FOOD ON THE FOOD

Grapefruit Fennel Salad

To celebrate me losing all of my dessert cookbook weight, let's have a salad!

I've been enjoying this grapefruit fennel salad for months now. It was inspired by a recipe in Amanda Cohen's cookbook, Dirt Candy. If you're unfamiliar with the NYC veggie-focused restaurant by the same name or its comic-book-themed cookbook spin-off, I suggest you seek out the latter the next time you're at the library or your local bookstore. It's an entertaining read as it illustrates, quite literally, the reality of opening a new restaurant, Cohen's stint on Iron Chef America, as well as cooking techniques for vegetables. As the author and heroine of this graphic novel, Cohen dons her chefly superpowers with wit and humility. The book is great fun, as is her blog. Check out this hilarious post on how her celery salad went over at the NYC Wine & Food Fest. If you find yourself defecting to her blog, I'll totally understand!

But back to the salad. Cohen's version includes candied grapefruit lollipops and grilled cheese croutons, which are no doubt delicious, but my version is a little more pared down (read: lazy). I've settled on this basic arrangement: mixed greens with thinly sliced fennel and red onion, segmented grapefruit, and crumbled feta. The salad benefits from having something fatty and salty in the mix, so if you forgo the cheese, fill the void with crumbled bacon, chopped almonds or pistachios, or cubed avocado with a sprinkling of sea salt. The dressing, which I make with anise seeds instead of fennel seeds, is mildly fruity and refreshing. It's the perfect pre-summer salad.

(It also reminds me a little bit of dessert!)

 

Grapefruit Fennel Salad     

Below are my suggestions, but use what you like in the proportions of your choosing. Just be sure to slice the vegetables very thinly. A tangle of radish sprouts would be a nice addition. The amounts below serve two grownups. Scale up as you wish.

Salad
1 to 2 cups mixed lettuce, spinach, and baby kale
1/2 fennel bulb, thinly sliced
1/2 small red onion, thinly sliced (only cut what you'll use)
1 red grapefruit
Crumbled feta, goat cheese, or queso fresco
Chopped salted almonds or pistachios (optional)

Anise Dressing
1 tablespoon finely grated grapefruit zest (from 1 grapefruit)
2 tablespoons grapefruit juice
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon anise seeds
1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

For the salad, toss the lettuce, fennel, and onion in a bowl.

Finely grate the zest from the grapefruit and set it aside for the dressing. Cut the grapefruit in half and reserve one of the halves for the dressing. To segment the other half, place it cut-side-down and slice the peel off the grapefruit in swaths, following the contour of the fruit. Then turn it over and cut between the membranes to remove the juicy flesh in between. Set the grapefruit segments aside in a shallow bowl.

For the dressing, add the grapefruit zest, grapefruit juice from the reserved grapefruit half, lemon juice, anise seeds, and mustard to a blender. Blend on high, then reduce the speed to low and slowly stream in the oil until smooth and emulsified. Add salt and pepper to taste. (The dressing can be stored in a covered jar in the refrigerator for up to a week.)

Lightly dress the greens and veggies just before serving. Arrange the salad on plates with the grapefruit segments, cheese, and nuts if using. Serve additional dressing at the table.

Source: Adapted from Dirt Candy by Amanda Cohen, Ryan Dunlavey, and Grady Hendrix

Springtime and Rhubarb Crisp

So far this spring, we've had very little in the way of April showers and lots in the way of freezing cold Arctic blasts that take your breath away. But I know you're coming, Spring. I know it because the snow piles have finally receded, exposing all the computer monitors that have been dumped in the woods behind our house, sun glinting off the screens at various times of day. I also know because the turkey vultures have returned to roost back there, as they do every year around this time, lured by rumors of carrion and free wifi.

But it's the appearance of rhubarb in the markets that truly announces warmer days ahead. Nothing says spring like weird pink vegetables. I made this ginger-laced rhubarb crisp for Easter weekend as the mercury inched past sixty degrees. The first real taste of spring!

I'm ready for more.


Rhubarb Ginger Crisp     

Bracing and bright, these two flavors were made for each other. You want fresh ginger here, not ground.

1-1/2 pounds rhubarb, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
1-1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
Pinch of salt
4 ounces (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter the inside of a 9-inch pie plate or 8x8-inch baking dish.

Combine the rhubarb, ginger and 1 cup of the sugar in the prepared dish. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and the remaining 1/4 cup of sugar. Cut the butter into the dry ingredients with your fingers (pinching the butter into smaller and smaller pieces) or using a pastry blender until the mixture resembles a coarse meal flecked with pea-sized pieces of butter (you can also do this in a food processor). Scatter the mixture over the rhubarb.

Bake for about 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the rhubarb juices are bubbly. Remove from the oven and let it cool slightly. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream.

Source: Adapted from The Country Cooking of Ireland by Colman Andrews.

Waffles –or– Overcoming Fear of Electricity

Sometimes you have to eat waffles for breakfast AND dinner. Like yesterday!

Husband's vintage waffle iron has been sitting unused for more than a decade. Why? Because I didn't have a decent waffle recipe. And because I'm really afraid of his vintage waffle iron. I don't like that the electrical wiring is visible and situated so close to non-removable parts that require washing. Water is an excellent conductor of electricity, as you know. I am aware that "technically" I won't be electrocuted while washing the waffle iron as long as it's not plugged in, and I know it's not plugged in because I checked it 50 times, and there isn't even an electrical outlet near the sink. BUT STILL, my mental danger bells keep ringing so loudly, over and over again, that I don't even feel like making homemade waffles anymore I have such a headache.

But all that changed thanks to one recipe. And it came from a book that I think you should know about, The Homemade Pantry: 101 Foods You Can Stop Buying and Start Making by Alana Chernila. I'll be raffling off a copy this week, so stay tuned. I made the waffles for breakfast on Sunday morning, slathered them with butter, moistened them with just a bit of maple syrup, then piled strawberries and blueberries that we picked at Carver Hill Orchard on top along with some fresh whipped cream. Holy crap were they ever good. So good, in fact, that when we got back from the Red Sox game and I didn't want to make dinner, we just reheated the leftovers and had them AGAIN.

Take that, Danger Bells, it's double waffle time!!!

Waffles (print-friendly version)

Feel free to sub in half whole wheat flour if you like.

2 large eggs, separated
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup buttermilk, warmed
1 cup whole milk, warmed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/2 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt

Preheat the oven to 200°F.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, melted butter, buttermilk, milk, and vanilla. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. In another medium bowl, whip the egg whites several minutes with an electric mixer until they hold soft peaks that droop slightly when the beaters are lifted.

Stir the milk mixture into the flour mixture until combined. Stir in a big spoonful of beaten egg whites until incorporated. Then, with a flexible spatula, gently fold in the remaining egg whites.

Grease the waffle iron either with cooking spray or brush with oil. Scoop 1/2 to 2/3 cup of batter into the hot iron. Cook according to the manufacturer's instructions or until golden and crispy on the outside. Keep warm in a single layer on a sheet pan in the oven until ready to serve. Top with butter and maple syrup, or whatever fresh fruit is in season. Jam is also acceptable. Whipped cream doesn't hurt, either.

Source: Adapted from The Homemade Pantry: 101 Foods You Can Stop Buying and Start Making by Alana Chernila

Local Ingredients:
Eggs: Eric's Eggs, Starksboro, VT
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Buttermilk: Kate's Homemade Butter, Old Orchard Beach, ME
Milk, cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Berries: Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA

Rhubarb-Blood Orange Parfaits

Last year, I saw a sudden spike in my blog traffic and, come to find out, Tori Spelling had tweeted about my rhubarb pie post.  Yes, that Tori Spelling. 

It really threw me for a loop.  You mean to tell me the busty Beverly Hills 90210 teen star cooks?  With rhubarb?  And is able to spell it correctly?  These were the thoughts that instantly ran through my head, proving that not only am I a judgmental a-hole, but I also confuse actors with their television roles, despite knowing better, and simultaneously freeze them in time—say, 1992 in this case.  For all I know, the actual Tori Spelling of 2011 in whatever zip code she currently resides is super-smart and a fantastic cook and a warm and wonderful person unspoiled by wealth and fame.  And if that's true then fuck you, Tori Spelling.  You can't have rhubarb, too!  Save something for the rest of us!!!

Over here in Waltham 02453, my modest success this week was helping somebody who didn't like rhubarb to like rhubarb.  (My victories are small but sweet!)  The idea behind these rhubarb-blood orange parfaits is to layer lightly sweetened rhubarb compote with fresh whipped cream.  It's a lovely balance of sweet/tart, and a nice prelude to strawberry shortcake.   Keeping the layers separate provides more flavor contrast while folding them together mellows the rhubarb tang.  If you've ever heard of a dessert called a "fool," that's what it is: cooked, sweetened fruit lightened with whipped cream.  As in, I pity the fool that doesn't like rhubarb fool!  Anyway, I've been dying to try this with wild Japanese knotweed, but I keep missing the window of time when the shoots are young and tender.  Too busy chasing down mushrooms, I guess. 

What I'm trying to say is, Rhubarb Haters and/or Shannen Doherty, this one's for you! 

 

Rhubarb-Blood Orange Parfaits

You can use a regular orange, of course, but I found that the blood orange deepened the color of the fruit compote, making for prettier contrasting layers.

