Happy Doughnut Day! Celebrate with Tomatoes

OK, tomatoes have absolutely nothing to do with doughnuts—although I could imagine a tomato-infused cake doughnut, covered in cinnamon 

sugar. . . . I just couldn’t let this important day go by without mention, despite the fact that the most carb-loaded thing I am eating is a couple of sweet vegetables.  I did have two doughnuts from a local doughnut shop this week on my way to Phoenix—one must get them when one can—so it is not as if I am being virtuous or anything. And I will make doughnuts for the blog this summer.  But for doughnut day today:  tomatoes.

It is hot—nearly 5:00 p.m. and still 107F—and I am tired, tired, tired.  This combination means, in no uncertain terms, no cooking.  Fortunately, I have some rather nice heirloom tomatoes from our rather nice Farmers Market. I also had a few local carrots. So I made this little sweet salad.  It seemed to want an old-fashioned dressing, and just a breath of  it, so I stuck with corn oil, cider vinegar, salt (no pepper), and one of my favorite ingredients, ground caraway seed. With everything fresh and local, including the onion, it makes for a tasty light supper accompanied by another hot-weather essential, Campari and orange with a splash of soda. Followed by a doughnut, if you are lucky enough to have one on hand.

 

THT (too hot and tired) Tomato Salad

This isn’t really a recipe so much as a list of things to toss together. Serves 1, generously.

2 medium carrots, finely shredded

1 ripe heirloom tomato of your choice (this is a German Stripe), roughly sliced vertically

1 very thin slice onion, halved

1 T corn oil

1-1 ½ tea cider vinegar

Salt to taste

Big pinch—maybe ½ tea—ground caraway seed

Set the tomato aside. Mix the rest of the ingredients and let stand 15 minutes or so, then toss in the tomato and correct for seasoning. Resist the temptation to add a green herb, you’ll spoil it.

Strawberries for Memorial Day: Signs of Summer

I feel guilty talking about summer while it has rained back East for most of this iconic holiday weekend. I know it’s been a cool and rainy spring after a famously brutal winter on the East Coast, and while I am sorry for that, it’s worked out well for me to be staying longer than usual in Tucson again this year, this time to teach an ethics module to the evening and exec MBAs.  Brilliantly sunny, hot, and dry here, of course, but also the fruit is rolling in—apricots, sweet cherries, and beautiful Yuma strawberries. I still can’t get over some of the things they manage to entice out of the desert.

Part of what makes me happy to see the strawberries is that they remind me that it won’t be long ‘til I’m back in the place for which that gorgeous word “summer” must have been created and the standard against which all other summers are measured, New England. I will be back in LC on July 1, which means, of course, a return to this now-mostly-seasonal blog.  I look forward to that, along with everything else precious that summer brings for me—the ocean and the local food, of course, but most of all, seeing my family and my friends. Happy Memorial Day weekend; let summer begin, and be beautiful and bountiful. Surely the hardy people of New England have earned that much. See you soon.

Yuma Express

For some reason I always want to pair strawberries with Campari when it’s hot, as I did with this cocktail a few years ago soon after arriving in LC. Here’s another one, served with a spoon.  Serves 1.

1 oz Gran Marnier (or ½ brandy, ½ orange liquer)

½ oz freshly squeezed lemon juice

3-4 perfect strawberries, cored and sliced

1 oz Campari

1 oz  Plymouth Gin

Macerate the strawberries in the lemon juice and Gran Marnier for 15-20 minutes. Strain the liquid into a cocktail shaker and place the strawberries into a martini glass or coupe.

Add the Campari and gin to the shaker, and shake with crushed ice until very cold. Strain into the glass and serve with a silver spoon.

                                           

Happy New Year—the Popping of Champagne and Popovers

As usual, we ended the year with a nod to tradition, a casual, largely pick-up meal that is as good today as it was in the 1960s—a quasi-steakhouse dinner of London Broil, wedge salad with a ranchy blue-cheese dressing (Maytag, of course), some very exuberant, gigantic popovers (you want lots of bursting things for New Year’s), champagne, and some apple turnovers made of leftovers—leftover puff paste, leftover almond pastry cream from a Pithiviers. And on New Year’s Day for breakfast, we enjoyed the fruits of end-of-year labor:  homemade tamales filled with shredded pork in a rich ancho-cascabel sauce. Next to apple pie, my favorite thing to have for breakfast. And my son’s very favorite.

How could 2013 not be a good year?

Popovers

 

Use your ancient cast iron popover pan unless, like mine, it went missing in one of your moves; an aluminum popover pan; or, better yet, some 6-oz ceramic custard cups. Put your popovers in the oven while your meat is resting. Serves 6.

