cranberry maple tart

 

Oh, yes. Here we are.

When I was sixteen, my friend Jette and I hopped on a bus to New York late late the night before Thanksgiving. The ride took nearly the whole night, and we arrived in the city just as the sun was starting to come up. We sat on the sidewalk and watched the massive balloons inflate for the Macy's parade. We wandered the empty city, resting in parks with the pigeons. (I know, I know. What did our mothers say? Honestly, I don't even remember.)  It was a gray day, and we had no plan. Somehow, we got on a train and ended up at a friend's house outside of Philadelphia. I don't remember how we got the invitation, but I do remember sitting at his fancy table with his very proper family, struggling to use my knife and fork correctly. I remember being bleary with sleeplessness and thankful to be in that strange and warm place. I remember that Jette and I were proud of ourselves for stepping out of the lines, for making the holiday an adventure, and for making the holiday our very own.

Four years later, my friend Eilen and I cooked for days, and we invited every straggler we could find. My parents were there too, visiting our woodsy home in Santa Fe. My mother and I were really fighting for the first time in my life, and she kept out of the kitchen. Eilen and I rolled and chopped and baked, and we were grownups in our own kitchen. We, too, made that holiday our own.

We've had Thanksgivings with friends and Thanksgivings with family. We have cooked and been cooked for. Every year has been different. But through these years with all of those meals, we are always finding ways to make the holiday our own.

How do you do it?
Have you found traditions that make this one yours?
We have an appreciations box. We learned that one from Gould Farm. Everyone writes down the things they are thankful for, and then we read them. That's a good one.

I woke up thinking about this tart last week. I made it a few times before I found it. Joey and the girls can attest to this. (It's a hard life in the kitchen of a food writer) But then I found it.

I thought you might be interested, just in case you haven't settled on your dessert options for next week. This is easy to put together, and the maple, cranberry, and orange sing to each other in a way that brings out the best in each. 

And while we're at it, shall we take a moment for some dessert inspiration? I'll give it a go...

Pear pie. Poached quince. Damp gingerbread with pears (I can't get enough of that one). Indian pudding. Sweet cornmeal biscuits. Apple rhubarb pandowdy. Olive oil and sherry pound cake. Apple pie. Pumpkin Mexican hot chocolate. Buttermilk spice cake. Are we there? Did we find it? Let me know- we can definitely keep the list going.
But in the mean time, let's have a piece of this one to keep the hunger at bay.



Cranberry Maple Tart
serves 8 to 10, or thereabouts

For the crust:
scant 1 1/2 cups (7 ounces) all purpose flour
1 stick+1 tablespoon (4.5 ounces) cold unsalted butter (cubed) plus extra for greasing the pan
the zest and juice of 1 orange (this will be in both the crust and the filling)
1 teaspoon sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 egg

For the filling:
3 cups cranberries (fresh or frozen)
1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon maple syrup
1/4 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup heavy cream
3 egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt

Lightly grease a 10-inch tart pan with butter. Combine the flour, butter, orange zest, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor fit with the chopping blade. Pulse about 10 times. Add the egg and 1 tablespoon orange juice, reserving the rest of the juice for the filling. Process just until the dough comes together around the blade. If it's too crumbly, you can add another teaspoon of juice.

Roll the dough out on a floured surface until it is a circle at least 14 inches in diameter. Transfer the dough to the tart pan. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Take the tart pan out of the fridge about 10 minutes before you are ready to bake. Bake the crust for 10 minutes, peeking in to gently press down any air bubbles that might rise in the crust over that time. Remove the crust from the oven, but leave the heat on.

Combine the cranberries, 1/4 cup of the maple syrup, brown sugar, and remaining orange juice (it should be about 1/4 cup) in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium heat and cook, stirring often, until the berries burst and the mixture thickens, 5 to 7 minutes. 

Meanwhile, whisk together the cream, egg yolks, vanilla, remaining 1 tablespoon of maple syrup, and salt in a mixing bowl.

Spread the cranberry mixture into the crust, then pour the cream mixture over it. Put the tart pan on top of a baking sheet and bake until the top is firm and golden, about 40 minutes.

Allow the tart to sit at room temperature for at least 1 hour before serving. If preparing a day or two ahead (totally fine- this holds up beautifully!), store in the refrigerator, then let it come to room temperature for at least an hour before serving. This is good on it's own, but also lovely with whipped cream. I served it with orange flower whipped cream (1 cup heavy cream+1 tablespoon sugar+1 teaspoon orange flour water).

stone fruit tea cake, and how you can have my favorite book

Yes!
The girls are back in school, and it won't stop raining, and it is possible that I've never seen as many beautiful peaches as I have seen in the last few weeks. Seen? Let me be more precise, caressed, admired, adored, EATEN.  Things all feel a little buzzed this week in a good way, like there are tingles in the air, and exciting events about to happen. Rosie started first grade, and although she had a hard time finding a place to sit at lunch on the first day (I only cried once, Mommy), she reported that today was much better. She's been multiplying things.


I must admit that on weeks like this, I may be guilty of dropping everything to make a cake.

The cakes come about partly because although I am not a housewife, I always seem to want to be on the first week of school. Because there is something deep and satisfying about feeding the family love through this transition. Joey comes home from his new preschoolers sparkly, and exhausted, and all at once inspired and slightly terrified, I think. He wants cake too.

