FOOD ON THE FOOD

Goodbye and Grapefruit Tartlets

Well, hello, dear readers. Fancy seeing you still here. I know I’ve been a very bad food blogger lately. My posts are sporadic and not very interesting, recipes are few and far between, and there’s hardly any swearing at all. What gives?

OK, I’ll come clean. I’ve decided to retire Food on the Food.

I’ve been wrestling with this for a while. This is my 10th year blogging, and that’s an eternity in internet years. In fact, it’s the longest job I’ve ever had. It was also my favorite job. Sure, the pay stunk, but what else is new? Instead of raking in the dough, I raked in the doughnuts. There’s something to be said for alternative currencies.

When I first started FotF, I was a brand new parent grappling with my untested role as a mother while trying to conserve a piece of my pre-mom psyche. This blog was my sole creative outlet, a place to experiment with my writing, my food, and myself. It always made me feel free. Writing is a somewhat selfish act for me, so I was surprised when other people starting reading too. I really enjoyed this newfound audience—any writer would—but the truth is I still would have written for an audience of one.

Over the years, the blog saw me through some tough times. It also brought incredible opportunities my way, like the chance to write a cookbook, which I enthusiastically embraced (and then another book). I got to be on NPR's All Things Considered. And I wrote a cover story for Fine Cooking magazine. It also brought me the chance to be on a Food Network reality show, which I declined. (That's just not me no matter how you slice it.)

Now I find myself in the role of a more experienced parent, author, cook, teacher, and, against all odds, gardener. More things are competing for my attention now, and I feel like I need to let go of some of the old in order to experience more of the new. And I know this is weird coming from the girl who hates change, but change is coming whether I like it or not. It’s time.

I’m excited to find out what’s next. I hope to write lots of new stories in new ways. Maybe not about food. Maybe further afield. I don’t have any idea what the future holds, but I’m going to keep an open mind. I was very lucky to be able to do what I love for 10 years, and there’s no reason to believe I won’t continue to do what I love for 10 more. I’ll keep the blog up and searchable for the foreseeable future, so don’t panic if you haven’t printed out your favorite recipes yet (but don’t wait too long!). Below is the last recipe I’ll post. It’s a favorite of mine, and hopefully it will become one of yours too.

Thanks so much for reading, whether it was for all 10 years or just the past 10 seconds. I enjoyed sharing my life with you (from a safe distance). I hope you all continue to cook, read, and live joyfully. Maybe drop me a line sometime and let me know how you’re doing. Life is short. Make it count. And eat well!

 

Grapefruit Meyer Lemon Tartlets with Rosemary Crust

I axed this recipe from my cookbook and regretted it ever since. The problem was that the grapefruit filling as written wouldn’t set up firmly enough to cut into bars or pie slices. When I changed the chemistry to make it thicker, that diminished the flavor or gave it an unwelcome mouthfeel. But it sets up fine for small, individual tartlets, and I just can’t resist the luscious texture and bright, complex flavor. I still dream about them. So I dug the recipe out of the attic and brought it back into the light where it belongs. It makes about a dozen. Oh, and save the egg whites in the freezer for rhubarb pavlovas. Enjoy!

Crust
1 cup unsalted butter (2 sticks), at room temperature
1/2 cup confectioner’s sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt

Filling
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/3 cup cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon salt
Zest of 2 grapefruits
Zest of 1 Meyer lemon
1 1/4 cup freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (about 2 medium grapefruits)
Juice of 1 Meyer lemon
4 large egg yolks
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter fluted tartlet pans or muffin pans.

Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or an electric mixer), cream the butter and confectioner’s sugar for 1-2 minutes until creamy, starting on low speed and increasing to medium. Add the flour, rosemary, and salt, and mix. The dough will start out sandy, then progress to small clumps, and then bind into a clumpy dough.

With your hands, form the dough into balls about the size of golf balls. Flatten them into thick disks with the palm of your hand and press them into your tartlet or muffin pans, pressing the dough at least an inch up the sides, more if you can. Poke holes in the bottom crust with a fork so it doesn’t puff up too much in the oven. Bake about 20-22 minutes, until the edges just start to turn golden. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the sugar, cornstarch, and salt until no lumps remain. Rub the grapefruit and lemon zest into the mixture with your fingers until moist, fragrant, and well distributed. Whisk in the grapefruit and lemon juice. Cook over medium-high heat, whisking all the while, until the mixture thickens and bubbles to a boil, 5-10 minutes depending on your burner. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for 2 minutes more, stirring constantly. Remove the pan from the heat.

Set a wire-mesh strainer with medium holes over a large bowl and set aside. Whisk the egg yolks together in a small bowl. Slowly drizzle about 1/3 cup of the hot citrus mixture into the yolks, whisking constantly. This tempers the yolks to prevent them from scrambling when added to the hot mixture in the pot. Whisk the yolk mixture into the pot, little by little.

Bring the mixture to a gentle boil over medium heat, then turn the heat down to medium-low and cook, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, 2 minutes more. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter, one piece at a time, until it melts and incorporates. Pour the mixture through the wire-mesh strainer into a bowl, using a rubber scraper to press it through. Be sure to scrape as much filling from the bottom of the strainer as possible.

Remove the cooled crusts from their pans. Spoon the grapefruit filling into the tart shells. Chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours before serving.

 

 

In Lieu of Sugarplums

It doesn’t really feel like the holiday season quite yet. The temperature seems too warm, the Halloween candy is still plentiful, and our pumpkins are in various states of non-frozen decomposition on the front stairs.  (For those of you following along on Husband’s Facebook page, our Jack-o’-lantern’s disgusting metamorphosis is finally complete—or is it?)