1-1/2 lb. rhubarb, washed, trimmed, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 cup sugar
1 medium blood orange, zested (about 1 tsp.) and juiced (2-3 Tbsp.)
1 tsp. vanilla
Pinch salt
2 cups heavy cream, cold

Place rhubarb in a medium saucepan with all but 1-2 Tbsp. of the sugar (reserve remaining sugar for whipped cream).  Add orange zest, juice, vanilla, and salt, and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat.  Reduce heat slightly and gently simmer 7-10 minutes until rhubarb is soft but still chunky.  Let cool.  Transfer to medium bowl and refrigerate several hours until chilled.

Just before serving, whisk the heavy cream in a medium bowl until the wires leave trails.  Add the remaining sugar and continue whisking until thick and an upswing of the whisk leaves medium peaks.  To assemble, layer rhubarb mixture and whipped cream in each of four bowls, beginning with rhubarb and ending with cream.  Serve immediately.

Source: Adapted from Raquel Pelzel.

Local Sources:
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Bowl: The Concord Shop, Concord, MA

A Cranberry Christmas

We spent Christmas with the in-laws on the Cape this year.  The kids were tickled to get to experience Christmas morning in a different place, and were careful to note the change of address in their letters to Santa. 

Santa, for his part, was none too happy about the extra mileage.


Nevertheless, he arrived on schedule, with NORAD surveillance hot on his trail.

Earlier on Christmas Eve, the boys, vibrating with anticipation, finished their dinners early and then proceeded to sneak off and quietly change into their pajamas, go to the bathroom, and brush their teeth—activities that are rarely accomplished without a fair amount of cattle-prodding.  The sudden quiet alerted my spider senses.  I arrived on the scene to find the two little stinkers in bed with the lights off—at 6 o’clock!

I did a few calculations in my head:

                They get up at 6 a.m. normally
        +
                On Christmas, it’ll probably be more like 5
        +
                They’re going to bed 2 hours early
                ______________________________

                Oh, shit, I’m going to have to get up at 3 o’clock in the morning!

Spurred into action, I flipped the lights back on, threw back the covers, and jabbed fingers into their ribs until all visions of sugarplums disappeared into a cloud of giggles.  Then I heard something very out of character come out of my mouth: Get up and go watch TV.  The two fleecy bundles skipped down the hall and pig-piled onto the couch.  Either way, Christmas came early for my kids.

We got up at a merciful hour the next morning to squeals of delight over Lego sets and Pillow Pets, Hess trucks and a seriously cool electronic snap circuit set, comic books and bird books and mushroom identification books.  (Hey, I can squeal if I want!)  Then we admired our new toys over bacon strata, lobster quiche, and this cranberry buckle I brought. 




Cranberry Buckle with Vanilla Crumb

I’ve added more cranberries to the original recipe.  More!  This is Cape Cod,
after all.

Topping
½ cup flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 Tbsp. packed light brown sugar
Pinch fine sea salt
¼ cup (4 Tbsp.) cold, unsalted butter, cut into ¼ inch cubes
1½ tsp. vanilla extract

Cake
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. fine sea salt
½ cup unsalted butter
¾ cup granulated sugar
Zest of 1 orange
2 eggs
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
½ cup sour cream
3 cups fresh cranberries, 1 cup reserved for topping

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Butter a 9-inch square baking pan.

Using a food processor, combine flour, sugar, brown sugar, salt, and butter.  Pulse until you get coarse crumbs.  Drizzle vanilla over the mixture and pulse briefly to distribute.  Set aside.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt.  Using a handheld mixer or a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, cream the butter, sugar, and orange zest on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, 3-5 minutes.  Add the eggs one at a time, scraping down the sides of the bowl after each addition, then stir in the vanilla.  Add the flour mixture in three installments, alternating with sour cream and ending with the last of the flour, scraping down the sides of the bowl.  Fold in 2 cups of cranberries, reserving the remaining cup for topping. 

Spread mixture into prepared pan.  Distribute remaining cranberries on top and sprinkle crumb topping over the cranberries.  Bake about 50 minutes, or until lightly golden and firm on top.  Let cool.  (Wrapped in plastic wrap, this cake will keep at room temperature for 2 to 3 days.)

Source: Adapted from Rustic Fruit Desserts by Cory Schreiber and Julie Richardson.  This is one of my favorite cookbooks of the year, and one that will likely come up again in the summertime.

Urban Foraging: Peaches

My blogger friend over at Calamity Shazaam in the Kitchen has a friend in Dorchester with a peach tree.  A friend who was out of town when the peaches were at their peak, and who wouldn’t be back until after Hurricane Earl was projected to hit.  What would happen to all those ripe peaches? 

Well, Earl didn’t amount to much (up here anyway), but that shouldn’t detract from the heroic arrival of four concerned citizens right in the nick of time. And, by heroic, I mean purely self-serving.  Or maybe I should speak for myself.

We arrived to a sizeable tree so laden with fruit that some of the branches required propping up.  There was a hand-written sign on the tree instructing hungry passersby to twist—not pull—the fruit from the branches.  Most of the peaches were out of arm’s reach, so we used a telescoping peach-picker: a long pole with metal fingers at the end attached to a small metal cage to catch the peaches when they drop.  Like a super-long, potentially deadly lacrosse net.  The twisting was tricky to accomplish with a clawed pole aimed ten feet over our heads, but at least one of us got the hang of it.  Unfortunately, the twisty maneuvering would inevitably result in a major shakedown of the branches, sending nearby peaches plummeting to the ground and breaking open.  I assigned myself the task of trying to catch those peaches before they hit the pavement.  You can imagine the spectacle, I’m sure.  I almost had to add myself to the number of casualties.

Still, we managed to pick quite a few usable peaches.  Maybe 20 or 30 pounds?  They looked pretty gnarly, but they tasted GREAT.  Totally sweet and juicy, not mealy and flat-flavored like what you often find in the produce aisle of your well-intentioned supermarket.  Most of the black dots were only surface blemishes and came off with the skin. 

With my share of the loot, I made brandied peaches and peach jam.  Sadly, some portion of the stone fruits met their untimely demise over Labor Day weekend when I returned home to find a long, grayish-black hairy mold overtaking them like a Chia Pet growing actual human hair.  It was disgusting.  But I still have the jam!  And maybe next year we’ll have our own peach tree growing out of the compost bin!

Savin Hill Peach Jam

Adjust the recipe however you like: half the amount of sugar as peaches and some lemon juice for acidity.  I also added a little pectin just to make sure it would gel. 

4 lbs. peaches, skins on, pits removed, gnarly parts cut away
2 lbs. sugar
Juice of 2 lemons
1 Tbsp. pectin

Chop peaches coarsely and add to a large pot along with sugar.  Let sit, covered, at room temperature for several hours or overnight in the fridge. 

Dissolve pectin in lemon juice and add to peach mixture.  Simmer over medium-low heat for about an hour, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon at the beginning and increasing the frequency as it thickens to prevent the bottom from scorching.  Skim off any foam that rises to the top as it will cloud your jam.  It’s quite delicious for snacking, though.

When the mixture starts to look thick and jammy, hold your wooden spoon above the pot parallel to the floor, edges of the spoon up and down.  Tip the top of the spoon toward you slightly and watch the peach juice drip down into the pot.  If the drips come down in single, watery drips, you need to cook it some more.  If the drips start out singly, but then two drips join up to form one thick drip, this is sheeting.  I’m learning that I like to take the pot off the heat when it just reaches this point, sometimes a tiny bit sooner for a slightly looser jam.  (Alternatively, spoon a small amount onto a plate and put it in the freezer.  If it gels and wrinkles when touched, it’s good.) 

Ladle into clean jars.  Cool, cover, label, and refrigerate for up to a month.  Or, for longer lasting storage, can them using the boiling water method for 10 minutes.  Makes 6 pint jars.

Source: Adapted from Tea and Cookies.

Tart Cherry Preserves

In the cookbook Put ‘Em Up that I raffled off last month, there is a recipe for preserved cherries, the intro to which says, “Cherry preserves are to strawberry jam what a red satin gown is to a puffy pink prom dress.”  That’s for sure.  Only the author forgot to mention the red lipstick.  Lipstick and cleavage.  This, my friends, is the Christina Hendricks of jams. 

If you’ve never cooked with sour cherries (and I hadn’t until this year), let’s just say that there’s a reason why everybody swoons over them.  Under no circumstances should you EVER pass them up.  And I know it’s cruel to mention sour cherries when their season is past, but now you have a whole year to nail down a local source and mark your calendars for late June/early July so you don’t miss their fleeting window.  Then you should set some of them aside to make this:

Classic Cherry Preserves

Original recipe was doubled.  I should have stuck with the original recipe.

1½ lbs. sour cherries (sometimes labeled tart cherries)
½ cup sugar
2 Tbsp. lemon juice

Stem and pit the cherries (they're so juicy you can just cut them in half and flick out the pit with the tip of a paring knife, no pitter required).  Combine the cherries with a splash of water in a medium nonreactive saucepan.  Bring to a boil, mashing with a potato masher to release the juice.  Add the sugar and lemon juice and stir to dissolve.  Continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the preserves reach the desired thickness, 15 to 20 minutes (stick a jam-coated spoon in the freezer for a minute to see if it gels).  Remove from heat and let rest for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Ladle into clean jars.  Cool, cover, label, and refrigerate for up to a month.  (Or, for longer lasting storage, can them using the boiling water method for 10 minutes).  Now just try to keep your hands off them!