I have decided that right now if you ask me, my favorite cookbook in the world is a little book called Rustic Fruit Desserts. It's a bit like a love affair that I've been denying all along, because I've written about it many times and sung its praises. It's just that I've been resistant to thinking that such a small book would be my favorite, or a book on such a limited topic. Even more, I don't even like fruit desserts. None of it makes sense.
I love this book so much. When fruit comes into the house, I go directly to its perfect petite binding. I look up the ingredient in the index, and then I usually have to start baking then and there. This makes me feel hungry, and inspired and instantly propelled to bake.

I also feel compelled to give this book away. I've bought copies for friends, and I've lent my copy out. I get that way with books--I think Joey's worn off on me that way. Come in and have a conversation with Joey about graphic novels, and you will walk out of here with a stack of books up to your chin.

I can't help it. It's that kind of week. You guys are just too fantastic. I'm giving this book away.
I know another copy will come my way someday.  I'll be ready. But this one? I'm sending it to you.
Despite it's constant use, it is in surprisingly good condition. There might be a few butter stains here and there, and yes, I've made a few notes. I write in pencil, so I'll let you erase them if you don't agree. I think slightly marked up cookbook is better than a new one any day, wouldn't you agree? This cookbook has lived a life.

So let's do it like this, shall we? If I were to ask you today, at this moment, what your favorite cookbook is, what would you say? I'd love some new recommendations. I'll keep it open until Monday night, the 12th. Then I'll choose a winner, and the book is on it's way to you. It will be right in time for apple season! Remember that apple rhubarb pandowdy? Page 16.

And if you aren't the lucky winner, you can still have cake.  This might be one of my favorites from the book yet. The dough is simple and shortbready, the method is deeply satisfying, and it will work with any stone fruit that you have rolling around where you are. And then, of course, you have an excuse to invite a friend for tea.

Stone Fruit Tea Cake
adapted from Corey Schreiber and Julie Richardson, Rustic Fruit Desserts

makes one 10-inch cake

3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter at room temperature
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 cup granulated sugar
3 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups coarsely chopped stone fruit (can be frozen)
1 tablespoon turbinado sugar (or you can use granulated sugar, if you like)

Whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together.
Cream 3/4 cup of the butter with the sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer or with an electric beater. You want the mixture to be extremely light and fluffy, and this will take 3 to 4 minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, scraping down the mixture from the sides of the bowl after each addition. Stir in the vanilla.
Add the flour mixture and combine with a few strokes of a spoon just until a dough forms. Turn the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap, and wrap it tightly. Put it in the freezer for 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Use the remaining tablespoon of butter to grease a ten inch cake or tart pan. Divide the dough into two equal portions, and pat one of them into the bottom of the prepared pan. You don't have to be fussy about getting the dough to the edges--if there are some gaps, the dough will expand in the oven.
Spread the cut fruit evenly over the dough. Then, break up the second half of the dough into tablespoon-size pieces, and spread them evenly over the fruit. Sprinkle with turbinado (or regular) sugar. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until golden. Cool before serving.

deep-dish strawberry rhubarb pie recipe

I've had my way with the last of the strawberries.
Joey went to pick at Thompson Finch Farm on Friday while I was at kids' cooking camp, and he stopped in on his way back to drop of strawberries for the last meal of camp.  We filled a colander and the kids descended on them, leaving just enough to slice into our crepes that we had so (un)carefully flipped all morning. Then I came home, washed the week's aprons, drank a Pimm's cup, and made 10 half-pints of jam. Joey's only request was that there was enough left over for a pie. 

Have I told you about Joey and his love for fruit pie? His obsession with fruit pie? His passion for fruit pie?  About how he'll go hours out of his way if there is even a whisper of a rumor of halfway decent pie?

Well I'm telling you now.

And I wouldn't be giving you the whole story unless I included the fact that I'm not such an enthusiastic partner. I'll come along for the scenery, but even the most revered fruit pie tends not to meet my tastes. I'll admit it's a failing of mine. I am many things, good and bad, and pie snob is one of them.

It's that thick, syrupy, sweet thing that happens when fruit and syrup and cornstarch come together just so. It's the sugar in the crust and the sugar on top of the crust. It's too sweet for me, and even diner coffee doesn't quite get it down.  Joey looks at me in disbelief.

So I make the pie that I want. Where the fruit is still recognizable, tart and citrus-y. The crust is flaky with a bit a bit of salt. And although a cup of coffee on the side is always pleasant, it isn't a necessity.  The juice overflows, and I always set off the fire alarm. Lucky for me, Joey is not a pie snob, and he loves my kind of pie too.

The other night, Joey set up the tent in the backyard.  Each of the girls had a friend over, and we ordered pizza. My sister Maia had a few friends over too, and so it was an impromptu party, and the light hung around the yard in that very specific way where it could only be those weeks right after the solstice, where the days are long and the summer stretches ahead. We ate pizza without plates, and the girls shrieked and ran through the yard.



At some point in the night, we heard a distant and blaring alarm, and I made some smug comment about second home owners and their car alarms. Joey nodded, and when it didn't stop, we looked at each other for a split second before sprinting inside to the kitchen.
That was no car alarm.  When the smoke alarm goes off, the pie is ready.


