but wait, there's more!

Are you lurking there in the wings, shy of telling me what it is that you cook that makes you wag your tail with pride and sends your self-esteem rocketing?  Are you shy because you wonder if barnyard animals roam freely around my house, and if you only could be sure that they did, then you would pipe up with your story?

Warm up the pipes!

is there anything here for moi?

Note to the file:  If you have hand-raised a chick in your house, and then introduced her to coop life, she will prefer coop life.  But she will never forget her roots.  Anytime wind or careless residents leave our front door open, this chicken (and only this chicken) wanders in.  There she is, seeing if the children have brought anything home from school for her.

If, on the other hand, you were waiting for a little teasing glimpse of the goodies so coyly offered yesterday with no hint of their identity, then consider this:

Bear in mind, if you are still tempted to lurk and not speak up for yourself, that this is a mere hint.

If, on the third and final hand, it was a recipe for a cake that is a pie that is a cake that stood between you and giving yourself a shout-out, then feast your eyes on that top picture.

A note: the first five times I made this, I neglected to notice that it was supposed to be baked in a tart shell, and consequently I omitted that step.  You can too.  Just use a regular pie pan, not a tart pan with a removable bottom, or your oven will require cleaning.

Another note: the original recipe called for pears, and it is heaven with pears.  With hardly any effort at all, you will create something (especially if you opt to brush on the apricot jam) that looks like it came from the French bakery that used to be on Third Avenue in the lower 70's where my sister used to indulge her weakness for financiers.  I used apricots this time, and it was also heaven with apricots.  I have made it with hazelnuts, pecans and almonds and each time: delish.  Substitute at will.

OK, one more note: this totally rocks as a gluten-free dessert.  So little flour is required for the filling that it matters not one whit what type you use, and the eternal bugaboo of pie crust is gluten, so GF flours lend themselves admirably to the creation of pie crust.  I needed more flour than the recipe called for to make a roll-out-able crust, but otherwise the substitution worked like a charm.  I used a new GF flour mix called Maninis, and was quite impressed.

pear and hazelnut frangipane tart

adapted from Gourmet Entertains, November 2001

1 c hazelnuts, toasted, loose skins rubbed off in a towel

1/2 c sugar, divided

1/4 c flour

6T unsalted butter, softened

2 large eggs, room temperature

1 t vanilla extract

3 firm-ripe Bosc or Anjou pears, or 6 apricots

optional: 1/4 c apricot preserves, heated and strained

 1 recipe pie crust

Preheat oven to 350.

If you are using a crust, roll out the pastry and fit it to a 10" tart shell with a removable base.  Chill it while you do the other steps.

Pulse hazelnuts with 1/4 c sugar until finely ground, then add flour and pulse to combine.

In an electric mixer, beat together the butter and the remaining sugar until pale and fluffy.  Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each.  Then beat in extracts.  Reduce speed to low and mix in nut mixture until just blended.

Spread this filling evenly in your chilled tart shell.  Peel, halve and core the pears, then slice lengthwise into 1/4" thick slices, holding slices together to keep pear shape intact.  Arrange these on the filling, fanning them slightly.  If you are using apricots, quarter and pit them, and arrange them on the filling, pressing them lightly down.

Bake until filling is puffed and lightly golden, 30-40 minutes.  Brush the pears only with the apricot preserves.  Cool completely in the pan, then remove sides.

Are you ready to enter the prize sweepstakes?  Go to yesterday's post and leave a comment there!

better red

We live in a little town that covers 49 square miles and is year-round home to less than four thousand people (summer is another story), in a county full of similar municipalities.  On Memorial Day, each town hosts its own parade, and the fire and police departments dash from one to the other, now in the parade, now managing traffic for a neighbor town so their officials can muster and march.  In our town the bands and scout troops and oldest living veterans all process to a spot on the town green where memorial trees have been planted for fallen townsfolk.  The Schenob Brook babbles quietly behind the little park, perhaps ten feet wide at that point in its course toward the river and beyond.  After the speeches and salutes, a wreath is set into this quiet stream of water by the Naval representative.

Politics, though on display in the form of elected officials and flags and other trappings of organized government, fall away. 

Attending the parade and standing by my dad, who was in the Navy, as he and all the other citizens who have served receive a paper poppy from the gussied-up girls in the Brownie troop with their white baskets, is our official Memorial Day activity.

