrid in a pot only to find that the dinner was a complete organizational mess. None of the European students wanted to approach the american table because we didn't have a sign and most of the food the other american students brought was soda, chips, and Chips Ahoy.
• I became convinced I had bedbugs for three days in a complete and utter rush of imagination.

Those are the highlights of the time since my last post.

Coming soon: the school trip to Bilbao this weekend, my trip to Segovia the weekend after, and of course the November 4th coincidence of my 21st birthday and the Presidential Election!!!

Madrid: The Last Two Weeks Gastronomically

Where food is concerned, Spain can be an absolute heaven, but also like another planet. Some of the most amazing delicacies can be found in Spain: jamon serrano and especially jamon iberico, which are cured hams along the lines of proscuitto but drier; queso manchego, a fabulous hard cheese; olive oil, wine, and sangria; tortilla espanola, an egg and potato dish which differs vastly from the tortilla around your burrito; and many others. Spain is also perfectly situated near both Africa and the rest of Europe so fruits and vegetables of all kinds are readily avaliable. However, unless you go out for every meal, the eating can be decidedly odd.

This is the first time I have cooked for just myself. The kitchen in our apartment has a microwave oven and a four burner gas range. Unlike in the US where gas ranges have automatic lighters, we have to light our stove with a cigarette light, which makes cooking an adventure. Every person has their own method for lighting the stove. Mine is to turn on the gas, click the lighter next to the burner, and then jump back as flames nearly engulf my hand.

Then, of course, there is the question of what to cook. So far my repretoire of dishes includes pasta with fresh tomatoes, pasta with tomato sauce, lentils, a semi-successful tortilla espanola, and grilled cheese sandwiches. The lack of an oven is hurting. My usual standby in the US is to just stick something into the oven and let it roast. However, I am hoping to get a little more adventuresome as the semester wears on. I don't want to default to the tempting variety of frozen food avaliable.

As for odd food I have encountered so far, much of it has been on the plates of my flatmates. The dishes include cornflakes in hot cocoa (apparently a Spanish staple), frozen jamon serrano croquettes, a stirfry of eggs, hotdogs, rice, and greens; and bread that comes in the bag already toasted.

If anyone has ideas of dishes to cook on a stove, let me know.

Madrid: Salir de Copas

There is a reason that Spain, and Madrid especially, are known as having some of the best nightlife in the world. Los jovenes (the youngsters) here salen de copas (go out to drink) pretty much everynight. By the end of the sixth day I have been here, I will have gone out a total of three times.

A little more than 48 hours after my arrival I found myself at a party of European exchange students at a discoteca with los franceses de mi piso (the French students in my apartment) Justine and Camille. After paying the cover charge of 5 euros, we entered the Japanese themed dance club, clutching vouchers for one free drink. Suffice it to say, it was unlike anything I have experience so far. I emerged from the night a little drunk and having met a group of guys including two Swedes, an Italian, a English guy, and a French guy. By the time we had made our way back to the apartment it was 4:30.

The next night we met up with our new friends, plus a few, and went out to tapas. Although I left at 2 to return home because I needed my sleep, the rest of the group proceded to a discoteca and got home at 4 in the morning.

Tonight I am going out to celebrate my German flatmate's birthday. Claro que voy a divertirme mucho.

Madrid: Arrival

After flying eighteen hours I land in a foreign country. The language is different, the customs are different, the city I speed towards in the shuttle from the airport is so ancient that the cemetery you pass resembles a neighborhood with apartment style living and rates it's own street signs. Every foot of free space has been filled with graves and many of the dead lie in cupboard-like spaces in buildings 30 feet high. The route to my apartment in the city takes me past hundred year old buildings, down central avenues, and finally to a tiny cobbled street where I ring the buzzer of the unassuming door under the number 2, introduce myself to the apartment manager Hector, and cram myself and my malletas (luggage) into the smallest elevator in the world rather than brave the steep spiral staircase to the second floor, aka the third story.

While I only have energy to take in the labyrinth-like apartment (in which I am still getting lost), attempt to remember the names of my flatmates (who hail from France, Germany, Venezuela, Argentina, Poland, China, and others), stumble to the supermarket in the department store I can see from the balconies off the dining room, make dinner, and fall into bed, when I wake up in the morning I decide that I must start getting to know the city where I will be spending the next three and a half months. I want to know these streets like the back of my hand. The best way to do this? Get lost.