But now comes the scariest time of the year: holiday shopping season. It puts Halloween to shame. I shan’t be leaving the house until December 26. God help them if the kids outgrow their shoes during that time. Sorry, kids, no way am I going to Target today. Just wear socks and sandals. Oh, it’s snowing out? Tie a bread bag around each foot, you’ll be fine.

I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the perfect holiday gift is a mere click away. People always say they have too many cookbooks, but they don’t really mean it. True, they might not be willing to buy one for themselves, but they will always happily accept one under the tree. Trust me. And don’t forget your Aunt Mildred. She seems like a Wintersweet kind of gal, and she’s very sorry for what she said about you that time she got into the cordial!


Sugared Cranberries  

These festive treats are sweetly tart and fun to eat. Use the freshest, bounciest cranberries you can find—not frozen.

1 cup fresh cranberries, washed, picked over
1 cup water
1 cup granulated sugar, plus 1/3 cup for coating
2 strips orange peel (no white pith)

Set the cranberries aside in a small glass bowl. In a medium saucepan, stir the water, 1 cup of sugar, and the orange peels together over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Bring the syrup to a bare simmer and remove from heat. Let the syrup cool 2-3 minutes, and then pour it over the cranberries. Set a small bowl on top of the cranberries to submerge them. Cover the bowls and refrigerate for 8 hours or overnight.

Strain the cranberries and set them on a plate. Remove the orange peels, cut into thin strips, and add to the berries. Sprinkle about 3 tablespoons of sugar over the berries, a little at a time, tossing well to coat. Let dry for 2 hours. Sprinkle another 1-2 tablespoons of sugar over them, rolling the berries until well coated. Let dry another hour before serving. Store uncovered at room temperature for 1-2 days.

Source: From Wintersweet by Tammy Donroe Inman (that's me!)

How to Fix Ho-Hum Honeydew

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had a decent honeydew in my life. To me, they always taste like cucumbers pretending to be melons. I’m just no good at picking them out, and when I ask the produce guy to pick one out for me, it's barely any better. It’s disappointing because I read food blogs where the writers wax poetic about the nectar-perfect honeydew they just tasted and I want to experience the sweetness of which they speak.

So I tried growing one myself.

It was the last melon plant in the school garden to set fruit, and then it just took forever and ever to grow. It pretty much didn’t change size at all in September despite the heat and my attentive watering. With a hard frost projected last weekend, I finally had to pull the plug on my runty garden-grown honeydew. It didn’t smell even remotely fragrant, but I cut it up anyway. It was very green inside. Too green. I tasted it. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste any worse than supermarket honeydews, but it was clearly underripe. Rather than throw the whole thing in the compost, I tried something. I tossed the green melon cubes with 1 tablespoon of honey, 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lime juice, and 1/2 teaspoon lime zest. Wow, what a difference! The 12YO and I ate the whole melon in less than a minute. OK, the melon was tiny, but still, it was suddenly delicious!

Now I know what to do the next time a melon lets me down, although I’d probably double the syrup for a full-sized honeydew. Who knows, maybe it would work for cucumbers, too!

My Favorite Strawberry Shortcake

We were at dinner with our neighbors the other night discussing what makes the best strawberry shortcake. I think it all depends on what you grow up with, but the six of us adults were of the mind that we don’t want sponge cake posing as shortcake. And though a biscuit will do, preferably it would be something in between a cake and a biscuit, something more scone-like. Something that crumbles just so with the slight tang of buttermilk and just a hint of salt. Something lumpy and old-fashioned between which to mound impossibly juicy strawberries and a pillow of sweet cream.

This is it. This is my favorite shortcake recipe. It’s a variation of one I’ve already run on this blog, but that was eight whole years ago. (Have I really been blogging that long? Yup, I have.) Since then, I’ve made a few changes that really improved the recipe. So here’s my new and improved version of strawberry shortcake, just in time for strawberry season to be almost over. There’s nothing fancy or difficult or trendy about it, but it's exactly what I want when I see all those beautiful local strawberries.  


Strawberry Shortcake  

Make this while the getting’s still good. Serves 6 to 8.

2 quarts fresh strawberries, tops cut off, sliced
1/3 + 1/4 cup granulated sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup buttermilk (I like Kate’s)
4 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces
1 pint heavy cream
2 Tbsp. confectioner’s sugar
Vanilla extract, to taste

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Grease a cookie sheet or line it with parchment paper.

In a medium bowl, gently stir together the sliced strawberries with 1/3 cup sugar (or more, depending on the sweetness of the fruit). Set aside covered at room temperature while making the shortcakes.

In the bowl of a food processor, mix together the flour, remaining 1/4 cup sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add the butter pieces and process 15-20 seconds until the butter pieces are pea-sized or smaller. Transfer to a medium bowl. (You can also skip the food processor and cut in the butter by hand or with a pastry blender.) Add the buttermilk and mix until just blended. Drop large, heaping spoonfuls of the batter in mounds onto the prepared pans at least two inches apart. Bake for 10-12 minutes until the tops start to brown. Remove from the oven and let cool.

When ready to serve, whip the cream with the confectioner’s sugar and a dash of vanilla with an electric mixer on medium for a few minutes, just until smooth and mounding. To assemble, split the shortcakes in half horizontally. Over the bottom half, spoon lots of strawberries and their juices as well as a generous dollop of whipped cream. Replace the top half of the shortcake a bit askew. Pass remaining strawberries and whipped cream at the table.