But Memorial Day on the calendar marks other occasions: summer officially opens, the population begins to increase, gardens can be planted. For our family, there is still more to acknowledge.  It is the anniversary (21st!) of the first time I met my husband (or so we believe; historical reconstruction suggests he may have sold me a pair of sneakers when I was in the 8th grade and he had a job after school in the Athtletic Attic on 68th and 2nd, but no hard evidence can confirm this).  It is the anniversary (19th) of his proposing marriage (the ideas that get into that man's head!).  And it is his birthday.

So I have no time to chat today.  Have to cook!  He doesn't like a party on his birthday, but he does like a big meal.  "Good Eater" is the understatement of the century in the case of this person, whose appetite is moderately legendary.  If your day has an extra two minutes in it, listen to this StoryCorps interview, and think of my husband when you hear about Herbie the Nibbler.

An enthusiastic eater is a good match for a person who likes to cook, and for this reason and all the reasons above, the birthday dinner is a robust celebration of what he likes to eat.  After one such repast, his dad pushed back from the table and remarked, "that was a broad display of nutrients," and that has become the moniker officiel.  The Annual Broad Display of Nutrients, or BDN.

Which brings us to sauce, yet again. I have been clear about my feelings regarding sauce, which are mine and mine alone, but it's true that a meal with gravy and something to sop it up with is a meal he is probably going to like.

Like other sauces before it, this comes from my trusty and weather-beaten copy of Jerry Traunfeld's Herbfarm Cookbook, and it's another one that has infinite versions extant, because it is a kind of Romesco sauce and Romesco sauce gets around.  And with good reason--it's one more example of an intensely good, simply-prepared condiment that elevates almost any plate.  Plonk it on something grilled or roasted, use it as dip or doll up a sandwich with it. You get the idea.

I adjusted his seasonings somewhat to reflect personal preferences under our roof, but those adjustments are noted so you can decide for yourself.  His recipe calls for toasted hazelnuts in place of the traditional almonds, and it is a brilliant substitution.  Sadly, since I first made this sauce I have become alarmingly allergic to hazelnuts, which over-share I only offer by way of reassurance that if, like me, you have good reason to substitute toasted almonds, you will still get a good bang for your buck here.  I have made it with jarred roasted peppers and with peppers I have roasted personally.  The bottled peppers make it the work of a moment to prepare, which is something we all appreciate when time is tight, and the home-roasted peppers kick it up an appreciable notch.  

I don't know if I should tell you how I roast peppers because it is not exactly high-tech.  But I just plop them onto the center of one of my gas burners, and after that first side is black and charred, I use tongs to flip them over and repeat.  After blackening (by this wacky method or in a hot oven or on your grill), put them in a covered bowl to steam and let them come to room temperature in there; then perform the not-very-pleasant-but quick-enough task of peeling and seeding them. 

See you after the long weekend, and do I have something in store for you?  Why, yes I do.

red pepper and hazelnut sauce

makes 1.5 cups

2 large red bell peppers, roasted, peeled and seeded, or 1.5 cups of jarred peppers, drained

1/4 cup toasted and as-skinned-as-possible hazelnuts or almonds

1 small clove garlic (he called for two standard cloves)

1 T sherry vinegar (he called for two)

1 T fresh lemon juice

1 T chopped fresh oregano or marjoram

1 T chopped fresh savory (which I like, and happen to grow) or rosemary (which I do not)

1 t salt

scant 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 c olive oil

Place all the ingredients except the  oil in a blender or food processor and pulse or blend until the nuts are finely ground.  Stop the machine and scrape down the sides.  With the machine running, pour in the olive oil in a steady stream.  The sauce should have the consistency of thick salad dressing.  Taste and add more salt or cayenne if desired.

This will keep in a covered jar for up to a week, and can be used room temperature or gently warmed in a bowl of hot water; excessive heating will cause it to separate.

it's a curd to me

It’s a birthday again around here, and this one has all the markings of what my mother likes to call a Polish Festival. She had a good friend when I was little who was a Polish doctor, and he clued us in to a host of Polish customs whenever he visited, among them the general principle that one quality that a Pole likes in his holiday is that it goes on and on. “And then on the third day, we dance a little and eat this kind of pastry...” That sort of thing. So in our house growing up, any holiday that had to be celebrated multiple times, say to accommodate both marking the actual date of birth and again later on, to include some key relative who had been absent at the original celebration, became known as a Polish Festival. This was said with the utmost respect for all persons of Polish extraction, not least because we all like to have a reason to eat cake twice and get more presents and would gladly honor anyone who suggests we formalize it into a strategy.

