Fig You

As in "fig, you send me," or, "fig you for giving me all of this jam." (Well, preserves, technically, but it doesn't match the meter.) Today I put up 14 half-pints, (that's 8 pints in the plus size), of old-fashioned fig preserves, using fruit from the generations-old tree in our postage stamp of a back yard. It's not often we get to claim farm to table here in the city, and when we can, we like to brag about it.

Yes, I beat the birds, (the Crows, especially, are evil bastards), to them this year, and the result is sweet. Literally, inspired as I was to dust off a recipe from a previous post, reinvent it for the current crop, and share the results with y'all.

I'm not going into the particulars of canning here. I assume you can (pun intended, in fact, all of them are), or can get to a web page that will lay out the basics. So let's get to it.

Eat these with White Lily biscuits. Scones are also naturals, as is plain buttered toast or a flaky, fresh-baked croissant. Use some as a glaze on roasted Cornish Game Hens, and cry like a baby.

ANNIE'S FIG PRESERVES
(makes about 15 half-pints)


6 pounds fresh, ripe, unpeeled figs (any variety)
5 pounds granulated sugar
3 large lemons, very thinly sliced, seeds removed

Wash and stem the figs. Place figs in a large non-reactive container,  (I use a huge Tupperware bowl that looks like hell, and is old as death), smash them up a little, and pour the sugar over them. Cover and let stand at room temperature overnight.

Transfer fig and sugar mixture to a large saucepan or Dutch oven, (minimum 8 quart capacity), breaking figs up slightly. Add lemon
slices, and cook over medium heat until sugar is dissolved.

Reduce heat to low, and cook until figs are transparent and the syrup is thick about 2 hours, stirring often to prevent sticking.

Remove from heat, funnel into hot, sterilized jars and seal. Process jars in boiling water for 10 minutes. Allow to cool in water for 5 minutes. Using jar lifter, gently lift jars from water, and allow them to rest on the counter or in a cool, dry place for a few hours or overnight. ('Cause they're just plum tuckered out, you know.)

Now, scrape the bottom of the pot with a spatula, and enjoy the leftovers with a sop and a spoon.

Icebox Pie for the Fourth of July

 

I made lemon icebox pie for the fourth of July,  also the fifth, and sixth, and I deeply regret that I don't have any more left over for the seventh.

It's my new favorite, totally right for any occasion, summer dessert; as creamy as it is cool, refreshingly tart and deceptively rich. This is key lime pie's sophisticated big sister, the one who left town and married up, and rightly so.

To be honest, I never much cared for key lime pie's sickly sweet personality or her bordering on boring ubiquity, but that's just me. That being said, this is basically a key lime pie, but made with lemons. Big difference. Use Meyer lemons if you can get them. They'll give the pie a slightly smoother flavor. But really, any ripe, juicy lemons will do.

And don't stint on the topping. Pile it on. Chantilly Cream, which is just a fancy name for cream whipped with vanilla and confectioners' sugar, provides the perfect airy complement to the burst of citrus below. Some cooks like to spread the whipped cream on top of the pie before freezing, and then freeze the whole thing. (Still others, perish the thought, use Cool Whip. Don't you dare. I will know, and I will hunt you down like a hound.) I prefer to whip the cream fresh at first serving, but have no problem with re-freezing any leftover pie cream topped. Trust me, you won't have any problems with leftover pie at all.

LEMON ICEBOX PIE WITH CHANTILLY CREAM

(Serves 8 to 10)

For the crust: 

2 sleeves graham crackers (about 20)

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon (optional)

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted

For the filling:

2 (14 ounce) cans condensed milk

Zest of 2 lemons

1 1/4 cups strained lemon juice (from the 2 zested lemons plus 4 to 6 more)

8 large egg yolks

For the Chantilly Cream topping:

2 cups cream

1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/4 cup confectioners' sugar

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Coat 9" springform pan, (or 9" deep dish pie plate), with baking spray.

Break crackers into pieces and place in the bowl of food processor with the sugar, salt and  cinnamon. Pulse until you have semi-fine (but not powdery) crumbs. Pour in the melted butter and blend until mixture holds its shape when you squeeze it.