I have a pie dish that I love, a deep-dish 10-inch white one. Every pie recipe fills a 9-inch shallow dish, and then I fudge the recipe a little to fill my white pie plate. So today, just in case you have a favorite pie plate that's a little bigger than the norm, I'm going to give you a recipe to fill it. And if you're working with a smaller dish, just scale back a bit.

As you roll and fold this one into being, remember that every pie is beautiful.  Fill it with good fruit and weave your lattice however you like. It will be your greeting to summer, your kiss on the cheek to all that abundance. Something so good has no need to look perfect.

Deep-dish Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

For the crust:

6 ounces unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
6 ounces lard (or butter if you prefer), in small pieces
3 1/3 cups (1 pound, 2.75 ounces) all-purpose flour
3 teaspoons apple cider vinegar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup water

For the filling:

5 cups strawberries, hulled and sliced
2 cups rhubarb, in 1-inch pieces
1/4 cup cornstarch dissolved in 1/4 cup cool water
1/2 cup sugar
juice of 1 lime (or lemon, if that is what you have available)
2 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

Make the crust:

Combine the butter, lard, and flour in the bowl of a stand mixer. Toss the fat in the flour so that it is thoroughly coated. Put the bowl in the fridge.
Combine the vinegar, salt, and water in a cup. Put into the freezer for 10 minutes.
Remove the flour mixture from the fridge, and fit your mixer with the paddle attachment. Mix the flour mixture until the fat is in small crumbly pieces. Remove the vinegar mixture from the freezer and, while the mixer is running on medium speed, slowly add the wet to the dry until the dough clumps around the paddle.
Separate the dough into two discs, wrap in plastic or waxed paper, and refrigerate for at least two hours.

Make the filling:

Combine the strawberries, rhubarb, cornstarch mixture, and lime juice in a large mixing bowl. Gently stir until thoroughly combined--then let the mixture sit for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Remove the crusts from the fridge. Grease your pie dish with butter.
Roll out the first crust on a floured counter with strong strokes until you have a 12 to 14-inch circle. Transfer the dough to the prepared pie dish.
Fill the pie crust with the strawberry mixture. Roll out the second pie crust to the same dimensions as the first, then cut it into 1-inch strips. Arrange the strips in a lattice. I know that there is some correct way to do this, but I like to improvise my way through it, weaving here, folding there. Tuck the butter in under the lattice so that it melts into the strawberries.
Put a baking sheet on a lower shelf of the oven to catch the drips. Bake the pie for fifteen minutes in the upper half of the oven, then reduce the temperature to 375 degrees. Bake for another 30 to 40 minutes, or until the crust is golden, the juice bubbles, and the smoke alarm goes off.

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rhubarb clafoutis

Eesh. I have just come off of a kid in the ER morning, and so let's talk rhubarb for a few minutes before I fall into bed for a nap.

All are well (ish, as there is still a fever to contend with), but Sadie was a tiny superstar in there, and I will say here, as I've said before--I feel very fortunate and grateful to have health insurance. I cannot imagine being in a situation where I had to pick and choose medical care for my child because of the prohibitive cost, but I know that there are so many in exactly that predicament. We use our health insurance so little, but when we do, this always strikes me again. Sadie was tested and pricked and poked and imaged today, and not once did I have to say, "Stop! We can't afford that."  Yes, I am lucky, but I know that this system is broken, and for this reason among so many, I feel that health care is a right. No one should have to say no to medical treatment for their children because they can't afford it. I hope that someday we'll be able to figure this out as a nation.

I have also been fortunate not to have to make too many medical decisions for my girls, as they've been pretty healthy.  But when they do happen, there's something about those moments that bring the responsibility of parenthood right to the front, when we realize that there is no one else to make these decisions, and it is our instinct and action in the moment is all we have. Watching Sadie navigate through this morning made me feel so proud of her courage and her strength, but also thankful for the trust that she puts in me and Joey to take care of her. I'm thankful for that trust, but it also scares the shit out me.

These babies come into the world and they trust us--I think they even choose us. It's big and scary but that trust is probably the thing that keeps me trying to be a good person. 

In honor of two new amazing little girls who have come into the world in these past weeks, let's sing the praises of rhubarb. (we had to get to rhubarb sometime, right?)

One, Lola, who has arrived to join her two older brothers who I predict will protect and love her with such fierceness. Any combination of her parents attributes will serve her well, and may she grow stronger and more wonderful every year, like the perennial rhubarb. 

 And Eden, born just a few days ago, a fourth to some of my favorite three out there.  For Eden, let's roast some rhubarb.

 

 It was Ashley who made the suggestion that rhubarb was a feminine vegetable, and it has stuck with me ever since.  Pink and complex, a this vegetable masquerading as a fruit is prolific, endlessly generous, versatile, sexy, perplexing, and filled with vitamin C.

This rhubarb clafoutis was for my sister, Maia's womanly 13th birthday. I remember the stormy morning she came into the world too, eyes open before she was even fully out of my mother's body. She is coming into the time where she is learning to trust herself to make her own decisions, a moment equally big and scary as the one that came 13 years before. And so, for Maia, it was rhubarb, strong and sour sweet in the cape of a French tea snack. If you've never made a clafoutis, it's time, it's time. It's more custard than cake, and the fruit stands with the custard in one bite, holding together a crumb provided by the tiny bit of flour. 