Little Rhubarb Pavlovas

The cherry blossoms are out, and the rhubarb is just coming up in the school garden. Naturally, it got me thinking about dessert.

If you haven’t yet embraced rhubarb, or if you already embrace it to the fullest extent of the law, then you have to try this recipe. Sweet, soft, and light with just a hint of tartness, these little rhubarb pavlovas are the absolute best thing about spring. I mean, besides the absence of all those giant snow piles. And all the returning birds. And the warming air and the gradual greening of the landscape. OK, there’s a lot to like about spring, but this is definitely right up there, like a big puffy cloud plopped right down on your plate.

If I were you, I’d get right on it!


Little Rhubarb Pavlovas  

The meringues can be made up to a day ahead of time and stored in airtight containers. Save your egg yolks in the fridge covered with a little cold water to make lime curd. Serves 10.

Meringues
4 large egg whites
1 pinch salt
1 cup sugar
2 tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. white wine vinegar (or plain white vinegar)

Filling
2 lbs. rhubarb, cut into 3/4-inch pieces
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp. vanilla paste or vanilla extract
1/8 tsp. cardamom
Pinch salt

Whipped Cream
1-1/2 cups heavy cream
1 Tbsp. confectioner’s sugar
Splash of vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 250°F. Line two sheet pans with parchment paper and trace 10 4-inch circles in pencil using a glass as a guide. Turn the parchment paper over so you can still see the circles but you don’t get pencil on your meringue.

Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large, clean bowl on medium-high speed.  (It’s very important that your bowl is grease-free and that you separate 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 the mixture is dense and stiff, glossy peaks form, about 5 minutes. Rub some meringue on your fingers to make sure all the sugar has dissolved. It should feel smooth, not gritty. Using a spatula, lightly but thoroughly fold in the cornstarch and vinegar. 

Gently spoon the fluffy mixture in the marked circles on the parchment paper, making a well in the middle of each for the filling. If the parchment is sliding around too much, use a dab or two of the mixture to glue the paper to the pan. Bake them in the preheated oven for 40-45 minutes until they’re just starting to take on some light color and feel firm on the outside but still soft in the middle. If they crack slightly, that’s okay. Then turn off the heat and let them sit inside the oven with the door propped open with a wooden spoon for 20 to 30 minutes. They should still feel soft in the middle when gently pressed. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

Increase the oven temperature to 325°F. In a large roasting pan, toss the rhubarb with the sugar, vanilla, cardamom, and salt. Let sit for 20 minutes to draw out some moisture. Then cover tightly with foil and bake for 25 to 30 minutes until the rhubarb is soft but still holds its shape. Remove from the oven. Strain the rhubarb in a sieve set over a medium saucepan. Gently transfer the rhubarb to a medium bowl. Over medium heat, bring the rhubarb juices to a simmer and then reduce for 5 or 6 minutes until syrupy. Pour the syrup over the rhubarb and let cool, then refrigerate covered until ready to serve.

Assemble the pavlovas just before serving. Whip the cream in a clean bowl with confectioner’s sugar and a splash of vanilla until soft, smooth peaks form. Spoon the rhubarb into the wells of the cooled pavlovas and top with softly whipped cream.

Mexican Lime Curd

If you want to taste sunshine without leaving the frosty confines of your ice house, have I got a recipe for you: Lime Curd.

Maybe initially that doesn’t sound very enticing. Perhaps it conjures up images of congealed proteins bathed in sour juices. If so, that’s entirely the wrong idea. Think of citrus curd as a smooth, luscious pudding packed with tartness. The bright acidity hits you like a smack of cold air while the generous butter content swaddles your tongue like a warm blanket. Lemon curd is usually what people swoon over, especially when Meyer lemons are in season. But I love limes, and I’m here to tell you that lime curd can do battle with lemon curd any day of the week.

First, a bit about limes. Supermarket limes are typically Persian limes. You can make lime curd with these limes and it will be delicious (in fact, there’s a recipe for curd using regular limes in my cookbook). But I had the great fortune to end up with Mexican limes the other day. Mexico grows two kinds of limes, the ubiquitous Persian limes I just mentioned and a slightly smaller native lime, a variety that is better known as the famous Key lime. Here in the States, when limes are labeled as Mexican limes, you’re usually just getting Mexican-grown Persian limes. But every once in a while, you’ll end up with Mexican-grown Mexican limes. You probably won’t even know it until you leave them on the counter for a while and instead of staying green (or turning brown), they turn yellow like lemons. These limes are more acidic and have a bracing complexity that's hard to resist. They are widely considered to be the very best limes by the people in charge of limes.

You know how crazy people get for Key lime pie, right? Well, this Mexican lime curd is like Key lime pie without the crust. You can just spoon it out of the jar for a spontaneous burst of happiness. It’s also good on biscuits, scones, or coconut macadamia shortbread (WINTERSWEET, p. 92). Mexican limes tend to be larger than Key limes, so it doesn’t take as many or as long to juice them, but the two are interchangeable.

This curd is magical. It is delightful. And it is yours.

Mexican Lime Curd  

I’d recommend organic limes for this recipe since you’ll be using the outer peel. If not, you’ll want to scrub them well. Also, just a note that the finished curd is bright yellow, not green. That’s no mistake. The color is influenced more by the egg yolks than the juice or zest.

1 Tbsp. finely grated lime zest (shiny outer part only, not the bitter white pith)
1 1/4 cup granulated sugar
3 eggs, well beaten
3/4 cup freshly squeezed lime juice from 6 Mexican limes (or ~12 Key limes)
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter
Pinch of salt

Place a large bowl half-full of ice water near the stove. Next to that, set a wire-mesh strainer nested inside a medium metal bowl.