Pour the crumbs into the prepared pan, and push and press the crumbs over the bottom and up the sides. (Tip: The bottom of a measuring cup works well to press the crumbs in place.) Place pan on a tin-foil covered, (for ease of clean-up), baking sheet and bake for 8 to 10 minutes until lightly browned. Set aside to a wire rack to cool.

Whisk condensed milk with the lemon juice. In a separate bowl, whisk the zest with the egg yolks, beating until pale in color. Then, whisk the egg mixture into the condensed milk mixture.

Place cooled crust back onto the baking sheet and pour in the filling mixture. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the center jiggles slightly, like a soft custard. Remove from oven and cool for about an hour.   

Cover loosely with plastic wrap (make sure the wrap doesn't touch the top of the pie) and freeze for at least 6 hours, or, preferably, overnight. 

Remove from freezer about 20 minutes before serving. Remove pie from springform pan (if using) and carefully transfer to serving plate with metal spatula.

Pour the cream into bowl of electric mixer, adding the vanilla and confectioners' sugar. Whip until peaks form. Serve on and with pie. 

We feasted on it for three days, and now it's all gone. (Sigh.)

Love at First Blush

In desperate need of some sweetness to leaven a week of bitter political rhetoric and soul-sucking seasonal melancholy, I decided to make jam. I had to really. It was either that or break out the Prozac and vodka, and I didn't need a prescription for sugar.

End of the season peaches at 99 cents a pound settled the question as to what kind. Undoubtedly grown in Mexico, they were hard as rocks and, I would soon discover, not even freestone. They would, however, most certainly do in a jam. (I’m feeling more puckish already.)

All of the preserved peach preparations in my cookbooks bored me like Sunday school. I needed something a little dangerous. A taste of something slightly strange. The scent of romance.

I found what I was looking for on the internet, (would that it were always so simple): peach jam with the tender tang of raspberries and a kiss of culinary lavender.

This is a sexy jam.

And so good it will make you blush.

BLUSHING PEACH-LAVENDER JAM

 (yields about 12 half-pint jars)

2 tablespoons culinary lavender buds

9 cups peaches, peeled, pitted and chopped

3 cups fresh raspberries

8 cups white granulated sugar

3/4 cup fresh lemon juice

2 (3 ounce) envelopes liquid fruit pectin

Ideally the peaches should be just ripe but still firm. Despite my preference for working with the freestone variety, the best peach for this jam is a yellow cling, which has more sugar; all the better to make it gel.

Still, this recipe needs a little help. Though some purists eschew it, when used appropriately, fruit pectin is your friend. Think of it as Viagra for jam. Use only as much as you need and be aware that liquid and powdered pectins are not interchangeable for substitution. If it says 'liquid pectin,' use liquid pectin.

While preparing the peaches, steep the lavender buds in 1 cup of boiling water. (I use a tea ball so straining isn't necessary.)

Combine peaches, raspberries, lemon juice and sugar in a large pot. Stir to combine. Bring to a boil, stirring until sugar dissolves.  Reduce to a slow boil and cook until liquid is reduced to a syrupy consistency. Stir frequently and mash the fruit as it begins to soften. (Or, give it a couple of spins with the immersion blender, but not too many if you like chucks of fruit in your jam.) Cooking time will vary depending on the ripeness of the peaches, roughly 20 minutes to 1/2 hour.

Stir in 2/3 cup of the lavender water and the fruit pectin. Bring back to a boil and cook for another 15 minutes, stirring frequently, or until syrup is thick and fruit is tender and partially dissolved.

Remove from heat. Skim foam if necessary.

Ladle hot jam into prepared, sterilized jars, leaving 1/4-inch space at the top. Cap and process 10 minutes in boiling water. (Click here for complete canning instructions.)

Delicious with biscuits, scones, crackers, cheeses, just about anything you want to put it on; and so seductive you may want to enjoy it in private. It's a little like falling in love, but much less complicated.

All You Need Is Chocolate

Of all the manufactured holidays, Valentine's Day is my least favorite. Although I remain ever the hopeless romantic, the spirit of the occasion was forever crushed for me by the indelibly cruel grammar school ritual of exchanging cards with everyone in your class. Surely you remember those 'value' bags of Valentines from back in the day, (I happen to know the teachers kept a few in their desks in case some kid's family couldn't afford them). There'd be a couple of big fancy cards, for your best girlfriend and your secret crush, a bunch of cute, if non-committal but at least medium-sized, cards for most of the others, and a handful of crappy little cards that pictured a postman putting a letter into a mailbox with the caption, "Just dropping by to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day," for the kids you'd never noticed before or just plain didn't like.