Welcome, sweet girls. You have chosen your parents well, and we'll do our best to support them. The world is a better place with you here. 

 

Rhubarb Clafoutis

from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, River Cottage Every Day (yes! the newest River Cottage book- fantastic)

serves 6 (but I doubled it, and served it in a large springform, which worked great)

1 pound rhubarb

a pinch of cinnamon

grated zest of 1/2 orange and the juice of the whole fruit

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

a pinch of sea salt

3 eggs lightly beaten

1 cup whole milk

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Cut the rhubarb into 2-inch lengths and put it into a baking pan with the cinnamon, orange juice, and 2 tablespoons sugar. Toss well, and roast for 20 minutes until just starting to caramelize. Let it cool, and drain it in a sieve.

Turn the oven down to 350 degrees. Butter a 10-inch round baking dish or springform. Arrange the rhubarb on the bottom of the dish.

Sift the flour and salt into a bowl and stir in the sugar. Make a well in the center and add the beaten eggs.  Stir the flour into the eggs, and then whisk in the milk a little at a time. 

Pour the batter over the rhubarb and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until the clafoutis is golden and puffed. Serve warm or cold, with whipped cream.

 

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black bottom cupcakes

The other day, Sadie got in trouble at school.
It seems that a bunch of kids were acting up, and, in her words, "she couldn't help it, and she joined in by accident."  She was on edge when I picked her up from school, and the afternoon just went down from there in flames of tears and 7-year-old sass.  Misbehavior at school is not Sadie's strong suit--she still thinks that "teacher's pet" is a good thing, and she strives for it.  And so I watched all of the emotions percolate through the day, and she would erupt with excuses (It's been 2 whole years since I got in trouble in Spanish class!) to stubbornness to full on lovey clinginess.  The day ended with her emerging bleary eyed from her bedroom at 9 pm, and she catapulted herself towards me with a hug.  She had a stomachache from the whole affair, and she was having trouble getting to sleep.  I gave her another kiss and tucked her into bed in the midst of all of the novels she had been reading that night, and that seemed to do the trick.



But a few hours earlier, before she had found her own quiet, things came to a head before dinner.  It was table-setting time, and when I told Sadie, the hands went on her hips, and she said that she didn't feel like it. 
For better or worse, I pulled out my inner 7-year-old, never too far from the surface these days. My arms went to my hips too.
"Well, maybe I don't really feel like making dinner for you any more."
The emotions of that day flickered across her face, and I saw them all in succession again.  Sometimes she reminds me of August weather around here.  Sunny, then the clouds come in and it pours, and then the sun is back as fast as it left.
She collapsed on the couch, and she stuck her butt up into the air like a toddler.  "I just can't!!!!"

Rosie took over and put the napkins on the table. And I sat there with Sadie for the few minutes before dinner, stroking her hair.  



Luckily it was a moment that I could pause in myself, because sometimes I can't wait for those moments when everything is golden and lovely.  I think that those are the moments that will make me pause, and say, everything is so beautiful! Let's stop here and take a breath.



And those moments do happen--they come often enough.  But more often, someone is having a hard time working through the day.  And if I can, I take a breath, and my eyes glaze a little, and like in this moment, I stroked Sadie's hair.  She will be eight on Sunday, and the complexities will continue to increase.  I think about what a friend of mine once said--how brave to raise women in this world!  What a challenge!  So complicated!



I'm not sure that I had thought about it in those terms before.  But now I do.  And somehow that links my girls to so many others women in my mind.  These moments of emotional complexity, of guilt and self righteousness and the need to be loved and to care for others and to be right and beautiful--I feel like I have more tools to help them start there way through this when I think of it as common.

And I can't say why, but it makes me think about the women in my life who are no longer here.  Maybe because it brings them to me too, and it brings them to Sadie, so that there are a whole lot more hands stroking her hair.

Yesterday, I sat and talked with a new friend, and we talked about a woman who we had both loved, who, more than  anyone, taught me about the meat and the joy in these complexities.  By the end, she was so good at that.

And I think about my grandmother, always my grandmother!  I think she was conditioned to feel miserable about so many things, and she fought it.  She celebrated so many things, despite herself, because why the hell not. 

Which brings me to black bottom cupcakes.  I make them on the first day of spring, because my grandmother did.  Because why the hell not.  It took me a few days to get to it this year--I had a cold, and I didn't want to do it.  But when I got to it, it was snowing, and we were all complaining about the snow gracing this first week of spring.  It was cold, and even the lilac buds were shivering.

But it snows every March, and every April.  And that's the meat of it all.  The freezing and thaw makes it easier to be thankful, I think.  And it teases with the smell of mud, and then freezes it before we can complain about the mud getting everywhere.  I love a good transition.  And a good cupcake.

 

Black Bottom Cupcakes
(I wrote about these a few years ago, but the recipe didn't quite make it for me, and so to line it up with the glorious memory of my childhood Spring party cupcakes under my grandmother's lilac bush, I messed with it quite a bit this year.)


Makes 12 cupcakes

For the filling:
8 ounces cream cheese at room temperature
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
5 ounces chocolate chips

For the cupcakes:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup whole milk
1/3 cup canola oil
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

For the filling:
Beat together the cream cheese,  sugar, and egg until relatively smooth. Stir in the chocolate chips. Set aside.