I tuck a guidebook, my Madrid moleskin (an invaluable little handbook with maps, a street index, a metro map, and all sorts of room for notes), and my wallet into my bag and start out. My first destination: the Plaza Mayor. I walked to this magnificent cobbled central square every day of m visit to Madrid three years ago. Seeing as I live not two blocks from the hotel I stayed in then, finding the Plaza should be a breeze. Except it is not. I walk up and down narrow streets, looking for landmarks I remember, a restaurant, a chocolateria, and find myself in a totally unexpected square presided over by a stone palace. Very cute, but not the Plaza Mayor. Pleasantly bemused, I take note of the name (in tile on the wall of a building) and search for it in my moleskin. Bingo! I strayed too far west. I study the map and then put it back in my purse. The last thing I want to seem like is a tourist. I find the Plaza Mayor soon after, entering it from a different side than I had originally planned.

My wanderings continue in this manner. I explore the streets around the Plaza and find the restaurant and chocolateria, they have not disappeared to my relief. I pass Botin's, the oldest restaurant in the world, and the group of tourists outside. Having first gone about ten minutes in the wrong direction, I follow el Calle Cuchillero, the street of the barbers, to one of the fresh markets of Madrid. It is under construction, getting a brand new, glass and metal building. Undeterred I set out to find the other market listed in my handbook. After walking down a long, winding, street, lined with taverns, where I have to step over puddles of urine on the cobbles, I come upon a plaza with the monolithic market building.

A giant of concrete, the market has two level of stands set out in concrete blocks with metal shutters. Only half are open. They are divided by what kind of food they sell: fruits and vegetables, meat, seafood, poultry and eggs, cheese and charcuterie (cured meats), yogurt and packaged food, and one with pastries. The clients are mainly older Spanish men in button up shirts and older women in nice blouses and skirts. I wander for a while, trying to work up the courage to buy something. Also, to get a feel for the goods and the vendors. I choose a small produce stand operated by a small middle aged woman and patronized by women of a similar or greater age. I wait until the vendor is free and then catch her eye. We greet each other. Then, unsure of how to begin I point at the figs and ask "Como se dice eso?" How do you say that? One of my favorite Spanish phrases. I have struck the right note. The vendor smiles and comes around the stand. She tells me the names of the fruits. Exhilarated by her kindness I buy a quarter kilo each of the figs and the grapes. She gives me a fig to taste. I also buy two kinds of peaches and a cucumber. She puts my purchases in cones of heavy, soft paper and places them in a plastic beg. She forgets to charge me for the cucumber, so she tucks in to my bag and says "Yo te regalo." I will make it a gift to you.

I buy cheese and eggs as well, and then manage to make it home without looking at a map. In my room, with a window onto an air shaft above a restaurant, I spread my purchases out onto the bed and take a picture of them. I am proud of what I have bought, proud of the fact that I had the courage to buy it. Although I venture out again to find the Plaza del Sol and to buy groceries (and spend about 40 minutes in confusion and frustration before realizing that shampoo and soap are not sold in the supermarket, but two floors up in the department store in their "pharmacia") this moment remains my crowning achievement. For lunch I feast on bread and cheese, figs and grapes, and a frescia, one of the kinds of peaches.

Cooking for One: Part 1

Marinara Sauce and Strawberry Shortcake for One

I have been there: looking through the cupboards at six o'clock in the evening and trying to decide between mac and cheese or soup from a can, reading a delicious recipe only to find it serves eight, baking a batch of cookies and then giving them away at random, asking friends to dinner so you can cook the souffle you've been itching to try. Try to cook for one person, without relying on mac and cheese, soup-in-a-can, and top ramen, is hard.
However, there are lots of people out there, from college students to professionals to seniors, who daily face the challenge of concocting sustenance for one. Most cook books and recipes are geared towards serving four to eight, a cooking size that leaves a single eater swimming in leftovers. Many (including myself) would rather opt for the easiest route: packaged meals or eating out. But with recipes and advice, cooking for one could be a satisfying experience. You can eat healthily, frugally, seasonally, locally, and well, even if you are the only one at the table.
Someday I hope to write a cook book for single cookery. For now my work as a student limits the time I have to experiment. Therefore, I will post my advice in blog format and accumulate recipes over a longer period of time.