The only time I got one of the big cards from a boy was in 5th grade, from Frank (not his real name) Crabb. Having been 'held back' several years, Frank was 13 and the only kid in grammar school who smoked cigarettes and shaved. Already a sexual deviate, he had an unnerving habit of accidentally bumping into budding prepubescent girls in the hallway and grabbing their breasts. And no, Frank did not go on to become a doctor or president of the local bank, despite what my mother tried to tell me that night in a vain effort to cheer me up. (Last I heard he was in prison, but I can't say for what. We kind of lost touch.)

My secret crush, Bobby Smith, who did become a doctor and to whom I'd given one of my big Valentines -- a sad-eyed, droopy-eared puppy holding a huge heart its paws and the text, "I'm begging to be your Valentine" -- gave me the postman putting a letter into a mailbox with, "just kidding," written on the back. And, no, I am not making this up.

Fortunately, there was chocolate, Hershey's Kisses, the gateway to Godiva. My mom just handed me the bag and let me eat all I wanted. (It was a lot easier than explaining the cutthroat world of adolescence I was about to enter, where my social value would be judged solely on my bra size and ability to French kiss without gagging.) It turned out to be the most important thing I'd learn from her.

Any of you ladies who've spent hours making the perfect chocolate truffle cheesecake mousse for your significant other on Valentine's Day, even though you know that's not what he really wants,  know who that chocolate extravaganza is really for. So let's cut to the chase. You want chocolate. It's never let you down, and it never will. It doesn't have to be fancy, and it doesn't have to take all day to prepare; it just has to be rich, and satisfying. (I leave you to draw your own comparisons.)

So whether you're spending Valentine's Day solo or with your soul mate, it's time to get out your heart-shaped dish or pan, (you know you have one), splurge on some top quality chocolate and cocoa powder, and whip up a quick and easy chocolate fix that hits all the right spots every time; hot fudge, cake, creamy pudding, and 72% cacao. All you need is chocolate.

HOT FUDGE PUDDING CAKE

1 cup cold brewed coffee mixed with 1/2 cup water OR 2 teaspoons instant coffee dissolved in 1 1/2 cups water
2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (divided)
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar (divided)
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 ounces semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped
3/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup whole milk
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk

Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 325 degrees. Spray an 8-inch (8 cup) cake pan or dish with baking spray.

In a small bowl, stir together 1/3 cup of the cocoa, the brown sugar, and 1/3 cup of the granulated sugar. Set aside.

Melt butter, with the remaining 1/3 cup of cocoa and the chocolate in the top of a double boiler. Whisk until smooth, cool slightly.

Sift flower and baking powder together, set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the remaining 2/3 cup granulated sugar, vanilla, milk and salt. Whisk in egg yolk. Add chocolate mixture and then flour mixture, whisking until batter is evenly moistened.

Pour batter into prepared baking dish. Sprinkle cocoa sugar mixture evenly over batter (should cover entire surface). Then pour the coffee gently over the top.

Bake about 45 minutes, until cake is puffed and bubbling and just beginning to pull away from the sides of the dish. Do not over bake. You want to keep that gooey, hot fudge pudding on the bottom.

Cool for about 15 minutes. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream, no substitutes. Leftover cake can be reheated in the microwave in individual serving dishes. That is, if you don't eat it all at once. But you probably will.

Don't Eat The Plastic Baby

In New Orleans, (and particularly if you're Catholic), the holiday party season kicks into high gear just when it's winding down for everybody else. Mardi Gras festivities begin on January 6, (also known as "Epiphany," "Twelfth Night," and "King's Day," it's the day the fabled three kings visited the baby Jesus, bearing swag and likely jockeying for position in the blessings queue), and end on Fat Tuesday, which is the day before Ash Wednesday, which signals the beginning of Lent, with its requisite deprivation, weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

Confused? Okay then, let's forget the Catholic part, (most eventually do), and talk cake, King Cake to be precise.