The present birthday has all the makings of a first-rate Polish Festival, as her birthday party isn’t happening for another two weeks. In preparation, a large amount of dessert must be prepared because it is a big party and one that is kind of focused on dessert, much like the birthday girl herself. Now that I am inching off of my sick-bed, I am going to be making lots of little sweeties and sticking them in the freezer, so you may hear a little more about dessert than usual. I'll try to keep a few vegetables in the mix, for fiber and so forth.

As for my continued ill health and how sorry I am feeling for my sad, miserable little self, I am glad you asked. I continue to feel very sorry for myself, mainly because I am coughing so much that the muscles in my earlobes are sore. Thank you for the folk remedy for coughing that you are about to suggest to me, and rest assured I have already tried it, and apparently it does not apply in this case. I just cough and cough, like a Victorian heroine, but with less interesting clothes (can't say the corset would me much of a boon to the proceedings anyway). And I am as sleepless as the mother of a newborn, but without any of the perks of having a baby around.

Oh, enough already. It’s just a cough.

In happier news, I have a LOT of lemons.

When I tried to stick to a 100-mile diet a few years ago, and had to pick the one exception food that each of us were to be allowed, I was hard-pressed to choose between lemons and olive oil. In fact, that was what basically scuttled the whole enterprise, because despite all my bullying none of the little children would use their credit for me. Olive oil is a given, and there is just nothing like a lemon (even sumac, as it turns out--I really tried).

I have just learned that there is absolutely nothing on earth like a really good lemon, one that reaches you 72 hours after being picked, sun-ripe, from the tree of someone who loves you enough to mail you four boxes of lemons. I want to eat these lemons like apples. They are brazenly lemonesque, curvy and fragrant and round and juicy and nearly seedless. You know that scene in Atlantic City where Susan Sarandon stands by her kitchen window and rubs lemons on her elbows? OK. That’s what I’m saying.

Lemon curd is one of the best things I know to do with lemons when you have a bunch of them, and it freezes well so you can make one episode of preparing it last and last. The birthday girl likes to pretend it is pudding and eat it with a spoon, but here are some other things that you can do with it:

1. Spoon it into a tart shell or a meringue, and put blueberries on top, or any other berry, for that matter.

2. Fold it into whipped cream and call it mousse.

3. Use it to flavor a plain buttercream.

4. Serve it with scones.

You could also rub it on your elbows, I guess, but if you do, stay away from the windows.

Rose Levy Berenbaum, author of The Cake Bible, was the one who freed me from the double boiler and the idea that lemon curd was tricky or difficult. Revolutionary. But her recipe uses egg yolks only, and I think that makes the lemon curd taste funny, a little metallic and a little like a wet cat smells. Not very appealing, I think you will agree.

Whole eggs are the answer.

To pull this crazy simple recipe off, you have to have a fine mesh strainer on hand, just FYI. The silkiness of the end result depends on it, and this is all about silkiness.

You probably already know these other two things, but I will go ahead and say that (1) a microplane makes the zesting of lemons a simple delight, and helps you forget the thing you used to have to do with a box grater and a toothpick or some parchment paper, and (2) you can freeze lemon zest, just plop it in a jar or plastic container and freeze it, for instant access to lemony bliss when you are baking but sadly out of lemons.

lemon curd

makes about two cups

1 1/3 cups sugar
4 eggs

3 T lemon zest (about 3 lemons)
1 cup fresh lemon juice (about four lemons)
1 ½ sticks butter, cut in 1” bits

Have a fine mesh strainer over a medium bowl near your stove.

In a heavy saucepan, whisk together the eggs and sugar. The sugar will protect the eggs from curdling when you add the lemon juice. Now whisk in the lemon juice and zest, and then throw in the butter. Cook over low to medium heat, stirring all the time with a wooden spoon, until the mixtures thickens and pales and nicely coats the back of the spoon. Keep it from boiling--if it begins to threaten boiling, raise the pot up off the burner while you turn down the flame--but otherwise do not fret about how thing are going at all, as long as you keep stirring.