This Week's Challenge: Marinara Sauce

There are some ingredients that you can only buy in large quantities. Marinara sauce is one of these ingredients. A jar of this tomato-based sauce will go a long way. A really long way. I opened one last week and I still have 3/4 of the jar left. And how can one person use up a full jar of sauce before it goes bad? Most people can't eat that much pasta!
If you think creatively, using up marinara turns out not to be as hard as you might have thought. Quick and easy ways to use Marinara Sauce:

Home-made Pizza
If you have never made your own pizza, you are truly missing out. My sister has a friend who makes some of the best pizza I have ever had. She let my family in on the three secrets to making truly gormet home-made pizza.
Number one, use fresh dough not a ready-made crust. While making the dough from scratch probably yeilds the best product, it can be hard to find the time. Fortunately, a lot of natural stores like Trader Joe's and New Seasons now sell pizza dough in their refrigerator cases. One ball of dough will make three to five individual size pizzas. Break off a piece about the size of a plum and stretch it into a very thin circle.
Number two, use good ingredients for the toppings. Nothing can ruin a perfect pie like the rubbery mozzarella or tasteless olives. I suggest fresh mozzarella (available in most stores) for the cheese. The only thing that doesn't matter too much is the marinara sauce; just get a medium brand and you'll be fine. Spread the marinara leaving a 1/2 inch border around the edge of the dough circle and then add the toppings of your choice.
Number three: pizza should cook really hot. I'm talking about 500 - 600 F on your oven. If you have a pizza stone, place it in the oven before you preheat. Preheat the oven and DON'T put the pizza in until it has fully heated. Then slide the pizza onto the pizza stone. If you don't have a pizza stone, place your pizza on a cookie sheet and put it into the oven. Bake until the edges of the crust are golden brown.

Marinara Bruschetta
If you don't want the trouble of pizza dough, bruschetta is simpler but similarly delicious. A traditional bruschetta might be topped with fresh tomatoes.
Preheat the oven to 375 F. Take a thick slice of artisan bread or a rustic roll. Spoon marinara sauce onto the top (I like a fairly thick layer of sauce). Top with one of the following options:

• Thin slices of zucchini (a small zucchini should be enough) and then crumbled goat cheese or feta
• Fresh mozzarella and kalamata olives
• Salami and fresh mozzarella
• Bell peppers and feta
• Mushrooms (thinly sliced) and goat cheese

Or come up with your own toppings. Then place your bruschetta on a cookie sheet and pop it into the oven for 7-10 minutes, until the bottom of the bread is crispy. Enjoy.

Zucchini with Marinara
Larger zucchini's lend themselves to roasting. This recipe is fairly simple. Preheat your oven to 375 F. Choose a zucchini that is about 8-11 inches long and plump. Cut off the stem and split the zucchini in half. Place both halves on a cookie sheet and spread with a thick layer of marinara. Top with crumbled goat cheese and bake until a fork pierces the zucchini (25-30 mins).


Marinara sauce can be used as a base for soups, a topping for polenta, and (of course) a sauce for pasta. In my next post I will include more recipes for cooking with marinara, but for now I would like to close with a dessert.

Strawberry Shortcake for One
'Tis the season for strawberries. It's only a few days into July and in Portland succulent, red Hood Strawberries are still flooding farmer's markets. Far superior to the California-raised berries in the supermarket year-round, local strawberries are fragrantly flavorful and bursting with juice. These berries are eaten straight out of their green cardboard baskets, but they also shine in strawberry shortcake. I haven't found the perfect shortcake recipe yet, but here is one I have cut down to yield one shortcake (you can easily double the recipe to make two):

Preheat the oven to 425 F. Grease a cookie sheet.
Mix 1/4 cup flour and 1/2 teaspoon baking powder in a bowl.
Mix in 3/4 teaspoon sugar.
Cut in 1 tablespoon cold butter (or cut into chunks with a knife and then mix with fingers) until mixture resembles bread crumbs.
Add enough milk to form a soft dough. A tablespoon or two should be enough.
Shape dough into a three inch circle and place on the cookie sheet.
Bake for 10-12 minutes, until golden brown.

Cut up strawberries and mix with a little sugar (they won't need much). Slice open the short cake and fill with strawberries. Serve plain or with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

Bon appetit!