The European custom of King Cake parties during Carnival season was brought to the southern United States by colonists from France and Spain, and dates back to eighteenth century New Orleans. Shaped in the rough approximation of a crown, (use your imagination), and decorated in the Mardi Gras colors of purple (justice), green (faith), and gold (power), the traditional King Cake is really more sweet bread than cake. Think coffee cake with a message and a tiny plastic doll tucked inside to represent the baby Jesus. Whoever gets the plastic baby is obligated to host the next party, but will also blessed with good luck throughout the coming year. That's providing, of course, that you don't swallow the baby; in which case you probably won't be expected to do anything, and you can forget the good luck too, since you'll likely have choked to death.

Done right though, King Cake is well worth the risk; a damn good coffee cake with a whiff of danger and a taint of the divine. As an honorary lapsed Catholic New Orleanian, (by marriage), I decided to embrace my inner fat chick parading Uptown in a skimpy mermaid costume with fishnet stockings, stilettos, and blessed little else, and made King Cakes myself.

The hardest part was finding little bitty plastic babies and purple sugar crystals. I finally located a bowl full babies at a hobby shop in North Hollywood, for just 50-cents apiece, and found the elusive purple sugar crystals at Sur La Table. I made the dough in a double batch, and filled one cake with a traditional cinnamon filling and the other with cream cheese. They were both very good King Cakes, and nobody swallowed a baby. Laissez les bon temps rouler.

TRADITIONAL KING CAKE
(Makes enough dough for two cakes)

1 16-ounce container sour cream
1/3 cup sugar

1/4 cup butter
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly grated, if possible)
2 1/4-ounce envelopes active dry yeast
1/2 cup warm water
1 tablespoon sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
6 to 6 1/2 cups bread flour (or all-purpose flour)
1/2 cup butter, softened

Fillings of your choice (see below)

Creamy Icing

Green, Gold and Purple sugar sprinkles

2 plastic babies

Heat first 5 ingredients in a medium saucepan or double boiler over low heat, stirring often, until butter melts. Set aside and cool.

Stir yeast and 1 tablespoon sugar into 1/2 cup warm water and let stand 5 minutes. (Make sure to use a bowl or container with at least a 2 cup capacity as this stuff bubbles up and over.)

Beat sour cream mixture, yeast mixture, eggs and 2 cups of the flour at medium speed with a heavy-duty electric stand mixer until smooth. (NOTE: Bread flour produces a light, airy cake. Cakes made with all-purpose flour will have a denser texture.)

Replace mixer beaters with dough hook, reduce speed to low, and gradually add remaining flour (4 to 4 1/2 cups) until a soft dough forms.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic (about 10 minutes). Place in a well-greased bowl, turning to grease top.  Cover and let rise in a warm place for about 1 hour, until dough is doubled in bulk.

Punch down dough and divide in half.  Roll each half into a rectangle (about 22 x 12 inches).  Spread each rectangle with 1/4 cup of the softened butter, leaving a 1-inch border on each side, followed by the filling of your choice.

Roll up each dough rectangle, jelly-roll fashion, starting at 1 long side.  Place each roll, seam side down, on a large baking sheet lined with parchment. Bring the ends together to form a ring, pinching the edges to seal.  (NOTE: Placing an oven proof ramkin in the middle makes it easier to form the cake and keeps the sides from fusing together as it bakes.)

Cover the cakes and let rise in a warm place for about 30 minutes until doubled in bulk. While the cakes are rising, preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Bake at 375 degrees for 15 minutes or until golden.  (Don't be concerned if the dough splits during rising and baking and some of the filling leaks out, that's what the parchment is for!)

Find a likely spot and push a plastic baby down into each cake. Cool on wire racks. Ice with creamy frosting (recipe follows) and sprinkle with green, gold and purple colored sugars, alternating to make bands.

CINNAMON PECAN FILLING
(double ingredients for two cakes)

1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/3 cup chopped pecans
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup raisins
1/4 cup melted butter

Combine all ingredients, crumble onto buttered dough rectangle.

CREAM CHEESE FILLING
(double ingredients - except egg - for two cakes)

1/2 cup sugar
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, softened
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Beat all ingredients with electric mixer until smooth. Spread onto buttered dough rectangle.


CREAMY ICING
(Makes enough for two King Cakes)

6 cups powdered sugar
6 tablespoons butter, melted
4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 to 8 tablespoons milk

Stir together first 4 ingredients.  Add 4 tablespoons milk, then additional milk, 1 teaspoon at a time, until icing reaches spreading consistency.