Source: Adapted from Put ‘Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton.

Constructing Pavlova

So now that you know (or don’t know) the history of pavlova, let’s make a pavlova!

If your experience with meringue is mostly marked by indifference, this pavlova will change all that.  It’s not chalky and tasteless the way some structured meringues can be.  Long, slow baking forms a thin, crisp shell on the outside while the middle stays soft and marshmallowy—a billowy, free-form cloud in the palest, purest shade of pink, like brand-new pointe shoes.  That outer shell is fragile enough that if you pile your fruit too high, as I did, the middle collapses slightly.  I suspect that’s why the whipped cream was introduced in the first place.  To cover up the fissures and sinkholes that arise when one of your major ingredients is just air.  That’s my theory, anyway. 

But the combination of sweet meringue, not-to-sweet whipped cream, and sweet-tart berries, along with the contrasting textures of crisp and yielding is absolutely delightful.  Which is why I ate all of the leftovers at 11 p.m. that night.  You know, because they wouldn’t taste as fresh and wholesome the next day!  Best of all—and I hope you’re reading this, Mom—pavlovas are gluten-free.  So, if you’re allergic to wheat, then consider this a very worthy substitute for strawberry shortcake.

Pavlova

Save the unused egg yolks for lemon curd or pasta dough or whatever else you make that could benefit from some extra richness.

4 egg whites
Pinch salt
1 cup sugar, whizzed in a food processor (or super-fine sugar)
1½ tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. vinegar
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. sugar (optional)
Splash of vanilla
1 quart strawberries, raspberries, black raspberries, or other seasonal fruit

Preheat oven to 250°F.  Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and trace an 8-inch circle on it in pencil using a cake pan or bowl as a guide.  Turn the parchment paper over so you don’t get pencil on your meringue (but make sure you can still see the circle you just drew).

Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large, clean bowl.  It’s very important that your bowl is grease-free and that you separated your eggs cleanly, with no broken yolks mixed in with the whites.  Any fat will interfere with the whipping process.  When soft peaks form, begin adding the sugar 1 tablespoonful at a time with the mixer running.  Continue beating on medium-high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form, about 5 minutes.  Rub some meringue on your fingers to make sure all the sugar has dissolved.  Lightly but thoroughly fold in the cornstarch and vinegar.  These ingredients are not optional.  They are necessary for that magical texture I described.

Gently mound the meringue in the center of the parchment and lightly spread it to fill the circle you traced.  With the back of a spoon, shape it so that it’s higher on the sides and dipped like a well in the middle.  Don’t fuss with it too much, though, or you’ll lose air.  It’s meant to look free-form.  Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until it’s just starting to take on some color and crack slightly (cracks are totally fine).  Then turn off the heat and let the meringue sit inside with the oven door ajar for 30 minutes.  Take out and let cool.

Assemble just before serving.  Whip the cream in a clean bowl with a splash of vanilla and perhaps a bit of sugar (though the meringue is sweet enough that you don’t need much) until soft peaks form.  Mound the cream in the well and top with seasonal fruit of your choosing. 

Local Ingredients:

Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries: Various local farms via Verrill Farm, Concord, MA

Rhubarb Pie

Oh, my god, you guys, I am obsessed with rhubarb pie.  Obsessed!  Do you know how many rhubarb pies I’ve made in the past two weeks?  Three.  Three pies and nary a strawberry to be found in any of them.  Strawberries have their time and place, don’t get me wrong, but that time is when they’re raw and right out of the garden, and that place is far away from my rhubarb pies. 

This recipe comes from my friend, Cathy, whom I stalked until she gave it to me.  Yes, I’m back to my stalking ways.  Get it?  Rhubarb?  Stalks?  Shut up.  Her recipe is tart, the way I like my rhubarb, with a touch of cream, which is how I like pretty much everything.  I had to add a little more sugar to appease Husband, and double the flour because my particular rhubarb seemed to have a high water content.  I also added a lattice crust so you wouldn’t be subjected to a photo of a pie that looked like someone just vomited into a pie shell.  Now it looks like someone vomited into a pie shell and I added a decorative lattice crust!  But you know I never discriminate against ugly food on this blog.  Ugly food is the best food.

Make this pie.  Make it early and often.  And I know one of you is going to ask me if you can leave out the cream, and my answer, as always, is that you could, but why would you want to do a silly thing like that?

 

Rhubarb Pie

Yes, you can use a premade crust, but I won’t stop nagging you to make your own at least once.  Below is a recipe for a homemade butter crust.  Using half butter, half shortening will give you extra flakiness (the tradeoff is transfats).  Or you could make a lard crust.

Crust
2 cups flour
12 Tbsp. cold butter, cut into pieces
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
1 lb. rhubarb, cut into 3/4-inch pieces (3½-4 cups)
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup flour
¼ tsp. salt
½ cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. lemon juice

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Folding over the sides of the plastic wrap, flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate at least an hour or until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450°F.  Have your 9-inch pie plate at the ready.  In a large bowl, toss rhubarb with sugar, flour, and salt.  In a small bowl, whisk together cream and lemon juice and set aside.  Retrieve your pie dough from the fridge.  Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to your pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align dough over pie plate and gently unfurl.

Dump rhubarb mixture into pie shell.  There will be a small pile of sugar and flour in the middle.  Redistribute evenly.  Pour cream mixture over the top evenly.  Roll out the second pie crust the same way as the first, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.   Place in oven on top shelf with a baking sheet on the bottom shelf to catch any drips.  Bake 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 350°F and bake until bubbly, puffed, and crust is richly caramelized, about 45 minutes more.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Local Sources:
Rhubarb: Verrill Farm, Concord, MA
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Grape Expectations

We’ve been enjoying fruit from Autumn Hills Orchard in Groton for three seasons now through a partnership they have with local CSAs. The shares consist of mostly apples--different varieties, all delicious--but some weeks you’ll get a few pears or peaches mixed in, a pint of prune plums, or, as we recently received, a bunch of Concord grapes.

The grapes smelled so good, I couldn’t even believe it. I got a little drunk off the heady aroma and started engaging in some grape-related tweeting, mostly about where one might find teeny-tiny dollhouse-sized mason jars to fit the amount of jam I’d be able to make with a single bunch of grapes. Pretty soon, Ann at Autumn Hills was offering to drop more off at my house while making her delivery rounds. I tried not to sound too desperate as we made arrangements.

Later on that day, under cover of darkness, the grape fairy left on my porch five pounds of the most fragrant, sweet, musky grapes this side of Concord. Which made the most fragrant, sweet, delicious grape jam I’ve ever tasted. Seriously, I can’t bring myself to put it on peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter wouldn’t know a classy jam if it kicked him in the nuts. I don’t have a canner or anything snazzy like that. I don’t usually “can” anything officially. I just make enough of whatever it is that can be consumed within two months and then store it in jars in the fridge. But now I’m getting the bug. Blame it on Calamity Shazaam in the Kitchen who attended Eugenia Bone’s recent canning class and had the marinated cauliflower to prove it. This other cool canning blog didn’t hurt, either. So, I canned 9 out of the 12 jars of jam, as many as would fit in my pot at one time, and refrigerated the rest.

Looking at the purple jars lined up in my pantry (aka some shelves at the top of the basement stairs), I can’t wait to savor the taste of sweet summer sunshine in between chiseling our way out of our ice house this winter. I’ve already polished off a jar spreading it on my morning toast and mid-morning snack/mid-afternoon snack/dessert of jam/Manchego cheese. This stuff is supernatural. Next, I’m canning applesauce. You can’t stop me.

Concord Grape Jam

I accidentally bought the pectin for sugar-free recipes instead of the regular kind because reading labels is not my strong suit. It worked perfectly, though. I wouldn’t change a thing.

5 lbs. Concord grapes, plucked from the vine, washed
1 cup water
1 box pectin (not gelatin)
7 cups sugar

Sterilize your jars however you like to do it. I boiled them for 10 minutes in a stock pot, jars resting on their metal rings to keep the glass from rattling horribly on the bottom.

In another large pot, mash grapes, add water, and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 10 minutes. Let cool a bit, then run through a food mill. Of the three disks that came with the food mill, I used the one with the mid-sized holes, which kept out seeds and skins but kept in a little bit of pulp, not too much. I was left with about 7 cups of grape puree. Return puree to pot, add pectin, and bring to a hard boil. Stir in the sugar, return to a boil, and cook 1 minute longer. Remove from heat.

Ladle into sterilized jars leaving about ½-inch of headspace. Wipe off rims of jars with a damp paper towel. Screw on lids and boil jars for 10 minutes in water covering them by 1 inch. Let cool 24 hours (you should hear the suction pull the metal lids inward with a pop as they cool). If you don’t achieve a good seal or if you want to just skip the canning, store the jars in the refrigerator and give away whatever you won’t be able to eat. Label jars with the date. Makes 12 half-pint jelly jars.

Source: Adapted from The Salted Cod. We did a jam swap last year, so I knew his recipe was a good one.