In a medium saucepan, rub the lime zest into the sugar with your fingers until moist and fragrant. Whisk in the beaten eggs and lime juice. Add the butter and salt, and set the pot over medium-low heat. Cook, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the butter melts and the mixture thickens, 5 to 10 minutes. Do not boil. Wait for when the mixture thickens to the consistency of a loose pudding. It should coat the back of a spoon, leaving a distinctive track when you run your finger through it. At this point, remove the pot from the heat.

Set the bowl with the strainer inside the ice bath, and quickly pour the curd through the strainer into the bowl, using a rubber scraper to force the curd through the sieve. (The ice bath halts the cooking and the strainer is insurance to remove any overcooked egg proteins that may arise. Be sure to scrape as much of the curd as possible off the underside of the strainer.)

Let the curd cool for a half hour before pouring it into small jars. The curd will thicken further and the flavor will intensify as it chills. Keep refrigerated for up to 2 weeks.

Pomegranate + Burrata = Love

I’ve been all about pomegranates lately.

My fling started with a salad disguised as dessert (my favorite kind). It had ripe slices of persimmon, creamy burrata cheese, crunchy homemade sesame brittle, and pomegranate seeds over arugula, dressed with a maple-balsamic vinaigrette. It was very tasty (you can find the recipe from Food & Wine here). We've been eating the leftover pomegranate seeds ever since: just plain, with Greek yogurt, and sprinkled over the remaining burrata.

A few words about burrata. I didn’t have a full understanding of what this Italian cheese really was before I bought a container from Maplebrook Farm. I knew it was a soft, mild cheese, one that was vaguely mozzarella-like, but apparently I was confusing it with bocconcini, the little balls of fresh mozzarella. So I was surprised when I opened the container to find one large ball of mozzarella.

When I removed it from the container with a spoon, it seemed to quiver like a water balloon. I was perplexed, but I forged ahead. I placed the cheese on a board and cut right into it, which caused an explosion of cream and runny cheese curds to spray forth all over the counter, running down my kitchen cabinets. Turns out it was a water balloon! Just one made out of cheese and filled with creamy goodness. (If you’re as interested in how they make it as I was, check out the process here).

I learned three things from this experience. One, maybe ease up on the stabbiness when it comes to portioning out burrata (and do it over a shallow bowl to catch all the exploding cheese). Two, that I love burrata. And three, that I love burrata with pomegranate seeds. The tart, juicy pop of the seeds against the soft, milky curds is just wonderful. It would make a totally indulgent Valentine’s Day dessert that’s very fresh and not too sweet.

 

How to Seed a Pomegranate: If you look at a pomegranate, you’ll notice it has fat ridges that run from pole to pole like thick longitudinal lines. If you cut gently just through the skin down one of those long ridges, and then again down another one of the adjacent ridges, you can pull a wedge of mostly intact seeds out of the fruit. Then you can just loosen the seeds gently with your fingers, pulling out the thin white membranes that enclose them. I store the remaining fruit in a sealed plastic bag in the fridge until I need to cut another wedge. If you need a lot of seeds at once, it’s often more efficient to submerge the wedges in a bowl of water so you can move a little quicker without the seeds squirting juice all over you. Then you can drain off the water and scoop out the seeds.

Raspberry Mascarpone Tartlets

So many beautiful fall raspberries, so little time.

I recently acquired some tiny little tart tins. I wouldn't have pegged myself for a tiny little tart tin kind of girl, but I do have a weakness for pie-like things. And a weakness for raspberries. I wanted something to showcase the fresh, plump berries, something not too terribly difficult. This is what I came up with: fresh raspberries with vanilla mascarpone cream in a Biscoff cookie crust.

If you're not familiar with Biscoff cookies, they're a type of Belgian biscuit called speculoos. They taste like fancy graham crackers with a hint of gingersnap, but just a hint. You can find them in the snobby section of the cookie aisle. You know where I'm talking about, with the imported Scotch shortbread and Italian wafer cookies. Pepperidge Farm is never too far away. I use Biscoff a lot and they happen to make a great crumb crust.

I will warn you, trying to get a cookie crumb crust out of a tiny little tart tin in one piece can be tricky. Forget the butter, the ones slathered in oil work best. Also, they should be completely cool. It's easier to spoon the filling into the tart shells when they're still in the pan. Otherwise, the shell might crumble right in your hand. But the problem with pre-filling the shells is that when you try to remove the tarts from the tins, gently squeezing the sides and shaking them upside-down, you inevitably end up with some crumbs in your filling. I don't know how to avoid that. I just removed them with a toothpick and covered the rest with raspberries. This is why I could never work in a restaurant. I'm just not that picky about the presentation. (Also, I hate being screamed at.)

But, hey, fussiness aside, these tasted great. Like the kind of dessert you can feel good about.

Raspberry Mascarpone Tartlets  

Can't find Biscoff biscuits? Or don't care to find them? Sub in graham crackers or thin chocolate wafer cookies instead.

8.8 oz. package Biscoff biscuits
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
8 oz. mascarpone
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract or paste
1 pint raspberries
Vegetable oil, for greasing tins

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Set the tart tins on a sheet pan. Oil very well (I swirl the oil in one tin so it gets in all the crevices, then dump the oil into the next tin and repeat).