For the cupcakes:
Preheat to 350 degrees.  Butter a 12-cup muffin tin, or line the tin with muffin cups. In a medium bowl whisk together the flour, brown sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. In a separate bowl, use a whisk to beat together the milk, oil, vinegar, and vanilla. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and stir in the wet ingredients until just combined.
Fill each muffin cup halfway with cake batter. Top with the cream cheese filling so that the filling comes nearly to the top of the cup.  Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the tops are slightly golden brown. They will keep well unrefrigerated for 2 to 3 days if stored in an airtight container.

chocolate meringue pie

I'm feeling a new dream creeping in, one more exciting future to think about.
Oh yeah.  Time to open a pie shop. And while I might carry the token fruit pie to make people (and my husband) happy, I'm thinking we're all about cream and meringue pies around here.
It's the reaction, the pure joy and love and excitement that people seem to feel just looking at that crisped and airfilled sweet hat of meringue, the knowledge that whatever is under there is going to be good- is it lemon?  key lime? or....chocolate?  Maybe this is the way I can bring joy to the world: chocolate meringue pie.

  
Desserts are more complicated around here than I wish they were.  As much as Joey and I have tried to restrain ourselves from using sugar for the girls  as a reward for eating other things more green and nutritious, we've done it anyway.  I know that it is the wrong thing to do, but when I can see that Rosie will gladly eat a pound of kale when there is a cookie thrown into the deal, I can't help it.  There have been times when she will go a month without a green vegetable, and at that point, I start to feel a little (okay, I'll say it, even if I'm not proud of it)...desperate.  I try to take my own advice ("Relax!  No kid ever died from too much noodles and butter--better to relinquish control.  They'll come around!), but then of course I lose my resolve, and before I know it, I've opened my mouth.  And while I should just be filling it with kale and modeling all that good eating behavior (which I'm doing too!), I have to go ahead and speak.  And there it is.
"4 more bites, and then you can have a cookie."
Ughh, is that really me?
And then dessert becomes something else, something to want and desire and...NEED. 
The main reason why this is hard to watch and participate in, is because there's something else about dessert, something I love so much.  And in a lot of ways, this thing has very little to do with how it tastes.  It's about the excitement of a frosted cake on the counter, or a perfect whoosh of frosting on a cupcake.  It's about the joy we take in something that we eat not because it's good for us, but because it's wonderful. 



I made this pie the day before Valentine's day.  Joey and the girls were hard at work on all their valentines for school and I felt like I wanted to make something too. That week, I'd found this dainty green pie plate on sale due to a character-building tiny chip in the side, and it was calling to me.  And watching Joey and the girls make all their beautiful art, I was determined to create art with that pie plate.

We were going to my parent's for dinner (the last time before they move in!) and I let that pie sit on the counter for a while.  The whole room was littered with scraps of paper and gluesticks, rubber-banded piles of tiny notes in alphabetical order.  Like a mantra those class lists were repeated all day. "Alice, Brianna, Bryce, Conrad, Flora...and on and on."  In the center of it all, the pie held court, cooling gently in its dainty green plate.



When we drove over to my parents', the girls oohhed and ahhed.  There was no talk of how much they would have to eat before they got a slice--it seemed the magic and the beauty of that meringued top inspired them.  It was a good moment for dessert in that car, and the girls thanked me for making something so pretty, and they remarked over and over, "That looks so yummy!".  I added one more resolution to my growing list of things I hope my girls learn about food-- that dessert is about joy and beauty and specialness, not about guilt or need or reward or punishment.  Oh, the food lessons- if we can only let the foods to the teaching.  I'll try to step back.
Leave it to the magic and beauty of the meringue.

 
Chocolate Meringue Pie
from Moosewood Restaurant Book of Desserts

1 10-inch prebaked pie crust (You can use a straight crust here, or a graham cracker crust is nice too.  Here's my favorite straight pie crust, or for a graham cracker crust, combine 2 cups of graham cracker crumbs with 7 tablespoons of melted butter.  Press the mixture into your pie pan, then refrigerate for 20 minutes, then bake at 375 for 15 minutes)

For the filling:
1/4 cup cornstarch
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups whole milk
3 large egg yolks, lightly beaten (reserve the whites for the meringue)
4 ounces unsweetened chocolate, roughly chopped
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

For the meringue:
3 large egg whites
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup sugar

In medium saucepan off the heat, combine the cornstarch, sugar, and salt.  Slowly add a bit of the milk, first making a smooth paste, then adding the rest of the milk.  Whisk in the egg yolks.  Add the chocolate to the milk and place the saucepan over medium heat.  Cook, stirring constantly, for about 15 minutes, or until the pudding thickens and the chocolate melts entirely.  For a long time, the chocolate will be all grainy and it will seem like it just won't come together--it will look like this:
 

Remove from the heat when the pudding is thick.  Even if the chocolate is not absolutely smooth, it is okay--it will continue to melt off the heat.