Pancakes (and Parentheses)

I haven’t cooked that much this week due to a looming deadline I foolishly thought I’d be up for.  (Note to self: Get your life in order first.  You have all the time in the world for this kind of stuff later.  Maybe.) 

Happily, Husband made his famous Eat Local blueberry pancakes (along with Codman Farm bacon) for dinner last night, or “brinner” as the First Grader likes to call it.  I always find the act of eating pancakes to be not only delicious but therapeutic.  My ritual has been the same for as long as I can remember:

Place pat of butter on top of each warm pancake, preferably on a stack three high, to induce at least partial melting (soft, partially melted butter is always better than fully melted butter; cold, hard butter is unacceptable).  Pour maple syrup over the stack, making sure most of it drips down the sides forming pools for dipping.  Gravity has never let me down so far. (Over the years, I’ve settled on the dipping strategy because dry pancakes with the syrup already soaked in might as well have no syrup at all.  You can keep pouring more syrup on top, but it’s just going to keep soaking in.  How big is your maple syrup budget?  My rule of thumb is, if the piece of pancake I’m about to eat doesn’t shine with syrup, then there’s not enough syrup.  (Hence the dipping.)). 

One side of the stack at a time, cut off the edges, dip them, etc. (I tend to cut them into smaller pieces to make the process last as long as possible).  That leaves me with a square stack of interior pancakes soaked with maximum butter, which gets cut into four equal squares (NOT triangles) to mop up the syrup until it’s gone.  Add more syrup to finish off squares.  Note remaining syrup.  Get more pancakes to finish off syrup.  Repeat.  (Pancake-to-syrup ratio is similar to the milk-to-cereal ratio discussed in previous guest post.)

You could analyze this all sorts of different ways, about saving the best for last or trying to exert some control over one’s environment, but I think it’s just that I really like butter and maple syrup.  Needless to say, my manner of pancake consumption drives Husband crazy.  For me, it’s comforting because it reminds me of who I am.  This becomes increasingly important the less physically recognizable I become.  And, who I am, apparently, is someone who likes to subject herself to alternately stressful and euphoric manic writing binges with unreasonable deadlines. 

(And pancakes.)

 

Blueberry Whole Wheat Pancakes

I’m reprising this recipe from a post a few years ago, it’s such a favorite.

4 eggs
2 cups milk
¼ cup vegetable oil
6 Tbsp. butter, melted
1¼ cup whole wheat flour
1¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. maple sugar
1 tsp. salt
1½ cups frozen blueberries, defrosted

Beat eggs in a large bowl until light and foamy.  Add milk, oil, and butter, and whisk to blend.  Sift dry ingredients over wet ingredients in bowl, and whisk until combined.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium heat until hot (test by flicking some water into the pan; the water droplets should sizzle vigorously and disappear).  Pour batter into pan in the size you prefer, and sprinkle blueberries over the batter.  Let the pancakes get some color, then flip.  Repeat with remaining batter.  Apply butter and maple syrup, and you’re good to go.

Local Sources:

Eggs, bacon: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA

Milk: Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Maple sugar: The Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)

Blueberries: Wyman’s, Milbridge, ME

Maple syrup: Butternut Mountain Farm, Morrisville, VT

A New Twist on Apple Butter

 

(Cut the First Grader some slack with the apostrophe.  Maybe he wasn’t done with the sentence.)

 

My strawberry-black raspberry jam is long gone, so I staked out some time yesterday to make apple butter.  I thought it would be fun to try it the old- fashioned way my great-grandmother described, with the big copper kettle over an open fire and young crushes trying not to bang the stirrer against the pot under penalty of a kiss.  But the local teenagers I polled didn’t seem to share in my enthusiasm for the project, possibly seeing through my ploy for free manual labor, even though I did mention the kissing part.  Not me, I clarified.  Each other.  Okay, old lady, they said in between sexting.  As soon as we finish smoking our corncob pipes. 

No one has any respect for the elderly anymore.

So I kicked everyone out of the kitchen and researched a more modern method.  A family recipe up on Simply Recipes had me intrigued with its use of apple cider vinegar instead of apple cider.  Vinegar?  I’d never heard of that.  Nevertheless, as I had some vinegar but no cider, I forged ahead, skeptical but always willing to overlook these things when measured against the prospect of a trip to Russo’s during peak shopping hours.

That wasn’t the only twist, though.

 

 

 

I added some husk cherries to the apples in the pot.  Why not?  My mom’s delicious tomato jam uses the same spices as apple butter.  Husk cherries are tomato-like.  If anything, I figured they would add complexity and depth to the apple flavor, and maybe some extra pectin to boot.

 

 

You’re expecting this to end badly, aren’t you?  But the end result was, in a word, delightful.  Warmly spiced but slightly tart with a luscious, velvety texture, it’s worthy of several kisses, at least.  So take that, horny teenagers!

 

Husk Cherry-Apple Butter

You can make this without the husk cherries (also known as ground cherries); just reduce the amount of sugar to 1 cup.  Recipe can be doubled.

4 apples

Pint of husk cherries, papery husks removed (about 1/2 cup of fruit)

½ cup apple cider vinegar

1 cup water

1½ cups sugar

½ tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. allspice

Pinch of cloves

 

Pinch of salt

 

 

Cut apples in half, then into thick wedges (keep peels on and cores intact as they add flavor and pectin).  Add apples, husk cherries, cider vinegar, and water to the pot.  Bring to boil and simmer, covered, until soft (about 20 minutes).  Mash up the mixture and process it through a food mill set over a bowl (or you can press it through a sieve with a wooden spoon).  Add sugar, spices, and salt to the apple butter, and cook over medium-low heat, uncovered, for about an hour until thick and darkened.  Makes enough to fill 3 small jelly jars.

Recipe Source: Adapted from Simply Recipes.

Local Ingredient Sources:

Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA

Husk cherries: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Apple cider vinegar: Carlson Orchards, Harvard, MA

Buckle Up

Turns out I’m addicted to black raspberries.  I picked a bunch more a few days ago because it was raining, and when I got back, Looky Daddy had tweeted about this, which was adapted from this.  Suddenly, there was cake in the oven, its jammy scent wafting upstairs, interfering with my ability to fold laundry properly.  (I’m still finding mismatched socks in odd places.)

I managed to hold off for most of the day, but then I ate a quarter of this cake while making dinner.  What, I’m just fattening myself up for chemo. 

Black Raspberry Buckle

I know buckles usually have a crumbly topping, but that would ruin this.  It’s perfect the way it is.  I just like the name.

1 cup all-purpose flour
½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
4 Tbsp. unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar, plus 1 Tbsp., divided (I liked Pinch My Salt’s idea of using demerara sugar on top.  I would have done it if I'd had some.)
½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
½ cup buttermilk, well shaken
1 cup fresh black (or red) raspberries

Preheat oven to 400°F with rack towards the top.  Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.  Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Cream butter and 2/3 cup sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes.  Beat in vanilla. Add egg and mix well.

At low speed, add flour mixture in 3 batches, alternating with buttermilk, and mixing until just combined.  Spoon batter into cake pan, smoothing top.  Scatter raspberries evenly over top and sprinkle with remaining 1 Tbsp sugar.

Bake until cake is golden and a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool.  Serve.

Source: Adapted from Gourmet’s recipe by Melissa Roberts.

Serendipitous Cheesecake

So often, the very best things I come up with are not what I intended to make at all.  They’re usually offshoots of things that didn’t quite work, or I didn’t like, or were in some other way terribly misguided.  Kind of like my life.  This cheesecake evolved in much the same way.  I’ll spare you the backstory.  Suffice it to say that I had a lot of soft cheese that I needed to figure out something to do with. 

These little cheesecakes make use of two of my favorite local ingredients: goat cheese from Westfield Farm in Hubbardston and Bonnie’s Jams out of Cambridge.  They’re more reminiscent of thick, New York-style cheesecakes than creamy, custardy cheesepies.  Dense, sturdy, and rich, the same way I like my men.  Just kidding.  The tangy goat cheese gives them lots of character.  Don’t you just love the way the fruit spills over and stains the exposed walls?  (If you reject this one, Tastespotting, you’re dead to me.)

This is a good occasion to show off any of your own preserved berries you may have hiding away, preferably something on the tart side.  But, if you don’t know your gelatin from your pectin, fear not.  Bonnie’s fruit preserves are pretty much better than anything I could ever make.  I don’t really even understand how anything out of jar can taste that good, but I’m very glad it’s possible.  What you see up there are blackberry preserves, although the blueberry and lemon would also be nice.  I’ve always felt her jars were a little too pricey just to spread on toast.  They’re more like dessert fare.  In fact, if I do say so myself, this may be the perfect use for them.

Little Goat Cheesecakes with Blackberry Compote

I get the impression that cheesecake is considered passé, but I will never tire of it.  NEVER. 

1 cup graham cracker crumbs or 9 graham crackers, pulverized
5 Tbsp. butter, melted
2 8-oz. packages cream cheese
10 oz. goat cheese
½ cup sugar
2 Tbsp. honey
2 eggs
Blackberry preserves (or whatever else you fancy)

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Mix butter with graham cracker crumbs until well moistened.  Grease one of those mini-cheesecake pans and press crumb mixture into the bottoms only.  You could also use muffin tins.  Or, if you don’t have the former and you don’t feel like washing the latter, you could use a set of biscuit cutters of varying sizes set on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.  Your call.  Bake 10 minutes.  Let cool.