Crush the Biscoff biscuits in a food processer or blender into fine crumbs. Mix in the melted butter. One at a time, fill the tins almost to the top with buttered cookie crumbs. Firmly press the crumbs up against the sides flush with the top edge all the way around (use one thumb to press the crumbs against the side of the tin, one thumb along the top to keep them contained and flush with the top). Then press the crumbs along the bottom. Place the whole sheet pan in the oven and bake the crusts for 10 minutes until dry and fragrant. Remove the pan from the oven and let the crusts cool on a rack until completely cool.

Meanwhile, for the filling, whip the mascarpone briefly with an electric mixer in a medium bowl to loosen. Add the heavy cream, confectioner's sugar, and vanilla. Mix on medium-low speed for 1 to 2 minutes until well combined and thick enough to hold its shape. Set aside.

Carefully fill the cooled crusts with the mascarpone cream. Gently remove the tarts from the tins and set on the pan. Remove any crumbs with a toothpick, then arrange the raspberries on top. Chill until ready to serve. Makes about 8.

Rose Hip Jam

On the second day of our Cape Cod vacation, a note was deposited on our windshield. It informed us that the beach we were walking to—the beach we've always walked to—is a private neighborhood association beach and we're not allowed to use it. The neighborhood stops at our rental house. We're also not allowed to walk down the dirt road in that direction.

It's true that there's a sign on the weathered split-rail fence that says the area towards the beach is private. The neighborhood both before and after the sign is modest and quiet with shingled Capes tucked in with scrubby oaks and beach plum shrubs, houses becoming more stacked and cantilevered as you approach the shore. Over the past decade, we've rented a house within that boundary as well as our current one just outside it. We've always walked the same five-minute route to the beach out of habit. There are no boundary markers on the beach and we've never had a problem. The sign seemed more like an attempt to keep people straight off of 6A from treating the little neighborhood like a public parking lot. Surely it didn't matter if a couple of kids and their parents flip-flopped their way in that direction, buckets and shovels in hand. The note indicated otherwise.

I'm nothing if not a rule-follower, so we lugged all our stuff in the opposite direction of the ocean, as per the notice, and then hung a left to get to the officially sanctioned beach associated with our property. It took twice as long, the whole time muttering stuff under my breath:

Think they're too good for us.
Don't want our footsteps sullying their dirt road.
They think they can own the beach. YOU CAN'T OWN A BEACH!!

Actually, they can, interrupted Husband, who will always put a technicality ahead of marital harmony. Why do you think waterfront property is so expensive?

Yeah, well, do they own the air hovering over the beach? Do they own the wind???

I smiled as I imagined fanning the smoke from our grill over the fence in that direction come suppertime. (Real mature, Tammy. Maybe this is why they don't want you there.)

Deeded beach rights means they own the land all the way up to the water line, he continued.

God, he can be so infuriating sometimes! I envisioned myself standing exactly at the water's edge, back to the ocean, water lapping my heels, directly in front of whomever put that note on our car as they tried to enjoy their now-obstructed view. Just standing there. Staring quietly. For hours.

If only I had the stamina for revenge.


I was so busy being indignant that I almost missed all the beautiful beach roses growing along the side of the road on this new route. Scores of rose hips, too, brilliant red- and orange-colored fruits the size of squat radishes swelling from thorny stems among the splayed, rosy blossoms. I've been wanting to make rose hip jelly for years, but never had a plentiful source. Maybe this would be the proverbial lemonade?


We emerged from the path to take in the new coastal view. We were surprised to discover that it was the exact same beach. The other path was literally a stone's throw away, and I don't even have a very good arm. All that extra walking to get to the same place? It basically brought us to the other side of the family that had camped out by the original path.

Really? Is this what things have come to? Making a big goddamned deal about petty rules that amount to nothing? Who has that kind of time? (Says the girl who guards her parking spot like a vigilante.)

Anyway, whatever, we needed the exercise. All those vacation doughnuts weren't going to work themselves off, so I took that opportunity to ask around about the rose hips (I had already reached my quota of windshield admonishments for the week). One guy said he used to own property along the path and all the houses on it were rentals. Probably nobody would mind if I took a few rose hips. So I did. A few stuffed in a pocket here, a few more tucked into the beach bag there. By the end of the trip, I had a small sack filled with the fruits while making no dent in the supply whatsoever.

When we got home, I made two sweet little jars of rose hip jam, and that has made all the difference.

(For the basic technique and ratios, go here.)

 

Piety

We were at my in-laws' down the Cape over the weekend when I was suddenly overcome with the urge to make pie. I'm usually a total sloth once we cross over the Sagamore bridge, burying my nose in various books and sleeping late, only emerging for the sweet promise of doughnuts. My in-laws are very forgiving.

But nothing motivates me like pie. Maybe it was the peach trees over by the garage, fruits rosy from a distance but still teasingly green up close, or the blackberries growing on prickly brambles under the deck, sweet as strawberries. Or maybe the salty air demanded a buttery counterpoint. Whatever it was, I needed pie and I needed it now. I had already gone down to the local farm stand and gathered up as many ripe peaches and nectarines as I could find, so I got right down to the business of making pie.

Cooking in someone else's space is always interesting. Despite the many similarities between all kitchens, there are always some unpredictable elements. Like the location of the blade for the food processor. Where was it? My in-laws were out at the time so I couldn't ask. I checked every conceivable cabinet and drawer I could think of, but I couldn't find it. That's okay. I didn't need a food processor for the crust, I could just cut in the butter by hand. But where the heck was the butter? There was no butter in the refrigerator. There was no butter in the freezer. I take for granted the constant presence of butter at my house, so I never bothered to check. Did I really want to get back in the summer traffic queue on Rt. 6 just for butter? How badly did I want this pie?