1 cup flour, sifted

1 cup whole milk

3 T butter

3 eggs

big pinch salt

Preheat oven to 450F (use an oven thermometer), placing the rack in the lower third of the oven. Generously butter the pan or custard cups, placing cups on a sturdy sheet pan.

Whisk the eggs well, then whisk in the milk and melted, mostly cooled butter. Whisk in the sifted flour and the pinch of salt.  You can make this a few hours ahead; it will be like a thick crepe batter.

Place the pan/cups in the hot oven for a minute or two, then give the batter another stir and pour it in:  do not fill more than a scant 2/3. Bake for 20-30 minutes until huge, dry, and very brown. Do not open the oven while baking!

Serve immediately with lots of soft plain or flavored (e.g., fruit puree, herbs) butter. They will not be quite the same, but you can store any leftovers (ha) in a plastic bag, then reheat in the toaster oven until they have crisped up.

Chestnuts Roasting: Merry Christmas!

Surprise!  It’s Christmas, I’m not busy, and in our house it’s all about the food, so naturally I thought of you. This will be brief, but loaded with butter and wine.

Christmas Eve is when we have our big dinner; even for the seasonally small family of me and my son out here in Tucson, it is big, probably too much so. But as Bob Cratchit said, it’s only once a year.

So what did we have?  A number of years ago my son and I shifted away from our usual very English Prime Rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, creamed onions, pies, plum pudding, etc., etc. (very good, mind) to doing something different every year. Last year was one of our all-time great dinners, themed around my first year in the Southwest (and thank you, Bobby Flay, for inspiration). A simple dinner in my son’s tiny New York apartment in 2010 was another.  Generally, the meal does still center around beef, though. But this year I got a text from my son a few weeks ago asking, “Can we have rack of lamb for Christmas?”  Sure, why not?  So after talking options for approach—Southwest again, Middle Eastern, French—we settled on the classic: French.

Here’s the four-course menu—served with French wines (a white burgundy and a good Haut-Medoc), with a Warre 1994 vintage port with our dessert—and a recipe for the soup, a favorite of mine. Jordan really liked the ice cream:

Chestnut Soup with Herbed Puff Pastry Twists

Salad of red leaf, radicchio, fennel, and leek with maple-pomegranate vinaigrette

Rack of Lamb Persillade with Fig Sauce

Duchesse Potatoes

Glazed Onions

Haricots vertes  with hazelnut butter and thyme

Coconut-ginger ice cream with truffles and cookies

Happy Holidays, and happy eating, to all.

Chestnut Soup

This is a delicious and somewhat luxurious soup, suited to the season.  You can make it ahead; add the cream when you reheat if you do. Serves 6-8 (6 rim soup, or 1-cup, portions).

        3 tablespoons unsalted butter

        1/2 cup each finely chopped celery, carrot, and onion

        A few sprigs flat-leaf parsley

        3-4  whole cloves

        1 large dried bay leaf--make sure it is new

        6 cups chicken stock, on the light side

        3 cups cooked whole chestnuts, peeled and crumbled; you can do them fresh, or buy jarred or vacuum-

              packed

        1/4 cup tawny port or Madeira 

        1/4 cup heavy cream

        1/4 teaspoon black pepper and a little salt

        Fennel tops or chopped parsley for garnish

      Make a bouquet garni: Tie the parsley, cloves, and bay leaf up in a piece of cheesecloth.

Melt the butter in a 3-quart heavy saucepan over low heat, add the chopped celery, carrot, and onion, and cover the vegetables with a buttered round of wax paper, buttered side down. Cover the pan and sweat the vegetables until soft, about 15 minutes.

Discard the wax paper. Add the stock and bouquet garni to the pan.  Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, 20 minutes. Add chestnuts (you can crumble them in with your hands at this point) and the port or Madeira. Simmer, covered, for about 3 minutes.

In a large food processor or blender, purée in 3 or 4 batches  until smooth, transferring each batch to a bowl. Place a strainer over a clean 3- to 4-quart saucepan and strain the puréed soup into the pan. Reheat, and add the cream, salt, and pepper, stirring occasionally. Taste for seasoning.

Garnish with the small feathery fronds of fennel or some chopped parsley. You could also float a little round of puff paste or a star-shaped crouton, or a disc of parsley butter.

       

Pie: Buttermilk, Blackberries, Birthday

For those of you who are surprised to see a post from me now that school has started and I have even warned of my hibernatory hiatus from these pages, don’t get too excited, or expect me back anytime soon.  I started this post a month ago. My pie—my birthday pie!—went awry.  So I postponed this post until I made it again. I really wanted you to have this simple but superb and unusual recipe. I cannot remember where I got it—possibly from a coworker in California in the 1970s, where I picked up my recipe for shortbread, for black walnut cake, for chiles rellenos and a few others. I’m not really sure, but I am sure that this pie is worth making over when you forget to add the butter. Which is what I did.