Cut cream cheese into chunks and nuke them until they soften (maybe 3-4 minutes on medium).  Crumble in goat cheese and add sugar, honey, and eggs.  Whip until smooth.  You can use a mixer or, if the cream cheese is warm enough, just do it with a whisk.  Spoon into forms and bake about 20 minutes or until centers are set and just starting to crack.  Let cool and refrigerate.  Carefully remove from forms and serve with Bonnie’s blackberry preserves.  Makes 9 to 12 depending on size.

The Truth About Lard

Look what I found at Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds:

Laaaaaaaaaard.  Because Pete and Jen don’t just raise birds, they also raise pigs in pristine Concord (as well as sheep, rabbits, and, potentially, a cow).  I think they should change their name to Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds And Other Animals.  They’re really nice people over there behind Verrill Farm, but, more importantly, they have lard.

Lard gets a bad rap.  It’s a terrible-sounding word from a phonetic standpoint.  It’s almost always used in a derogatory way (e.g., lard-ass).  Sure, it’s possible that there may be a correlation between eating large quantities of lard and an ever-expanding derrière, but that can be said of lots of things.  I don’t think we need to single out lard unfairly.  And while the idea of pig fat may be less than appealing in a theoretical sense, practically speaking, there’s no more delicious way to make sure all the parts of the animal are put to good use.  I mean, you like bacon, don’t you?  That’s something like 75% pig fat, if you’re lucky. You can’t love bacon and hate lard.  It’s physically impossible.

So, now that we’re being open-minded about lard, let’s put some in a pie!  A pie crust, to be exact.  Why are we back to heaving so soon?  You know how great apples and pork go together.  Here, lard just provides extra richness and a delicate flakiness to the crust.  It’s not like the pie is going to have a giant pork chop in the middle of it or anything.  I don’t think.  I mean, no, of course it’s not.  God, Tammy, show some restraint.

Dough made with lard handles very differently than dough made with butter.  The mixture is sandier, requires less water, and is softer and easier to work with.  It’s a good dough for novice pie-makers.  

I always form any leftover dough scraps into little jam-filled tarts so I have something to distract me away from cutting into the larger pie before company arrives.  Would you look at the flakiness?!

Just look at it!!!  (Calm down, Tammy.  You’re making a scene!)  This is why pie crusts made with lard are so awesome.  You can’t buy this in a box. 

Here’s the pie. 

Sorry, there was no time for even cursory styling as there was a chicken stew to be made.  Here’s what was going on in the other three feet of counter space to the left. 

Raw chicken and pie.  Two worlds that must never collide.  Unless, of course, we’re talking about chicken pot pie.  Drooooooool.  Need more lard!

 

Apple Pie for the Pork Lover

Or, if I have failed to convince you losers, the crust can be made with butter instead.  You’ll need 12 tablespoons of unsalted butter plus several more tablespoons of water.

Crust
2 cups flour
¾ cup lard
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
8 Tbsp. ice water (you may need slightly more or slightly less depending on the humidity, phase of the moon, your emotional state, etc., etc.)

Filling
6-7 tart apples, like Cortland, Northern Spy, Macoun, or whatever, peeled, cored, sliced ¼-inch thick
¾ cup sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. nutmeg (preferably freshly grated)

1 egg, beaten

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add spoonfuls of lard and pulse in 1-second beats until you have little chunks the size of small peas (around 12-15 pulses).  Be careful not to process it into oblivion.  If the dough gets too uniform, I suspect some flakiness will be lost in the final product.  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  The dough should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead it or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest on the other.  Flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate at least a half hour until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  In a small bowl, mix sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg.  Add all but 1 Tbsp. to the sliced apples and mix.  Set aside.

Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to a 9-inch pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align over pie plate and gently unfurl.  Make sure it’s centered, then brush bottom of dough with beaten egg (this seems to help keep the crust from getting too soggy).

Pour in the apples.  Roll out the second crust the same way, only slightly smaller.  Drape over fruit.  Fold edges of top crust over edges of bottom crust and crimp.  Cut steam vents on top with a sharp paring knife.  Brush dough with beaten egg and sprinkle with reserved sugar mixture. Place pie plate on baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 375°F and bake until bubbly and crust is golden brown, 20-30 minutes more.  Let cool until warm.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Apple Cake and a Word About Flour

If I’m going to follow all of these Eat Local rules, then I have some rules of my own for this apple cake.  First, you must use a cast iron pan.  Preferably one that has spent a large portion of its life span getting cozy with bacon fat.  If you don’t have one, you must get one now.  Quickly, before the market gets any worse.  They’re cheap.  Just heavy.  Then you must cook 200 lbs. of local bacon to properly season it.  (Hey, I didn’t make the rules.  Or did I?)

Actually, those are my only requirements for this cake, besides eating it slowly, which is impossible.  Some rules are meant to be broken.  (Except the cast iron one.)

But first, a word about flour.  I found a local source for whole wheat flour last year: Wood Prairie Farm in Maine (they also have rye flour and oats).  Yes, I know that having stuff like that shipped to me isn’t exactly sustainable from a fuel- consumption standpoint, but maybe if there’s enough demand, people will start growing grain again in Massachusetts.  Not on a Midwestern scale, but on a community-supported scale.  It’s been known to happen.

It should be noted, however, that, in addition to local grains, I’m also allowing myself to use King Arthur all-purpose flour in equal parts when I see fit.  King Arthur grain comes mostly from the Midwest, but they are an employee-owned, Vermont company that originated in Boston in 1790.  They’ve got history and they make really good flour.  This, too, falls under the umbrella of “I value their craft.”  (BTW, I also value the craft of the baking powder and baking soda people, so add those to my growing list of exemptions, too.)

This cake may not be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, but few apple cakes are.  They’re rustic.  This one has a large, soft crumb, and all these buttery, nutty, mapley notes that make it pretty irresistible.  When I made it yesterday, though, the cake wasn’t tall enough due to the size of the pan I was using, so I doubled the amount of cake batter in the recipe.  I HAVE NOT RETESTED THE RECIPE SINCE.  I don’t have time.  I’m, like, barely holding things together as it is.  The recipe should work, by my calculations.  I’m like 99% sure, but I will not accept hate mail on this particular point since I’ve already issued a warning. 

So, who’s going to be the guinea pig?  If anyone does my recipe-testing for me, I’ll link to your blog in return.

Apple and Maple Brown Butter Upside-Down Cake

If you’re not eating locally, you can still make this with regular brown sugar and apples from China.

Topping
½ cup unsalted butter
1 cup maple sugar
3-4 tart apples, peeled, cored, cut into ¼-inch slices

Batter
2/3 cup unsalted butter
2 cups maple sugar
2 large eggs
1 cup milk
½ cup apple cider
1-1/3 cup whole wheat flour
1-1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. fresh grated nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350 F.

In a 12-inch cast iron skillet, melt butter.  Heat for 3-4 minutes, gently tipping pan back and forth, until butter turns a medium shade of amber.  It’s hard to tell against the jet-black metal, but just make a call before it burns.  Remove pan from heat and stir in maple sugar.  Spread evenly on bottom of pan.  Arrange apple slices on top.  Don’t burn yourself.  Go on, try it.

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar.  Add the eggs, milk, and cider, and mix well.  Add dry ingredients and stir just until incorporated.  Pour batter on top of apples.  Bake 35-45 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Let cool a bit and then loosen edges and bottom carefully with a spatula.  Invert a plate on top of the skillet and carefully flip.  It’s really freaking heavy.  You will have some words for me.  Cake should come loose onto the plate, apple side up.  Serve warm.  Vanilla ice cream never hurts.

Sources:
Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA
Butter: Cabot, Montpelier, VT (Russo’s)
Maple sugar: Warren Farm and Sugar House, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA (Russo’s)
Milk: Our Family Farms of Western Massachusetts, Bernardston, MA (Russo’s)
Apple cider: Allen’s Cider Mill, West Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Crisp Autumn

Last weekend, there was a CSA potluck dinner at my farm.  I cursed myself for already having plans.  After all, that might have been the only chance I’m ever offered to see the Farmer in a purely social setting (deep breath), with his hat off (gasp!), eating something that he himself prepared (hyperventilating).

I thought about standing up our friends at our own house, as I’m known to do when something better comes along (or when nothing better comes along).  But then my conscience got in the way.  I mean, what were the odds that I’d get to have the Farmer all to myself at a romantic table for two that I would have set up in the spot with the best view with candlelight and lots of booze?

Not good, I thought.  Might as well keep my plans intact.

The esteemed harrison3 brought his family over, and we had burgers with homemade pickles, coleslaw, and watermelon.  Apparently I was trying to fool myself into thinking it was still summertime.  I know that menu looks like I totally phoned it in, but did I mention that the pickles were homemade?  Homemade and amazing.  I made the hamburgers and coleslaw, too (half-hearted applause).  Oh, and apple raspberry crisp, the only clue that we were, as we continue to be, firmly entrenched in fall. 

I’m not sure which was better, the pickles or the crisp (the pickles?), but the photo of the crisp came out better, so that’s the recipe you’re going to get!