When it reaches spoon-coating thickness (it will continue to thicken as it cools, so that’s as far as you need to take it), immediately dump it into the waiting strainer and force it through. All manner of eggy nubbins and lemon parts will stay behind in the strainer, and you should have a lovely, satiny curd in the bowl--unless you did not believe me about the fine mesh strainer and tried to get by with something else.

If you want little flecks of yellow zestiness to perk things up visually, you can stir in another few scrapings of zest at this point.

You’re done. It will keep a week or more in the fridge, and well longer than that in the freezer, and there is a raging debate over whether or not you need to put buttered parchment right on the surface to better preserve it or not, and I say you don’t.

If you'd like to upgrade the lemon curd even further, see here for some wild and sexy additions.

cake sera, sera

Most of the time, I am all about the shortest distance between grocery bag and plate. In my own twisted way, of course, because I often mean the quickest way to make something from scratch, hence eliminating Hamburger Helper and its ilk (I actually typed “ills” there first, but it was a typo, Doctor, I swear it) from the strategies I use in my vector-like trajectory (ha!) from stove to table.

But this thought process applies only 361 days of the year. On the birthdays for which I am responsible, I am all about fuss and trouble and the Heart’s Desire. A six-tiered, heart-shaped lemon cake with roses on it? OK, I’ll try. Robot cake? Cake shaped like a Boston Duck Tour boat, but with strawberries? I don’t promise to be entirely cheerful throughout the process, nor entirely successful in a Wilton Professional Cake Decorating Level 202/Martha Stewart Eat Your Heart Out way, but I’ll take a run at it.

In the studio of the mind, where the schematics for these things are drawn up, the frosting is always smooth, time is limitless and my wrists are as supple as the spatula’s acrobatics require. Furthermore, in the mental run-through, someone else will be washing the pastry bags.

Reality always intrudes, and brings with her the news that I have never actually gotten around to taking that cake decorating class and that I only have about 47 minutes in real time to assemble the thing. She often brings insufficient frosting, too, as well as crumbly cake and lost utensils and other impediments to the successful manifestation of what my mind’s eye has in its cross-hairs. She can be that way.

Inevitably, no matter what I have told myself in advance, I come down with the Birthday Sweats. What matters, of course, is not whether or not the mother of one of my children’s friends can make a scale reproduction in sugar and flour of Buckingham Palace, or whether my own reach has exceeded my grasp in ways obvious to any onlookers. What matters is how the birthday human receives it.

My son received his first birthday cake, a perfectly boring and plain disk of plain cake with plain pureed apricots on top, like it was the most shockingly beautiful thing he had seen in all his 12 months of life.

Our files are laced with shots of cakes, some passable, some respectable, some lumpy and leaning. The grinning birthday human is the nicest thing in each picture. A fuss has been made, for them and to their specifications, and this is all as it should be.

Today is a birthday in our house, the first of a celebration-laden month. Appetites for birthday treats are still fresh, and I am game for another season. The frosting was a bit stiff, the cupcake batter over-ran the cupcake papers, the little chocolate cups I ordered to go on top of them looked more like frying pans than coffee cups. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Happy Birthday, sweet child of mine.

This was a component of the birthday proceedings, and it stands alone nicely.

caramel mousse

adapted from here

1 cup heavy whipping cream, divided

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

2 T water

1/2 t vanilla

2 T unsalted butter, softened

Bring 1/3 cup of cream just to a boil in a small saucepan over medium heat, and remove from heat.

Meanwhile, heat the granulated sugar, brown sugar and water in a 2-quart heavy-duty saucepan over high heat, without stirring, until the mixture comes to a boil. Cook the mixture over medium heat, without stirring, until it turns deep amber-colored, about 6 minutes.

Lower the heat under the caramel to medium. Slowly add the hot cream to the caramel, stirring constantly with a long-handled, heat-resistant spatula or spoon. Beware, the cream will bubble and foam. Continue to stir until absolutely smooth. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter until it’s completely melted.

Transfer the caramel sauce to a 2-quart bowl and let cool to room temperature.

Whip the remaining 3/4 cup of cream with the vanilla until it holds soft peaks. Set aside 1/3 cup of the whipped cream and fold the remaining whipped cream into the caramel sauce in 3 stages.

Garnish with (if you happen to have it) crumbled chocolate cake, or mashed up chocolate or almond cookies, and the remaining whipped cream. Chill 2 hours if you have not already eaten it all testing to make sure it was tasty. If you haven't, and you portion it out sternly, you could make 6 modest desserts.