I was, of course, talking on the phone, the little rectangle with the rounded corners (we now all know what that means) scrunched between my shoulder and ear. Honestly, I cook and talk on the phone all the time. But now that I think about it, I have had another baking omission while on the phone; years ago I left the sugar out of a cheesecake, which I was making to take to a party. I didn’t realize it until I served and tasted it--and came home to find the sugar measured out on the counter. This time I didn’t realize it until I looked into the oven and saw the top of my pie blown up like a balloon and really dark, almost burned—it is always dark, but this was something else—and saw the melted butter sitting forlorn in its little pot on stove.

Both times, happily enough, the final product was interesting. I am almost tempted to leave the butter out of this pie again—the filling separated, much like an old Pennsylvania German favorite of me, my mother, and grandmother, lemon cake pie (I’ll make it for the blog sometime), and it tasted really good.  Hence the photos of two pies, and two slices of pie. The one with the blackberries is the butterless attempt; the one with raspberries is the “correct” one.

Below is how I started off my post on buttermilk, blueberries, and birthday a month ago, when I was still in LC. What a difference a month makes. Or a stick of melted butter.

********

I do love alliteration. And of course, pie. And berries of all sorts. And dairy. So it all came together last week on my birthday. As a child I always asked for pie on my birthday—apple, to be precise—and now that I make my own birthday desserts, nothing much has changed except for the kind of pie itself. I’m more likely these days, when my favorite local apples are not yet in but we are still enjoying berry season, to make a blueberry or mixed berry pie. This year, not really thinking about making a pie, I picked up a cup of blackberries and on the morning of my birthday I thought, what would this make a nice garnish for? A traditional custard pie, of course. Or a lemon curd tart. But I had buttermilk on hand (as always) and wanted to use it up before I leave LC (sadly, time to think about that). So an old-fashioned buttermilk pie, a tangy riff on a chess pie, seemed a good and practical match for the blackberries.

 

Buttermilk is, of course, not what it used to be; it’s not really the milk from churning butter. It’s more of a constructed product. But it is good in its own way, a kind of light, liquid sour cream.  It is great stuff for dips and salad dressings, for marinating chicken, for making tender cakes. I don’t drink it. But then again, I don’t drink milk either, and never did. Ever.

 

But milk transformed is one of my favorite things, and this is a favorite pie.

Buttermilk Pie

The baking time on this pie will depend greatly on your oven. Watch it, and use your judgment.  It should not be jiggly, but only just firm. Test as you would a custard, by inserting a knife half-way between the center and the edge. Serves 6.

Pastry for a 10” pie plate or 9” deep dish pie plate. You can make an all-butter pastry or make one with 1 ½ c flour, a big pinch of salt, 6 T butter, and 2 T lard or shortening, and cold water to bring it together.

1 c sugar

3 T flour

¼ salt

3 eggs, separated

2 c buttermilk

2 tea pure vanilla

8 oz (1 stick) butter, melted and slightly cooled

Preheat the oven to 425 F.

Line the pie dish with the pastry and chill in the freezer. Mix the sugar, flour, and salt and set aside. In a large bowl, beat the egg yolks and whisk in the dry ingredients. Add the buttermilk, vanilla, and melted butter, whisking til smooth. Beat whites stiff but not dry and fold into the custard mixture, blending well. Pile the filling into the chilled shell. Bake the pie at 425F for about 15 minutes, covering the top with a sheet of foil if it gets too brown; reduce to 325F for another 25-30 minutes, until the pie is golden and a knife inserted midway comes out clean.

Let the pie cool on a rack. I prefer this pie at warm room temperature. Do refrigerate leftovers, but take it out of the refrigerator 20 minutes or so before eating them to take the chill off and get the texture back to the way it should be. Serve plain or with fruit.

August Corn III: Corn Fritters

One of the benefits of the early growing season is that we’ve had corn since the first of July, so August corn this year doesn’t have quite the same meaning as in years when corn is really just coming into its own. For me, though, it has a different meaning: the last time I will really eat it until next year.

Yes, I am back in Tucson. You may have suspected, since I missed posting last week--the first sign, at the end of the summer, of impending blog hibernation. I was traveling back to Tucson last weekend, and there is nothing like a change in schedule to throw you off your blogging game. School starts tomorrow, and you know what that means. The game of weekly posts is up.

But back to corn and why I will be on corn, as well as blog, hiatus until next summer. There is corn at the farmers market here, but I can scarcely bear to look at the poor things, let alone buy and eat them. (I know there is an agreement issue with that sentence, but I couldn't make it come out right in singular. Feel compelled to explain.) So I limit my corn eating to New England summer. Ditto with fish.  Fortunately, the Hatch chiles are in to distract me. Maybe this year I will figure out what all the fuss is about.