(don't worry, you're crust will look better than mine.  I had a few graham cracker issues, and I didn't make enough to spread to the edges of my dainty pie pan, so it shrunk.  But if you're following my recipe, you'll have plenty.  And if this does happen to you, the meringue is pretty enough to cover it all)

Stir the vanilla into the pudding.  Spread the pudding into your prebaked pie shell. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites and cream of tartar on high speed until soft peaks form.  Add the sugar and vanilla and beat until you have stiff and glossy peaks, about 5 minutes.  Spread the meringue over the chocolate filling, making sure to extend it to the edges of the crust.  Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until the meringue is golden brown.  Cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.

olive oil and sherry pound cake

The children are rebelling.  They say, "no more soup, mom!"  and I say, "tough cookies."
Soup is what we've got, and after all that's what I went to all the trouble for, freezing buckets and buckets of soup so that right now, when the book was almost done and all I was making was pudding and oreos, we would have dinner.  They'll survive, I hope.

Also, life's picking up all around me in swirling eddies-  all good, all good!  But there is no time to make dinner, and so, yes, it's soup again. The good news in that regard is that I've also started working at this lovely little place.  I think I've mentioned it, but the whole story is that I started working there in December a few days a week, to supplement this and that and to learn about olive oil and cheese and mostly to get me out of the kitchen and my head every so often.  It's been really nice to be there, despite the fact that it creates a few more days when there is no time to make dinner, but now?  Now I have bread to bring home to eat with dinner, and we pop it in the oven for a few minutes and then it's like I've been home all day recreating some French bakery in my kitchen.  Then I'm home for a few minutes (luckily I've defrosted the soup-sicle in the fridge the night before), and Joey and I and maybe Sadie have soup, and Rosie has her nightly meal of a banana ("I hate soup!").  Then I'm off to some meeting at town hall (better if I've remembered to wear the correct footwear) where I try, try, try to do my best at what ever happens to be on our plates that night, and come home all wound up, and Joey's trying to go to bed, but I'm just sitting there next to him jabbering about politics and emotion, and about the people's right to rage and how to help in a rational and responsible manner.

My dreams have been crazy lately.

The girls are doing well though-- they seem to thrive as long as I can get enough hugs to them through the day, and Joey does his fair share when he sees them in the hallway at school. The other night I was tucking Rosie into her bed, and she said to me, "Mom, do you know why I always wear socks to bed?" (Truth is, I've always wondered why she's so stubborn about this. Me- I hate wearing socks to bed) And I said, "why, Rosie?"  And she answered, "Well, when I read at night after you close the door, I can use one of my socks as a bookmark."

And there you have it.

So, again, again, (I feel like I'm always saying this)  the book is almost out of my hands, and then there will be all sorts of beautiful meals to write about, and me glowing with joy and peace as I braise and sautee and chop.  But I just can't go too long without talking about an actual recipe here--it leaves me feeling unsatisfied in some sort of core way, and so I thought I'd tell you about a cake that I made at work.

Now Bizalion's has an always lovely spread of many  things.  There are enough cured meats and olives and ripened cheeses and dates and figs to keep you throwing a party every day for a year.  On the sweet side, the options are classy but a bit limited, always almond anise seed biscotti (which I have been making with great joy), and exquisite little chocolate pastries made by Audrey Sussman.  Audrey did all the recipe testing for my book, and these chocolate horns are so good--they pretty much answer all your pastry and chocolate needs.  But last week I found myself with the itch that comes when I haven't made a cake in some time, and so I asked Jean-Francoise (that is, Bizalion) if he would object if I added a cake to the mix.  And I found this cake in Pure Dessert, which continues to hold it's place as my favorite dessert cookbook for maybe two years running, which I thought would do the trick.

Bizalion's is owned by the aforementioned Jean-Francois and his wife, Helen.  In addition to the store, they are building a business around the importing of olive oil, and together with their two girls (exactly the same ages as my two girls, coincidentally), they are beginning to travel to Italy and France and Spain to where the olives are pressed, so they can hand pick the olive oils for the store.  We sell the oil in big beautiful barrels, and anyone can choose the side of their bottle or bring one in from home and fill it from the barrel.  And so there there I am, surrounded by these great steel barrels of olive oil, and so it only seemed right to open a spigot and mix it right into a cake batter.

This cake is boozey, not quite so much that you wouldn't give it to your children if they asked for it, but boozey enough that it is quite grown up.  It improves with a day or two if you have it well wrapped, and the recipe will make two loaf pans or one big bundt.  Yesterday a customer told me that this cake was good enough to retire on--it was so good.  I'll make sure to tell Alice Medrich, if I ever meet her.  But that woman keeps making the most wonderful recipes...selfishly I hope she never retires.


Olive Oil and Sherry Pound Cake
from Alice Medrich, Pure Dessert

3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
1 cup flavorful olive oil
2 teaspoons grated orange zest (from 1 medium orange)
5 large eggs
1 cup sherry
optional (this is my own addition): 1 tablespoon orange flower water

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease and flour two standard loaf pans or one 10-12 cup tube or bundt pan. 
Mix the flour, baking powder, and salt together.  Set aside.
Combine the sugar, olive oil, and orange zest in the bowl of a stand mixer.  Fit the mixer with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until well blended, about 1 minute.  Add the eggs one at a time, beating after each addition.  Continue to beat until the mixture is thick and pale yellow, 3 to 5 minutes.  Stop the mixer and add 1/3 of the flour mixture.  Beat on low speed just to combine.  Then add 1/2 the sherry, and beat again for just a moment.  Then another 1/3 of the flour, beat again.  Then the second 1/2 of the sherry and the orange flour water, if using.  Then finish with the rest of the flour. 
Scrape the batter into the pan(s).  Bake just until a cake tester comes out clean, 45 minutes to an hour.  Cool in the pan for about 15 minutes before unmolding, then cool on a wire rack. 

umm ali

So, today, Cea's the winner.