Ice cakes, sprinkle with sugars, eat, enjoy!

Springtime in a Jar

Though I've spent more than half my life in California where fresh locally grown strawberries, (and very good ones too), are available year round, I still associate that most beloved of fruits with spring. (Seriously, have you ever met anybody who didn't like strawberries? If so, I wouldn't trust them.)

Springtime drives 'out in the country' with my mother, whatever their actual purpose, frequently turned into foraging treasure hunts; for whenever we passed a likely looking abandoned farmhouse, she'd slam on the brakes, pull off the road, and, as often as not, we'd find an overgrown strawberry patch somewhere on the property, teeming with fruit ripe for the taking. (I later learned she'd lived in one of those houses during her first marriage, so she knew where to look, but that's an entirely different story.)

If we had any left by the time we got home, there'd be strawberry shortcake for dessert, (luck being with me), or Mamma's special take on strawberry chiffon pie, (a culinary abomination if ever there was, and a disservice to both the berry and the Cool Whip), which everyone else professed to love. No great matter, since I preferred them straight from the hand, maybe dipped in a little brown sugar or dragged slowly through a melted Hersey bar.

By late June (sooner if the birds were particularly ravenous) the local berry crop would be done, but by then so much else was going on in the garden they wouldn't be missed until later; when somebody pulled a soggy stash out of the freezer and tried to duplicate the Strawberry parfait from Easter, and it was just all wrong.

Better were the berries that had been turned into jam in their prime, and, in the days before jam became synonymous with Smucker's, just about everybody who had a plot and a pot 'put some up.' Strawberry jam was, and is, a no-brainer; strawberries, a little lemon juice, a whole lot of sugar. It was easy, it was fool-proof, and everybody's tasted about the same. And it was all good, like springtime in a jar.

When it came to making my own, however, I wanted something a little different. Like this one. Call it springtime in a jar with the promise of a red-hot summer coming on. So good I sometimes bake a couple of biscuits just for myself and pile it on. Other times, I eat it straight from the jar with a spoon.

Hank photo bombs the strawberry jam shoot

BALSAMIC STRAWBERRY JAM WITH CRACKED BLACK PEPPER
(Makes about 8 half pints)

5 pounds strawberries, lightly crushed
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons good quality balsamic vinegar
6 tablespoons powdered fruit pectin
5 cups granulated sugar
2 teaspoons freshly cracked black pepper

Wash and hull strawberries and crush lightly. (I like a few chunks of actual berry in my jam, and you wouldn't believe how satisfying it is to crush a bowl bull of berries with your hands until you've tried it.)

Combine crushed berries with lemon juice and balsamic vinegar in a 6-to-8-quart saucepan. Mix fruit pectin with sugar and stir into berries.

My cracked pepper secret, inelegant but effective

Bring to a full rolling boil over high heat, stirring constantly until sugar/pectin mixture is completely dissolved. Continue to boil hard and stir for 3 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat, skim foam if necessary, and stir in cracked black pepper.

Ladle into sterilized jars and process in boiling water for 10 minutes. (For more detailed canning instructions see:  http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can7_jam_jelly.html)

Note to the health conscious:  The amount of sugar in the recipe still gives me pause, but I've recently learned of a super sweet California variety, the Gaviota strawberry, which, rumor has it, can cut the sugar requirement by half. (One local canner even claims to make a respectable Gaviota strawberry jam with no added sugar at all, but, like those who professed to love my mother's strawberry chiffon pie, I suspect she may be exaggerating a bit.) Gaviota strawberries are available only in the spring, even in California, so stay tuned.
 

Peas and Prosperity (and Chutney)

I almost titled this post, "Love, Peas and Happiness," because when it comes to that old southern standard, black-eyed peas, most people either love 'em madly or don't like them at all. Me, I'm a lover.

Cooked plain, according to the soak-overnight package directions, with a meaty smoked ham hock buried in the middle of the pot, black-eyed peas are my ultimate comfort food. (I stint on the salt and simmering liquid because I like them less soupy and briny. And don't cook them too long - about an hour is good - or they'll be mushy.) Add a couple spoonfuls of tomato and pear chutney on the side, and you've got manna from heaven.