 

Apple Raspberry Crisp

You don’t need too many raspberries for this.  A handful or two will do you just fine.  Who can make it all the way home with a full pint anyway?

Topping
¾ cup rolled oats
1/3 cup brown sugar
½ cup flour
1/3 cup cold butter, cut into pieces
1/3 cup sliced almonds

Filling
6-8 apples, peeled, cored, cut into ¼-inch thick slices
½ cup raspberries
Juice from ½ lemon
½ cup brown sugar
2 Tbsp. flour
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. grated nutmeg
¼ tsp. almond extract

Preheat oven to 350°F.

For the topping, combine oats, brown sugar, flour, and butter in food processor.  Pulse until crumbly, with butter pieces the size of small peas.  Stir in the almonds by hand to keep them whole.

In a large bowl, combine apples, lemon juice, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and almond extract.  Gently fold in raspberries.  Dump into an 8x8-inch baking dish, spreading evenly.  Pour topping over the fruit.  Bake 50-55 minutes, until apples are tender and bubbling and top is golden brown (use the broiler if you must).  Serve warm with vanilla ice cream.  That is not a suggestion.

How To Salvage a Mistake

Well.  I had planned to share with you a very special and virtually-unheard-of family recipe for spiced tomato jam, but apparently tomato jam is all the rage this year, what with both Mark Bittman and Amanda Hesser beating me to the punch.  And with a lineup like that, you have to wonder what in the world I could bring to the table that they couldn’t.

Mistakes, that’s what.  Mistakes and I will always have each other.

My mom’s recipe was simple enough.  Not something you could easily screw up.  So although I hadn’t ever made it before or even tasted it since childhood, I laughed, hahahahaha, as I wandered down the baking aisle and grabbed a box of that powdered gel stuff the recipe called for.  And when I got home, I snickered about all the crazy shit I’d have to make up for this post since nothing remotely interesting was going to happen.  Hooohooohooo, slapping at my knee as I dumped the powdered gel stuff into the pot of simmering tomatoes.

Hmmmm.  Why is it clumping up like that?  Gross.  It looks like I tried to cook a jellyfish.  It’s almost like what happens if you dump gelatin into hot liquid without dissolving it first…

Fuck! 

The English writing on the box confirmed my worst fears.  I had used gelatin instead of pectin.  What’s the difference, you might ask?  Well, pectin isn’t made from crushed-up, boiled-down animal bones, for one.  Pectin is plant-based and not quite so…gelatiny?  It’s a kinder, gentler jelling agent.  Anyway, I don’t know what happened.  My hand automatically goes straight for the animal product.  I can’t control it.

The “jam” ended up tasting great, just like what I remember, but the texture is creepy.  It’s way too firm to spread, which kind of defeats the purpose of a jelly.  It’s even too dense to qualify as a Jell-O mold (thank god), so here’s what I decided.  Get yourself some Manchego cheese and slice it into thick pieces.  Scoop out a big glob of this tomato concoction, slice it (yes, you can totally slice it), and place atop cheese.  Voila.  It reminds me of the quince paste the Spaniards like to eat on their Manchego for dessert, except with autumn spices.  And less quince.  It was truly delicious, much less creepy in this format, and I’m looking forward to trying it with other cheeses, too.

Or, here’s another idea.  Make it correctly.

 

Spiced Tomato Jam

Sure-Jell is pectin.  Sure-Jell is not gelatin.  Double-check your work.

2¼ lb. tomatoes
1½ tsp. grated lemon rind
¼ cup lemon juice
½ tsp. allspice
½ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. ground cloves
1 box Sure-Jell
4½ cups sugar

Into a pot of boiling water, gently place 3 pint jars and their lids for 5 minutes to sterilize them.  Let dry on a dishtowel.

Scald tomatoes in boiling water for 30 seconds and then dunk them in a bowl of ice water to cool.  Peel and discard skins.  Chop tomatoes roughly (no need to remove the seeds).  In a large pot, simmer tomatoes for 10 minutes.  You should have about 3 cups of cooked tomatoes.  Add lemon rind, lemon juice, spices, and pectin.  Cook over high heat until mixture comes to a hard boil.  Immediately add sugar and bring to a full rolling boil (a boil that cannot be stirred down).  Boil hard 1 minute, stirring constantly.  Mixture will threaten to overflow the pot’s edges, which is why you need a large pot.  If you’re freaking out, grab oven mitts and, while stirring, remove the pot from the heat to let the foam subside a bit, but keep it boiling as hard as you can for that minute. 

Remove from heat, skim off foam with a metal spoon.  Ladle into sterilized jars, leaving ¼-inch space at the top.  Seal jars and place them in a pot of boiling water for 15 minutes.  Let cool on rack.  After half an hour, shake to prevent fruit from floating to the top.  Store in a cool place.

Peach Blueberry Pie

This peach blueberry pie may be the best pie I’ve ever made! 

It’s shocking for two reasons.  One, because I’m out of practice making pies.  Two, because my oven decided to stop working midway through the baking time.  I didn’t even realize it was broken until hours later when I went to preheat the oven for dinner and it never got past 100°F. 

Suddenly, everything made sense.  How I kept having to add 10 minutes to the baking time over and over again, because the pie filling still wasn’t bubbling the way it usually does when it’s done.  How I kept checking to make sure that when I reduced the heat from 425°F to 375°F, I didn’t accidentally press 75°F.  Because it really didn’t feel too hot in there.  How the whole house didn’t smell like PIE!!!!, but merely pie.  And how I finally gave up and stuck it under the broiler to get the top nice and brown instead of a waxy shade of beige. 

Yes, any combination of these things should have set off warning bells, but no.  I was all, it’s been a while since I’ve made pie.  Maybe they don’t really smell that good?  Perhaps now that summer is waning, I’ve lost all ability to sense heat?  Anyway, I guess the secret to an awesome pie is to bake it fast and furious at the beginning and then long and sloooooow at the end.  You heard it here first, Chris Kimball.

The peaches and blueberries are from Carver Hill Orchard in Stow, where we went peach-picking on Saturday.  Unlike our cherry-picking extravaganza earlier in the summer, this expedition involved a ridiculous amount of whining and misbehavior from the kids.  So much as to render it almost not enjoyable at all.  But the payoff came in the form of pie.  Sweet, sweet solace. 

Peach Blueberry Pie

If anyone wants some, come to my house by noon tomorrow or it will be gone.

Crust
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
3 lb. fresh peaches (about 5 large or 7 small peaches)
1 cup blueberries
1/3 cup brown sugar
¼ cup white sugar, plus 1 Tbsp. to sprinkle on top
¼ cup flour
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into cubes

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  Set a large pot of water to boil.  Dunk the peaches in the boiling water for about 30 seconds, then submerge in ice water.  Peel off their velvet cloaks.  Cut into thin wedges, discarding the pits.  To the bowl of peaches, add the washed blueberries, brown sugar, white sugar, flour, lemon juice, vanilla, and nutmeg.  Mix it up and set aside.

Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to a 9-inch pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align over pie plate and gently unfurl.  Make sure it’s centered, then brush bottom of dough with beaten egg (this seems to help keep the crust from getting too soggy). 

Pour in the fruit.  Dot with cubes of butter.  Roll out second crust the same way, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.  Brush crust and lattice with beaten egg and sprinkle with sugar.  Place pie plate on baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 375°F and bake until bubbly and crust is richly caramelized, maybe 30-40 more minutes if your oven is functioning properly.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool until warm.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

For Dessert: Cherries Over Ricotta

It was hard to justify doing anything to these cherries besides eating them out of hand, but it seemed even sillier not to make the dessert that inspired the whole trip in the first place.  Stupid’s more like it. 

So here it is:  2 cups of Port boiled down to a thick syrup (15 minutes or so).  Add the pitted cherries.  Let macerate for as long as you can stand it.  Spoon over the best ricotta you can find (Russo’s carries ricotta from Purity in Quincy and sometimes Gigi’s Mozzarella House in Everett).  A few generous cracks of black pepper made it 200% better, something I wish I had discovered before I snapped the photo.  Oh well. 

I loved this dessert, but I suspect that not everyone will.  You have to pick your crowd.  It tastes like actual cherries and wine, not cherry pie filling.  It comes nowhere near the sweetness level that most Americans have come to expect when cherries are on the menu.  Rather, it’s subtle in that beguiling way that leaves you wanting just a little bit more.  Just a little.

Tuesdays with Dorie: The Lemon Cream Tart That Never Was

See that photo?  You have to pretend there’s a piece of lemon cream tart on that plate.  Instead of just a spoonful of lemon cream.  C’mon, just use your imagination.

It’s not that Dorie Greenspan’s lemon cream tart recipe failed or sucked or anything like that.  The lemon cream was just too good.  It never made it into the tart shell.  Fine, I never made a tart shell.  But even if I had, it never would have made it in there.  So, I’d like to pretend there was something fancy going on in that picture, but, really, it was just me spooning out lemon cream from a mixing bowl and eating raspberries by the handful with no plate involved. 

So much for making a good impression with my first Tuesdays with Dorie post. 

Since I failed to make the assigned recipe because I was too cheap/lazy to spring for a madeleine pan, and then failed to make, in its entirety, the substitute recipe, I think it’s safe to say that things aren’t off to a fantastic start.  And that’s pretty much how it’s going to continue until I get kicked out of the club.