You didn't think I'd forget about all your lovely cravings, did you?

When I asked what she yearned for, what flavors answered the longing of all her being, this was her answer:

"Ohh this is easy...I always crave the food of my childhood, good old Lebanese food. Luckily there are lots of places that now make the classics like hummus, tabouleh and shwarmas (although the hummus is never creamy enough, the tabouleh never has enough parsley and the shawarmas are never as delish as they are in saudi, carved by a sweaty man at a road side stand for about $1 each)....anyway so some of my cravings are met however there is a dessert called Umm Ali (or something like that)that I would die for. It is kind of a bread pudding that is made with puff pastry (sometimes day old croissants) and pistachios and goodness. There was a beautiful hotel called the Meridian that we used to go to for brunch all the time and they had vats of the stuff..warm and bubbly with crunchy sides and mushy, runny, buttery, coconuty wonder in the middle....ahhhh.. "

Fantastic, isn't it? Can't you just taste the stuff?

Now, I've had the great fortune to know Cea for years and years, and I want nothing more to make her her own little bowl of umm ali. But she's down there in the concrete and alligator jungles of Florida, and so...Cea? Here's the recipe--you're gonna have to make it yourself.

I had no idea what umm ali was, but man oh man am I glad that we have become acquainted. It is, in essence, an Egyptian bread pudding, and I think that you might want to make this even if you're not Cea. It's ridiculously easy, even more ridiculously fantastic, and probably the best thing you could ever bring to a potluck. All you need is sheet of frozen puff pastry, a can of sweetened condensed milk, and a few handfuls of nuts and coconut.

Day old croissants would do just fine too, in case you have any of those lying around. Or if you're really going for it, you can make the puff pastry at home. Either way, you've got a treat ahead.
I worked off this recipe, and then topped it with a little orange flour whipped cream. That seemed like a pretty good idea (and it was!) but rosewater would work, or just plain old whipped cream, or ice cream. All in all, it was a few minutes of work, a few more in the oven, and then a whole pan of joy.

Thank you Cea. Turns out I was craving that one too.


Umm Ali
adapted from here

1 pound frozen puff pastry, thawed at room temperature for an hour
1 15 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
3 cups water
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup pistachios, shelled and chopped
1/4 cup pine nuts
3/4 cup slivered almonds
3/4 cup unsweeted shredded coconut

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Unroll puff pastry and bake on a buttered cookie sheet for 15 minutes, or until golden and puffed up. Remove puff pastry and leave the oven on.
Meanwhile, heat condensed milk, water, and vanilla over medium heat. Cook for about three minutes, or until hot and steaming.
Break up the puff pastry into bite-sized pieces. Layer in a 9x13 casserole dish with the nuts and coconut. Pour the hot milk mixture over the puff pastry and nuts. Bake uncovered for 15 minutes.

To make orange flower whipped cream, beat together 1/2 cup heavy cream, 1/2 teaspoon sugar, and 1 tablespoon orange flour water. Beat until the cream holds soft peaks.

mint jello with basil cream

Did you have those foods when you were a kid- those things you loved so much but weren't really allowed to have? And did you say to yourself,

"When I'm a grownup, I'm going to eat that every single day. And no one's going to stop me!"

That's kind of how I felt about jello.

And now that I'm a grownup, how often do I eat jello?
Not often enough, I tell you.

Last month, when I was in the hospital, I ate four bowls of jello in the 24 hours I spent there. It was orange jello, which was unfortunate but passable. I never asked for it- the nurses just kept bringing these little bowls of perfectly balanced orange squares to me. It was like I had a secret message painted on my forehead- "Bring this girl some jello. She is a jello-lover, and she just doesn't get enough of the stuff!"

It seems that even as a grown up, I have to go to the hospital to eat jello. Of course I'm not going to buy that red powder in the box. I will occasionally add a box of gelatin to a bottle of juice (like Paige taught me), but I will not buy that box. I am a make-it-at home kind of woman, and I don't let my children eat things that are that color unless they are strawberries, or raspberries, or, come to think of it, beets.

I wonder what my children are dreaming of eating every day when they are grownup?


Last week, we ended up at on a dear friend's porch on a very hot and sticky afternoon. We were hot, and thirsty, and wilted. Her eyes sparkled a bit when we got there, and she ran to the fridge.
"I made lemon balm jello. with basil cream."
Lemon balm jello! Glory be!

It turns out that she had been in Brooklyn the week before, and she had had one of those Brooklyn experiences where she and her hot wilted children had been pounding the pavement when they finally found their old babysitter who is now working in a pie bakery. There was a flurry of blissfully consumed gluten-free pie, and then an invitation--"why don't you come next door for a hip rooftop garden party where everyone will be lovely and artistic and interesting?" That is exactly what they did, and what were all the lovely and artistic and interesting people eating?
Oh, yeah baby, you know it.
And as my dear friend let that jello (lemon verbena, in this case, topped with basil cream) slide down her throat with ease and refreshment, I am honored to say that somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought of me.
Like I said, I've got a secret message on my forehead.