I love corn fritters of all shapes and varieties, and so decided to make some on one of my last evenings in LC.  These below are yet another type than others on the blog, very much like a clam cake, for those of you from Rhode Island who know from whence I speak.  For those who don’t: they are like little puffs of slightly eggy, fried, studded (with corn, or clams, or…) bread.  I was in the process of cleaning out refrigerator inventory, and made a little dipping sauce with sour cream, buttermilk, scallions, lemon, salt, and pepper.  I had them for my dinner with a glass of wine. A very nice last supper.

RI Corn Fritters

6 ears corn

3 eggs, separated

scant c sifted a-p

1 tea sugar

1 tea salt

2 tea bp

Cayenne and black pepper to taste

Oil for frying

Into a small bowl, cut the kernels from the cobs and and scrape the milk from the cobs. Stir in the egg yolks.  Sift the dry ingredients together and mix into the eggs and corn.. Beat the egg whites stiff and fold them in gently.

Heat about 4” of oil to 375F; drop the batter by the tablespoon into the fat, without crowding.  Cook them, turning them over with a slotted utensil, until they are golden brown. Remove to paper towels and salt while hot. Make sure  your fat is hot enough or these will be too soft; you want them a bit crisp on the outside.  Eat plain or dip into a sauce of your choice.

Past Prime: Versatile Syrups

When all the fruit is coming in like runners in the Olympic torch-bearing relay, it is hard to keep up with the hand-offs.  No matter how much time you spend in your too-hot, too-humid summer kitchen (not, as we know, the ideal weather for jam and jelly making), you are bound to be left with miscellaneous bits of fruit that is no longer—perhaps never was—quite perfect.  In my waste-not, want-not world, which I believe is the world of all true and natural cooks, it’s not possible to throw it out. It is not merely frugality that leads us to resist, although that is part of it. It is challenge:  what can I do with this? If cooking is transformation, what can I make of this? What can I turn it into? The humblest transformations are, in the end, a combination of austerity and creativity.

As Anthony Bourdain pointed out in his Les Halles Cookbook, the French were masters of turning questionable ingredients and odds and ends into good things to eat. From cutting meat creatively to cooking tough pieces for a very long time with flavorful aromatics, they not only made do with what they had, they made things that have become soul-satisfying classics.  One thing you might notice about this, though, is that there was, at the same time, a recognition that you don’t slave and fuss over these less-than-stellar ingredients, or try to make something of them that no amount of attention is going to produce.  If nothing else, a good cook is pragmatic, and knows you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But you can make a very good braised sow’s ear.

It’s the same with fruit past its prime. No pies, no plump preserves or clear jellies, no decorating cakes and tortes, certainly no eating out of hand. But they do make very good syrups and sauces, flavored iced teas and shrubs—anything where the flavor is extracted (usually through heat) and the less-than-perfect fruit strained out, and where you don’t need much if any pectin, which is lost as fruit becomes old or overripe.

I really like to have syrups on hand (two of my favorites are rosehip and rosemary) —and not just for cocktails, although of course they are great for that.  Syrups have many endearing qualities. They last forever. They can be used as an ingredient—in drinks, salad dressings, sauces, frostings and glazes—or as an embellishment—drizzled over cheese, fresh fruit, grilled meats. You can utilize other marginal items in making them—shriveling herbs, fading whole spices, a single slice of lemon or squeezed peels.  They make you feel virtuous because, of course, you did not throw anything out.

Fruit Syrups

You can use any combination that you have, or fancy. For one of these, I used about half blueberries and half sour cherries (for this purpose, you needn’t bother to pit your fruit); I had some leftover, drying mint. This made a deeply flavorful and refreshing syrup. For another, I used Karla’s imperfect peaches—half the price of her perfect ones—slightly bruised and overripe, but still juicy and flavorful and not too far gone. My friend Trina loves bellinis, so I made the peach syrup with her in mind, and with the inspiration of Katie Loeb. A Bellini made with this is much better than, well, a Bellini.

Measure your fruit. Put it in an aluminum or other nonreactive pan with an equal amount of sugar and an equal amount of water.  If you have a small wedge of lemon or orange, squeeze it and then drop it in. Bring to a boil and cook at a moderate bubble for 5 minutes or so, until your fruit has softened, popped, or otherwise begun to break down and release their color and juice. It is not necessary to skim. Remove from the heat. Toss in your herbs and/or spices, stir, and cover. Let steep until cool, or until it is as intense as you like (taste it from time to time). Strain through a fine strainer or cheesecloth into jars; you have my permission to press gently, enough to encourage the fruit to drain, not so much that you force it through as a puree. Cool completely and store in the refrigerator or freezer. Reboil briefly before using after three months or so if you keep it refrigerated rather than frozen.