But, damn, that was good lemon cream.  Here’s the recipe if you’re interested.  If it seems like a lot of butter, it is.  I don’t want to think about how many sticks of the stuff I consumed in less than 24 hours, but the good news is this.  The lemon curd, before you whip in the butter, is also outstanding.  Tart and addictive, and I already have some plans for it.

Lemon Cream
Like lemon curd except the butter gets whipped in at the end to a silky, emulsified finish. 

1 cup sugar
Grated zest of 3 lemons
4 large eggs
¾ cup fresh lemon juice (from 4-5 lemons)
2 sticks plus 5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into Tbsp.-sized pieces

Have an instant-read or candy thermometer, and a blender with a strainer resting on top at the ready.  Bring a medium pot half-full of water to a boil. 

Find a large metal mixing bowl that can be set on top of the pot without the bottom touching the water.  Off the heat, rub the sugar and zest together between your fingers until the sugar is moist, grainy, and very aromatic.  Whisk in the eggs followed by the lemon juice.

Once the water is boiling, set the bowl on top of the pan and whisk quickly.  When it starts to get hot, insert the thermometer.  Keep whisking vigorously (so the eggs don’t scramble) until the mixture thickens and the temperature reaches 180°F (between 5 and 10 minutes).  Immediately remove it from the heat and pour it into the strainer over the blender, a bit at a time, using a rubber scraper to push it through.  Discard the zest.  Let the cream sit in the blender bowl for 10 minutes to cool a bit. 

Turn the blender to high and, with the machine going, add the butter about 5 pieces at a time.  Scrape down the sides as needed.  Once all the butter is in, blend the cream for another 3 minutes.  Pour cream into a container, press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours.  When you’re ready to use it, just whisk the cream a bit to loosen it.  You can use it as a tart filling, a cake filling, on toast, over fruit, or straight out of the bowl like yours truly.
Source: Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From My Home to Yours and Pierre Hermé.

Cookbook Friday: Jam and Apple Butter

On the farm where my great grandmother, Ethel Shepherd, grew up (between Price and Brush Mountains in Virginia), there was fruit aplenty in the summertime.  There were wild blackberries in the pasture fields, and pear, wild plum, and cherry trees nearby.  They also had a small apple orchard.  Sometimes, they would even borrow a team of horses and wagon to go up the mountain for the day to pick huckleberries, packing sandwiches and water for lunch. 

The fruit was eaten fresh in season, and then canned, dried, or preserved to enjoy the rest of the year.  Here were her techniques for making jam and apple butter:

Jam

Preserves were made by measuring one cup of fruit to one cup of sugar, and boiling in an open pot until thick.  To judge thickness, put a spoonful on a saucer and let cool to see how it sets.  This requires twenty minutes minimum for strawberries, and more for other things depending on the ripeness of the fruit.

Apple Butter

Making apple butter presented an occasion for neighbors to get together.  Peeled apples were cut into snits (small sections).  The next day, the 40-gallon copper kettle was set up over an open fire with several gallons of cider in it.  The apples were dumped into the kettle and cooked to a mush.  Then, the sugar and spices were added and it was cooked some more.  It had to be stirred constantly.  The stir was ten to fifteen feet in length, with a crossbar on the handle.  The stirring was done by two people at a time, preferably a courtin’ couple.  If they hit the handle on the kettle with the stir, they got to kiss!

And you’re buying your apple butter at the store!

Sweet and Sour

As I mentioned before, I’m making an effort to be nicer to my husband.  To relive the early days of romance when, if he asked for a bowl of rice pudding, for example, I would immediately leap into action and return with 16 bowls of rice pudding balanced atop my head.  Instead of plopping a bag of rice down in front of him. 

(Why is new love so unreasonable?)

Last week, I made Dorie Greenspan’s lemon poppy seed muffins with dabs of jam inside.  Husband loved them despite the fact that he usually doesn’t like lemon- flavored things, which I had forgotten when I decided to make them (Strike 2).  Anyway, he liked them so much that he commanded me to make them again.  His exact words were: “I command you to make these again.”  It’s sort of a joke between us because he knows how well I respond to commands.  How the mere implication touches off an internal struggle in my brain between wanting to do the nice thing, and wanting to DENY anyone anything that is commanded of me.  (I’m the kind of woman that religious extremists dream of oppressing.  Except that nobody can oppress me better than me, so the joke’s on them!)

But, I still haven’t made the muffins, again.  Geez, Tammy, can’t you take a joke? 

Maybe not.

 

Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins

I broke my local rule so I could sneak some of my favorite jam into these muffins.  It’s Bonnie’s Black and Blue.  Blackberry and blueberry jam.  Together.  In one jar.  And it even has the local berry farmer’s name on the label: Pio Angelini.  How sweet!

2/3 cup sugar
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
¾ cup sour cream
2 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 stick unsalted butter, melted cooled
2 Tbsp. poppy seeds
¼ cup blackberry jam

Preheat oven to 400°F and center rack in oven.  Butter a regular-sized muffin pan and set on cookie sheet.

In a large bowl, rub the sugar and lemon zest together with your fingers until the sugar is moist and strongly scented of lemon.  Whisk in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  In a medium bowl, whisk the sour cream, eggs, vanilla, lemon juice, and melted butter together until well blended.  Pour the wet ingredients over the dry ingredients and, with a rubber spatula, gently but quickly stir to blend.  Stir in the poppy seeds.  Do not overmix.

Fill muffin cups with batter to the halfway mark.  With the back of a spoon, push a depression into the batter for a teaspoonful of jam.  Divide remaining batter between the cups and, using a clean spoon, push down the batter around the edges to seal in the jam.  Bake about 20 minutes or until the tops are golden.  Let cool in pan at least 5 minutes before removing them.

Source: Adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From My Home to Yours.  And by the way, I’ve just joined the Tuesdays with Dorie baking club, so you’ll be seeing a lot more from her starting next week.  And maybe then my dad will stop complaining that we never have anything good in the house.

Cookbook Friday: Fried Apple Pies

Pearl [Price] Shepherd circa 1900 in Price’s Fork, Virginia.

Remember that little girl in last week’s post?  Here she is all grown up.  Ain’t she purty?

In 1899, Pearl Price married Zack Shepherd, who we’ll meet next week, and they had three daughters: Willie Mae, Ethel (my great grandmother), and Claribel.  They lived on a small, half-acre farm between Price and Brush Mountains in Virginia.  The land was quite fertile and they grew potatoes, corn, beans, cabbage, beets, turnips, and sweet potatoes, among other things.  They also had a cow, some pigs, and a small orchard of fruit trees. 

As I mentioned before, a lot of my great grandmother’s early recipes aren’t too terribly detailed, including this one:

“My mother [Pearl] used dried sour apples to make fried pies.  She cooked the apples, mashed them, and added spice, cloves, and sugar.  Next, she took a ball of biscuit dough and rolled it out round.  She spread the apple mixture on one half, and folded the other half over it.  Then, she fried it to a golden brown.  Boy, were they good!”

For most of these sorts of recipes, I’m leaving you to your own devices because that's just the kind of friend I am.  Plus, these excerpts are really more about preserving the history than actually replicating the dish.  But in this particular case, since I’ve made these fritters a bunch of times and I love them, it’s really the least I can do to share what I did (which I never wrote down so I had to make them again this week, hence my tardiness with the recipe).   But don’t get used to it.  I plan to revert back to my usual lazy self next week.

 

Fried Apple Pies

Instead of dried apples, I used fresh tart apples for the filling.  The biscuit dough is an adaptation of my Great Aunt Claribel's recipe.

Filling
3 tart apples, like Granny Smiths or McIntoshes or both
¼ cup sugar
½ tsp. cinnamon
Pinch cloves

Biscuit Dough
2 cups flour
1 tsp. sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
3 Tbsp. shortening or lard
¾ cup buttermilk (and, perhaps, a tablespoon or two more)
Oil, shortening, or lard for frying

Peel, core, and dice apples.  In a small bowl, mix together sugar and spices.  Set aside 1 teaspoon of sugar mixture to sprinkle on finished fritters.  Add the apples and remaining sugar mixture to a small pot.  Cook over medium heat, stirring, until the apples start to release their juices.  Cover, reduce heat to low, and cook until softened, stirring occasionally, about 10-12 minutes (you may need to add a bit of water during the cooking process if it gets too dry).  Let cool.

In a medium-sized bowl, sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.  Rub shortening into dry ingredients with your hands until pieces are smaller than pea-sized.  Add buttermilk and fluff with a fork to combine.  If dough is too dry to hold together, add a bit more buttermilk.  Bring dough together with hands and knead a few times until cohesive.  Break off pieces about golf-ball-sized and roll out into circles with a rolling pin.  Place apple filling in the middle of the dough circle (a bit off-center), then fold over one side and seal, pressing edges together with your fingers and crimping with a fork. 

Heat oil, shortening, or lard until hot (375°F if you want to get technical about it).  Fry until golden brown on each side and drain on paper towels.  Sprinkle with reserved spiced sugar immediately, and eat as hot as you can manage.

Makes at least 1 dozen.

Pearl [Price] Shepherd
Price’s Fork, Virginia
1879 – 196?

*Real Southerners, feel free to correct my biscuit technique.  There’s no substitute for experience.