Husband rummaged around in the basement freezer and located two sticks of unsalted butter like the hero that he is. But cutting in frozen butter by hand wasn't going to be easy. I dug around in the drawers for a pastry blender, which was a long shot but worth a try, until I found a small box grater. Perfect! I shredded the frozen butter on the large holes of the grater until it threatened to scrape all the flesh off my knuckles. That was my cue to stop. (So if my in-laws find two little knobs of butter in the fridge that look like they were attacked by tiny beavers, that's why.)

From there, I mixed the butter, which now bore a striking resemblance to mozzarella cheese, into the flour, sugar, and salt, drizzled in the ice water, and tossed the fluffy mixture with a fork.  Then I kneaded it several times to develop flaky layers, formed the dough into two disks, wrapped them in plastic wrap, and put them in the fridge to rest while I made the filling.

The rest of the pie construction went very smoothly. Rolling out the pie dough on their nice marble countertop was a pleasant change. I was feeling pretty good as I slid the whole beautiful, egg-washed, double-crusted pie into the oven. That is, until about 10 minutes later when I was cleaning up and noticed the box of cornstarch over in the corner, neglected and untouched. I wasn't working from a recipe but rather a mental accounting of things. A mental accounting that had included sugar, vanilla, and a little cinnamon, but had conveniently forgotten the all-important thickener that I had set out earlier. Now my filling was getting soupier by the second in the oven, sealed between my two hard-earned homemade crusts.

So this is what I did. I removed the pie from the oven. I made a large incision between the pie plate and the crimped edge of the crust along the circumference of half of the pie. I flipped the top crust over onto the other half of the pie (the dough was still bendy at this point). Then I stirred in a whole bunch of cornstarch, I don't know how much, maybe 2 tablespoons? I was muttering angrily to myself the whole time and not really paying attention. I added the cornstarch only to the half of the pie where the filling was exposed hoping that, at best, some sort of starchy equilibrium would be achieved during the baking process, or, at worst, half of the pie would be soupy and half would be a gloppy mess. I didn't care at this point. I just wanted my pie. I quickly flipped the crust back on top. It looked sad and droopy on one side, but whatever. Pie is pie. It slumps once you cut it anyway. Then I put it back in the oven.

Now, I'm not a religious person, you know that, but there must have been some kind of divine intervention going on with that pie because, despite all of its technical challenges, it came out fantastic. Deliciously peachy with a smattering of blackberries. Okay, maybe there was a little extra liquid on one side, but it held together fine and tasted great. It didn't even look that bad in the end. Also, when I put the cornstarch away, I found the food processor blades. Aha! They were in the far side of the cabinet with the baking ingredients.

Next time I'll make the pie properly, but there's no guarantee it will come out half as good!

Cherry Black Raspberry Cobbler

I hope cherry season isn't over, yet, because you have got to try some of this cobbler! I made it for the Fourth of July, but it would be equally delicious on the Fourteenth of July, say, or even the Fortieth of July if you live in another dimension not subject to our earthly calendars.

I made this cobbler with a bag of sweet Bing cherries and a half pint of black raspberries I picked in the park. I couldn't find my cherry pitter, goddamnit, so I pitted the cherries with a knife, slicing off one side of each cherry and then mashing the cherry against the cutting board with the side of the knife to eject the pit. It made quite a mess until I learned to angle the cut-side of the cherry down a bit so the juice squirted at the cutting board. Mostly. Wear an apron. Once you get into the rhythm of it, I think it's almost as fast as a cherry pitter.

Then top the seductive, lipstick-colored fruit with buttery biscuits, bake until bubbly and golden, and serve warm with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. Heaven!

Cherry Black Raspberry Cobbler   

If you don't have access to black raspberries, you can substitute blackberries, red raspberries, or just add an extra cup of cherries.

Fruit
5 cups sweet cherries, stemmed, pitted
1 cup black raspberries
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 cup granulated sugar, plus 1 tablespoon for topping
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Juice from 1/2 small lemon
1/4 teaspoon salt
Pinch ground cinnamon

Biscuits
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
12 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1/2 cup milk, plus 1 teaspoon for topping

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate.

Combine the pitted cherries, black raspberries, cornstarch, sugar, vanilla, lemon juice, salt, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Stir well.

Add the flour, baking powder, and salt to the bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture forms a coarse meal, 15 to 30 seconds depending on the size of your cubes. Dump the mixture into a medium bowl and add the milk. Mix with a fork until a scrappy dough forms. (If you don't have a food processor, you can cut the butter into the dry ingredients in a mixing bowl with a pastry blender, fork and knife, or your fingers, and then add the milk).

Turn the dough onto the counter and knead three or four times, folding the dough over on itself, until it comes together. If the dough seems too dry, drizzle a tiny bit more milk over the dry areas and knead again once or twice. Press the dough into a disk about 1/2-inch thick. With a biscuit cutter or a jelly jar, cut straight down into 10 or 12 shapes, enough to cover the cobbler (recombine the scraps to make extra biscuits). Arrange the biscuits on top, brush with a little milk, and sprinkle with the remaining sugar.

Bake uncovered until the biscuits are golden brown, 40 to 45 minutes. Let cool at least 10 minutes. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

Other cherry recipes you might like:

Cherry Crisp Ice Cream from The Live-In Kitchen

Cherry Clafouti from Simply Recipes

Frozen Cherry Mojitos from My Baking Addiction

Sour Cherry Preserves from Food on the Food

A Lovely Rhubarb Cake

Readers, let us now turn to page 109 of your well-worn copy of WINTERSWEET, where you'll find a recipe for Cranberry Torte. Though cranberry season is well behind us, that simple butter cake is easily adapted for summertime fruit like black raspberries and blueberries. Just reduce the sugar topping to a sprinkling or omit it entirely. If rhubarb is your pleasure, sub in 1-1/2 cups of chopped fresh rhubarb stems for the cranberries, omit the almond extract (or keep it), and reduce the sugar topping to 1 tablespoon. It's perfect for dessert or tea or brunch or breakfast or a midnight snack or just because. Rhubarb cake doesn't judge.