And that is how I came to be eating lemon balm jello on a hot afternoon last week. And although sometimes a hip Brooklyn rooftop party would be nice, with the right snacks, we can bring the party right here to the country.

So yes- the Brooklynites made lemon verbena jello, which telephoned into lemonbalm jello, and I made mint. The real moral here is that the herb is up to you. Whatever sounds good or whatever you have running rampant in your back yard. Go crazy. But do the basil cream. Totally lovely. Totally artistic. Totally interesting.

Maybe I'm not all grown up yet. Maybe I can start the promised jello regimen. Maybe I can be just who I thought I'd be.

Mint Jello with Basil Cream

for the jello:
4 cups water
4 packets gelatin (you could also do a vegetarian version with agar agar)
One big bunch of mint (mine weighed about 3/4 ounce)
1/2 cup sugar

for the cream:
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon sugar
6 leaves fresh basil, minced fine

Boil 3 cups of the water, and put the remaining cup of water into a mixing bowl. Once the water is boiling, pour it over the mint and let it infuse for 20 minutes. Strain and mix in the sugar until it dissolves. Sprinkle the gelatin over the cup of cold water and let it sit for one minute. Stir in the sweet minty water until thoroughly combined and no gelatin is visible. Pour into six bowls, containers or jars (or anything! go wild!) and refrigerate for about 3 hours, or until firm.
Just before serving, make the cream. Mix the sugar, minced basil and cream. Whisk by hand until just barely thickened. Pour over the jello, and serve cold.

blackberry nectarine crumble tart

Well, this morning we're off to a wedding near Toronto, and we're packing up the tent and our soon to be rumpled niceties to prepare for a few days of Canadian camping. Of course there is a million things to do, and here I am, sitting here with you, because as usual, I'm not packing when I should be.

I might even be delaying a little, maybe just putting off the endless span of car hours, even the first night in our brand new tent, although I might be selling myself short a bit. But the truth is, neither Joey nor I have much ruggedness in our blood, and although we've both done our fair share of outdoor sleeping, it has taken us this long to actually purchase a tent. And so as we embark on this little family adventure, we're sort of trying to pretend that we are absolutely comfortable doing this sort of thing, just so that the girls don't have to absorb those qualities in their parents like "I'm not much of a camper." Although when we pitched the tent in the backyard last week and spent the night inside, it did not seem to bode well for us that only two of the four of us remained in the morning. When Sadie went out to pee in the yard, and she didn't quite aim so well, and then I went in with her to clean her up a bit, and then she said she wanted her own bed, and I sort of agreed after sleeping on the upper side of a tilting air mattress for half the night, we called it a night. I think we'll be better tonight. And so I'll be back on Monday, and I'll let you know how the tent held up.

But just to tide you over until then, a tart.

Yesterday, thanks to a very dear friend who took off on her blackberry patch for the week, there were lots and lots of blackberries. I made jam all day, while Joey took pictures and basked in the joy of so many berries. I've rarely seen him so content. And so just to really bring him to the pinnacle of what he holds dear, I added a fruit tart into the mix.

Because Joey is bustling around me as we speak, and because I can hear the girls downstairs asking when we're leaving every 30 seconds, I'm not going to tell you about the night, or who was over for dinner, or the way this tart melds together in the nicest way.

I think I'll just let Rosie cut you a slice.

This one is from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, that master of idyllic summer nights (and of all of the River Cottage Cookbooks). The pastry is lovely, and the filling can be adapted for whichever fruits you may have around. He writes the recipe with blackberries and apples, but I had nectarines and that was wonderful. Try it out this week, and when I get back I'll look forward to hearing about what fruit combinations you perfected...

Blackberry Nectarine Crumble Tart
adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, The River Cottage Cookbook

4 cups blackberries
1 pound nectarines, pitted, peeled, and chopped into chunks
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 tablespoon lemon juice

for the pastry

1 1/4 cups flour
7 tablespoons butter, diced
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
1 egg yolk

For the crumble

2/3 cup flour
5 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons light brown sugar
6 tablespoons roughly chopped almonds

Make the pastry: sift the flour into a bowl and rub in the butter with your fingertips. Stir in the sugar and the egg yolk, and just enough ice water to make the dough hold together. Press into a disk, wrap in wax paper and chill for 30 minutes.
Roll out the pastry to 1/4 inch thick, and use it to line a buttered 10-inch tart pan. Then chill in the freezer for 10 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line the crust with parchment, and pour about 1 cup of dry beans into the tart pan to line the bottom and weight it down. Bake for 15 minutes, then remove the parchment and beans, and bake for 5 minutes more.
While the crust is baking, put the berries and the nectarines in a pot with the sugar, lemon juice and a tablespoon of water. Cook over low heat for about 20 minutes.
Make the crumble topping by rubbing all of the ingredients together.
Spoon the fruit into the prepared crust, leaving the liquid in the pan. Top with the crumble topping. Bake for 30 minutes, or until golden.
Reduce the fruit liquid by about half. Serve tart with whipped cream, and drizzle fruit syrup over the cream.