Next Recipe: Virginia Cured Ham

     (Previously: Intro to Appalachia)

Winter White

       

After the Great Fudge Date Rape of 2007 (no means no), I decided I needed something sweet yet restrained to cleanse my psychological palate in this newest of years.  Something to lead me staggering back to the path of the righteous.  Or thereabouts.

So, I thought, what’s the opposite of fudge?  I know.  Grapefruit pie.

One of my favorite octogenarian relatives sent me a big box of local-to-her Texas grapefruits for Christmas.  And I do so love the occasional grapefruit, despite all those pesky food-miles.  This recipe is a twist on summery key lime pie, but I think grapefruit works any time of year.  Plus, who wouldn’t love a slice of frozen pie in the dead of winter? 

 

Grapefruit Pie

You can use any kind of grapefruit: Ruby Red, pink, white.  But, I happen to like it best with the tart whites, which are increasingly hard to find these days.

3.5 oz. sleeve Goya plain Maria cookies (In the Latin American section of the supermarket.  They kind of taste like animal crackers, which you could also use.  Or graham crackers, of course.)
4 Tbsp. butter
14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
¼ cup grapefruit juice (from ½ grapefruit)
2 grapefruits worth of zest (Yes, you’ll be left with some bald grapefruits.  Just have them for breakfast the next day)
½ cup heavy cream
1/3 cup sour cream
3 oz. cream cheese

In a blender or food processor, whiz the cookies into crumbs.  Dump into a bowl and, with your fingers, work the butter into the crumbs until it’s uniformly incorporated.  Knead until you end up with something dough-like.  Press evenly into the bottom of a 9-inch pie plate.  I don’t bother bringing it up the sides because you never know how high the filling is going to come up, and it just ends up looking stupid.

Using a mixer with a whisk attachment, blend the rest of the ingredients in a large bowl until the lumps are gone.  It can take a while.  Okay, you can get away with a few lumps.  Pour into crust, cover with a plate, and freeze until set, I’m guessing at least 6 hours.  I stopped paying attention by this point.  I like it best before it gets to Popsicle consistency, though.  Slice it right before you intend to serve it, otherwise a few sexy drips will turn into a significantly less attractive puddle.

Apple Pie for Preschoolers

The Preschooler has developed a fascination with the Swedish Chef.  I don’t know how that could have happened.  From another room, I’ll hear him launch into the song and a second later, something crashes.  Stern words are issued, but deep down, I know it’s all my fault.

In an attempt to channel some of his “enthusiasm,” I asked if he wanted to make some Swedish apple pie.  But no smashing, I reminded him.  The Swedish Chef spends most of his days in time-out. 

My friend, Erin, had forwarded me this recipe that she said the kids could practically make themselves.  So, I tied on his apron, grabbed my coat, and left for an afternoon of unencumbered shopping.  “I want it warm when I get back,” I shouted as the door slammed behind me. 

It really is a cinch, though.  No bottom crust.  No rolling out.  Just dump a bunch of things into a pie plate, and magical deliciousness happens.  Okay, so you might want to help slice the apples.  Maybe handle the butter-melting process.  Escort the pie in and out of the hot box.  But, other than that, just let the kid go.

It was somewhere between the brown sugar and the flour that I heard it: “Mmmm.  It really is sweet-ish,” he said, licking the spoon.

Awww.  And here I was worrying about spreading baseless stereotypes. 

Sweet-ish Apple Pie

This has a cookie dough-ish crust that’s just as tasty as rolled-out pastry, but it’s quicker and even easier than, well…pie.

5-6 medium apples (we used a hodge-podge)
1 Tbsp. brown sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
¾ cup butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
1 egg
¼ cup chopped walnuts
Pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 350°F.  Peel and slice the apples into thin wedges and arrange them in a 10-inch pie plate.  Sprinkle brown sugar and cinnamon evenly on top (no need to mix it up unless it all lands in one big mound, which isn't inconceivable).  In a medium bowl, add melted butter, sugar, flour, egg, nuts, and salt, and mix until combined.  Pour over apples, spreading batter to the edges.  Bake 45-55 minutes, until crust is golden-brown.  Serve with vanilla ice cream.

A Happy Case of the Blues

I have to jump on the blueberry cobbler bandwagon this week because, well, I made blueberry cobbler.  (Yeah, it’s not really much more complicated than that.)

And why should cobbler be complicated, anyway?  Some sweetened fruit, some flaky dough, and vanilla (bean) ice cream melting all over the place.  So, here’s my favorite recipe, an adaptation of something that came out of the Cook’s Illustrated test kitchen many years ago.  Did I mention I worked there once?

I learned a great many things in those hallowed halls, including the best way to peel garlic (with the back of a knife and a mighty thwack) and how to mince it finely (with a little salt and your knife at an acute angle making a sort of rhythmic mashing motion).  I also learned that sometimes I like things better when they’ve only been tested, say, 7 times, as opposed to 57.  So, I started making this recipe at home before the head recipe-tester was even done, yet.  Good enough for me, I thought.  (This attitude might have something to do with why I no longer work there.)

Anyway, the “best” recipe is always a matter of opinion.  For me, though, it doesn’t get any better than this.

 

Maybe the Best Blueberry Cobbler (print-friendly version)

6 cups blueberries
1 Tbsp. cornstarch
½ cup sugar, plus 1 Tbsp.
Pinch ground cinnamon
Juice from ½ lemon
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
½ cup milk, plus 1 Tbsp.

Preheat oven to 400°F.

In a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate, combine blueberries, cornstarch, ½ cup sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice.  Stir well and cover with foil.  Place pie dish on rimmed baking sheet and bake until berries start to release their liquid, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, add flour, baking powder, and salt to the work bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine.  Add butter and pulse until the mixture forms a coarse meal, about 15 seconds.  Dump mixture into bowl and add ½ cup milk.  Combine with fork until a scrappy dough ball forms.  Turn onto counter and knead briefly.  Press into a disk about ½-inch thick.  With a biscuit cutter, cut into a dozen or so shapes, enough to cover the cobbler (recombine the scraps to make extra biscuits).

After 15 minutes, remove blueberries from oven, uncover, and stir.  Arrange biscuits on top, brush with 1 Tbsp. milk, and sprinkle with remaining 1 Tbsp. sugar.  Bake uncovered until biscuits are golden brown, 25-30 minutes more.  Cool 10 minutes before serving.  Don’t forget the ice cream.  Vanilla.  Bean.

Source: Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated (specifically, Kay Rentschler).

My Kind of Salad

This is just me trying to make my salad look as much like dessert as possible.  And, you know, it worked.  I ate almost the entire head of lettuce myself. 

Only one more head to go.

 

Salad with Cherries and Queso Fresco

1 head Boston lettuce, washed, dried, leaves torn
10 cherries, pitted, halved
2 Tbsp. sliced almonds
4 oz. Salvadoran fresh cheese (or whatever), crumbled
1½ tsp. balsamic vinegar
1 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Toast almonds in a dry frying pan over medium heat for a few minutes until fragrant, but not burnt fragrant.  Toss lettuce, cherries, almonds, and cheese in salad bowl.  Pour balsamic vinegar into a small bowl and whisk in olive oil until emulsified (meaning mixed up real good).  Add dressing to salad and toss with salt and a healthy grind of black pepper.

The Mother of All Popsicles

When my Mother’s Day present finally arrived (which was an unsplattered, perfectly uncreased copy of The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz), I sat down with my kids and talked to them about ice cream. 

They already knew about ice cream, of course.  There had been some “experimentation” in recent years.  They’d heard their friends talk about it.  They know that the ice cream man shows up at the park at exactly quarter-of- dinnertime and they’re the only ones who aren’t getting any. 

But what they didn’t know is that Mommy has an ice cream maker.  And that if all went well, they’d be getting homemade Creamsicles that very night.  They just stared at me blankly, so I dumbed it down.  Orange popsicles, kids.  They’re popsicles.  (Cue yays and clapping.)

I pulled out the book and we went through it page by page.  I told my preschooler about all the different kinds of ice creams there were and the toppings (oh, the toppings) that the ice cream man doesn’t know how to make.  I showed my toddler all the pictures, which he then proceeded to lick.  Okay, that was me.  But, I emphasized that this was a secret book.  And only good boys who eat their dinner get to learn the secrets of secret ice cream. 

Then came the question I was dreading.  About balls.  Malted milk balls, and the ice cream that can be made with them.  I slammed the book shut and said that was for Mommy.  No one else but Mommy.  No more questions.

 

Orange Popsicle Ice Cream
This is even better than the Creamsicles I remember because it tastes like actual oranges.  The preschooler declared it to be “the best popsicle ever.”

2/3 cup sugar
Grated zest of 3 oranges
1¼ cups freshly squeezed orange juice (from 3-5 oranges)
1 cup sour cream
½ cup half-and-half
2 tsp. Grand Marnier

In a blender, pulverize the sugar and orange zest until the zest is very fine.  Add the orange juice, sour cream, half-and-half, and Grand Marnier, and blend until the sugar is completely dissolved.  Chill the mixture thoroughly in the refrigerator, then freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.  (If desired, pour into ice cream bar molds, insert popsicle sticks, and freeze.)

Source: From The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz.  Used with permission.