Enjoy!

Strawberry Rhubarb Crumb Bars

I think I've mentioned how much I love rhubarb: rhubarb pie, rhubarb crisp, rhubarb parfaits. I may be a minority on this, but I like my rhubarb to stand alone. However, in the interest of diversity on my blog, I offer you these Strawberry Rhubarb Crumb Bars. The rhubarb in our school garden is going gangbusters, and there's no way elementary school kids are going to eat it all unless it's mixed with something they know is good. Like strawberries. And a sweet crumbly topping. You have to earn their trust first, and then maybe you can subtract the berries. (Maybe.)


Strawberry-Rhubarb Crumb Bars   

This makes enough to feed a crowd. For a smaller group, halve the recipe and make it in an 8x8-inch pan. Prepare to eat it all within a few days as the moisture from the fruit tends to uncrisp the topping over time.

Dough
21/2 cups all-purpose flour, divided
1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cold, cut into 6 pieces
2 oz. cream cheese
1 large egg
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
1/4 tsp. ground cardamom (optional)

Fruit
1/2 pound (2 cups) strawberries, hulled, halved, and thinly sliced
1 pound (4 cups) rhubarb, cut into roughly 1/2-inch thick pieces

1/2 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease a 9x13-inch pan.

For the dough, put 2 cups of flour into the bowl of the food processor along with the brown sugar, baking powder, and salt. Add the butter and cream cheese, and pulse the motor until the mixture is moist and crumbly. Dump everything out into a medium bowl. Measure 3 cups of the mixture and add back to the food processor along with the remaining 1/2 cup of flour, egg, and vanilla. Blend just until it starts to come together into a dough. Press the clumps evenly into the pan. Bake for 10 minutes until puffy.

Meanwhile, combine the strawberries, rhubarb, brown sugar, and lemon juice in a large bowl. Spread the fruit in an even layer over the surface of the partially baked crust.

To the bowl of reserved streusel topping, add the walnuts and cardamom if desired, and work in with your fingers until pebbly. Sprinkle the topping over the surface of the fruit. Bake again for 40 to 50 minutes until the topping is light golden brown. Let cool completely before slicing. Store uncovered for a day or two to keep the streusel from getting soggy.

Source: Adapted from The Kitchn and The Tart Tart

Anyone Still In the Mood for Easter Cake?

Well hi, long-lost readers! Did you think I disappeared for good? No such luck.

This was the post that was supposed to go up last week before we drove down the Cape for Easter, but then things got all biblical in the blogosphere. Typepad, my blog hosting service, was cyberattacked on the eve of Good Friday, rendering thousands of blogs inaccessible, mine included. FotF was resurrected on Saturday, then crucified again on Easter Sunday in ironic fashion.

We were too busy eating quiche and jellybeans to really care on Easter. I sort of noticed on Monday, but then promptly forgot because the Boston Marathon was so exciting! Americans like Meb and Shalane digging deep for #BostonStrong was an amazing thing to watch. But then on Tuesday, when service was still down, I definitely noticed. I needed to write. Was my blog coming back? Ever?

I hadn't considered a scenario in which you could actually lose access to all of your work indefinitely. I took it for granted that my eight years worth of words and pictures would always be there until I died and stopped paying the bills. Now I wonder: is that really true?

FotF seems to be running smoothly at the moment, so thank you for your patience. Also, thanks to Typepad for pulling those all-nighters. Hopefully, that's the last time this happens, but if you should arrive here to find a big empty space again in the future, check my Twitter or Facebook feeds for status updates. I also have a space on Medium that can serve as my emergency backup blog in a pinch. Because there ain't no emergency like a food blog emergency.

Anyway, here's that cake. You're probably guessing it's Lemon Poppy Seed, and you're close but no cigar. This version is made with grapefruit, an adaptation of the Grapefruit Buttermilk Cake in my book. It's tender and moist with a subtle, citrusy flavor. The 8YO adores it. It's something sweet and bright and hopeful. Just do me a favor and don't give any to the hackers. No cake for them.

 
Grapefruit Poppy Seed Cake    

I prefer tart white and pink grapefruits for baking, but the sweeter red grapefruits will also work.

Cake
1 cup (200 g) granulated sugar
1 teaspoon finely grated grapefruit zest (shiny yellow or pink part only)
1 cup (225 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
11/3 cups (190 g) all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (125 ml) buttermilk
1 tablespoon poppy seeds

Syrup
1/3 cup (80 ml) freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (from about 1/2 grapefruit)
1/3 cup (70 g) granulated sugar

Icing
1 tablespoon grapefruit juice
1/2 cup (65 g) confectioners’ sugar

Preheat the oven to 325°F (165°C). Butter a 91/2 x 51/2-inch (24 x 14-cm) loaf pan. Tear out a sheet of parchment paper. Fold it in half or thirds so that it can lie inside the whole width of the pan, ends hanging over the long sides of the pan. This paper hammock makes it easier to lift the cake out of the pan later.

For the cake, mix the sugar with the grapefruit zest in a small bowl. Rub the mixture together with your fingers so the zest releases its oils.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter with the sugar mixture until fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well and scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary. Add the vanilla and mix again.

Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl. Add one third of the dry ingredients to the sugar mixture and mix on low speed just until combined. Alternate adding the buttermilk and the rest of the dry ingredients in halves to the sugar mixture, mixing until just combined and scraping down the sides of the bowl in between. Add the poppy seeds with the final addition of dry ingredients. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan.

Bake the cake for 55 to 60 minutes or until the top is golden and puffed, and a toothpick inserted into the center of cake comes out clean. Remove the cake from the oven and let it cool for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, for the syrup, combine the grapefruit juice and sugar in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Boil the syrup 1 minute and then remove it from the heat. With a toothpick or skewer, poke holes all over the top of the cake. Pour the syrup over the cake, a little at a time, brushing it with a pastry brush to ensure even soaking. When all of the syrup has been added, let the cake cool completely. To remove the cake from the pan, lift up the edges of the parchment paper and set the cake on a plate, then slide the paper out from underneath.

For the glaze, whisk together the remaining 1 tablespoon of grapefruit juice with the confectioners’ sugar until smooth. You want the consistency to be loose enough to drizzle, but not so thin that it soaks into the cake. If it’s too thin, add more sugar. If it’s too thick, whisk in some water a few drops at a time. Drizzle the icing over the top of the cake with a whisk (if it dribbles over the sides, all the better). The cake can be stored at room temperature covered in plastic wrap for 2 to 3 days.

Fresh Fig Crostini

Here's an easy fall appetizer on the sweeter side:

Toast some slices of baguette brushed with olive oil. Spread each slice with goat cheese and season with black pepper. Select a pint of fresh, ripe figs. Cut each fig in half and then into thirds or quarters. Arrange the fig wedges on top of the goat cheese, three or four to a slice. Drizzle with local honey and sprinkle with fancy sea salt. I also dusted them with fennel pollen, which I realize is a totally random thing to have in your spice collection, but sometimes I get a little out of control at Formaggio Kitchen. You could also use crushed fennel seeds in small amounts or a pinch of lavender buds or nothing at all. Serve immediately.

Keep in mind that fresh figs are very perishable. Don't buy them more than a day ahead of time or they risk moldifying. Soft ones are best—gently squeeze them to assess their firmness. Wilson Farm in Lexington and Russo's in Watertown have had some nice-looking figs lately, just FYI. Dried figs won't have the same delicate flavor, so save those for something else.

Peaches and Cream Icebox Cake

A few people have asked whether I plan to follow my winter dessert cookbook with a summer dessert cookbook. The answer: Probably not. I think I've already proven that I can't be trusted in any scenario where I have 24-hour access to dessert. The other reason is, come summertime, the last thing I want to do is turn on the oven. I'll do it once in a while when we get a stretch of dry air and mild temperatures like we've had this past week, but not during the sweltering, blast-furnace heat of the previous weeks. No, thank you. I'll have a whole eternity in hell as Lucifer's personal pie baker for that.

But I still have a sweet tooth that just won't quit. In other words, I'm still making dessert occasionally, just mostly no-bake ones. And by no-bake, I mean: no oven, no stove, no heat at all besides that which emanates from the horrible blazing sun you're presumably hiding from.

That's why I hereby declare this summer to be "The Summer of Icebox Cakes."

Icebox cake is a cool, creamy, layered affair that only improves with time sitting in the refrigerator (or icebox, as Nonni always called it). Graham crackers usually define the layers of whipped cream, mousse, or custard, but you can use other types of cookies, too. Think of icebox cake as a white-trash napoleon. A dumbed-down tiramisu. Don't let my disparaging language fool you, though. Simple, unpretentious icebox cakes can be perfectly delicious. My childhood version (made by Nonni on hot summer days) featured chocolate and vanilla pudding and sliced bananas between the graham cracker layers. We loved it.

My grown-up version alternates slices of fresh peaches with creamy whipped mascarpone and vanilla wafers. It's ridiculously fresh-tasting. And stupefyingly easy. Because there's so little to the recipe, it's especially important to use really good ingredients: super-ripe peaches, fresh organic cream, real mascarpone, and good-quality vanilla wafers. Not Nabisco Nilla Wafers. If you use those, you will ruin this recipe. You need something good. I recommend Mi-Del Vanilla Snaps from the "natural" aisle of the supermarket. Feel free to sneak a few raspberries in there, too, to get a peach melba thing going on. It's also fantastic with nectarines.

Peaches and Cream Icebox Cake     

Once assembled, let the cake sit in the fridge for several hours before serving to give the peaches and cream a chance to soften the crispy cookies into spongy cake-like layers.

4 to 5 ripe peaches, peeled, pitted, thinly sliced
3 cups heavy cream
8 ounces mascarpone cheese
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
12 ounces best-quality vanilla wafers

In a large bowl, whip the cream with the mascarpone, confectioner's sugar, and vanilla starting on low and gradually increasing the speed to medium for 4 to 5 minutes until the cream thickens and holds soft peaks when the beaters are lifted. The cream mixture should mound easily and hold its shape when you spread it.

Add a very thin layer of mascarpone cream to the bottom of an 8 x 8-inch pan. Line the pan with a layer of vanilla wafers. On top of that, add a layer of overlapping peach slices. Add a thick layer of mascarpone cream on top. Repeat the order for 1 or 2 more layers as desired, ending with cream on top. (If you run out of cookies, don't worry, just spread them out the best you can.)

Refrigerate the icebox cake for at least 4 hours or overnight. Slice and serve with a spatula.

Local Sources:
Peaches: Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

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.