Maybe this explains how the dish, along with the requisite mythology and superstitions, became a New Year's Day tradition in most of the southeast; or maybe it's because that's about all they had to eat in the dead of winter back in the day. Either way the black-eyed pea (a bean actually) is another culinary gift from the dark side of our heritage. Brought into southern ports from Africa with the slave trade, black-eyed peas were initially cultivated exclusively for the consumption of livestock and slaves, but, when times got hard, white folks found they made mighty good eating.

Exactly 365 peas. Yes, I did.

Today we eat them on January 1st, seasoned with a little chunk of preserved pork, to assure luck and prosperity throughout the coming year. A more arcane tradition specifies that we eat exactly (or at least) 365 individual peas, one for each day of the year, to assure the continuity of all that love and happiness. This is what 365 peas looks like.

When I was growing up in south Georgia black-eyed peas were commonly served with chopped raw onion (not my predilection) and/or a particular ground-pear relish, which I adored, and whose secret formula I'm still looking for. In the meantime, I've found a completely satisfactory, maybe even better, alternative: fire-roasted tomato and pear chutney. Were I given to hyperbole, I'd call it the condiment of the gods.


FIRE ROASTED TOMATO AND PEAR CHUTNEY

2 cups roasted tomatoes, seeded and chopped
2 cups cubed pears
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 cup raisins
2 cups brown sugar
1 cup cider vinegar
3 tablespoons peeled and grated fresh ginger
2 tablespoons mustard seeds
2 cinnamon sticks
2 teaspoons red pepper flakes
2 teaspoons kosher salt

If you want to do it up right and have the where-with-all to grow your own, an assortment of heirloom tomatoes, cut into quarters, roasted in a hot oven, peeled, seeded and chopped, do it best. When homegrown tomatoes aren't available, I go with a good canned variety, such as Muir Glen Fire Roasted tomatoes, and still have a really outstanding chutney. (Seriously, don't bother with store-bought 'fresh' tomatoes. The process is more trouble than they're worth, and the result won't be any better.)

Combine all ingredients in a large, deep saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring frequently. Reduce heat and boil gently until reduced by half.

Ladle hot chutney into sterilized half-pint jars. Place filled and lidded jars into canning vessel, (I use my tamale pot, no joke), cover with water and bring to boil. Process at a boil for 10 minutes. Cool in water, remove, store and enjoy! (For more detailed canning instructions see: http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can_06/chutney_principles.html)

I customarily make the recipe in triplicate and end up with around 12 to 15 half-pint jars. Sometimes I do a few pints because this stuff goes fast, and you don't want to run out. (Try it with pork, rare beef, lamb, butter beans; the possibilities are endless.)

And keep some on hand for black-eyed peas; which should always be served with the style and respect they deserve. Kudos to Jacob Preston for the black-eyed peas bowl. I happen to think it is just right.

Not Your Mother's Sweet Potato Pie

While we're still deconstructing Thanksgiving -- and mine was pretty fabulous BTW -- I should confess that the marshmallow meringue sweet potato pie that was being fast tracked to Turkey Day never made it to the head of the dessert table. At the very last minute, (and probably due to the same proclivities that kept me single for 40 years), another sweet potato dessert caught my eye and, the sweet tooth being weak, I yielded to temptation. It's what happens when I read food porn (that's any cookbook with pictures) late at night.

This recipe for Sweet Potato Tart Tatin, (that's "tart" without an "e," presumably because this dessert is as American as the sweet potato), comes from DamGoodSweet, a book of "New Orleans style desserts," by David Guas and Raquel Pelzel. Don't know them and haven't tried anything else from this cookbook but, judging by this dish, it looks promising.

If you can call a sweet potato dish sophisticated, this is it: sweet potatoes, sliced thin, layered on top of a rich French caramel, and covered with buttery puff pastry. This is sweet potatoes all grown-up and going to the prom. And the best part? I get to use one of my cast iron skillets. I always feel more authentic when I use a cast iron skillet.

A few preparation tips. Choose long, slender potatoes of relatively even width (about three medium). For slicing I prefer to use my Cuisinart equipped with the slicing disc, but a mandoline slicer would also work nicely. Unless you really want to make your own puff pastry, (get a life already), I recommend using store-bought frozen puff pastry sheets. They're quite good and nobody will know the difference unless you tell them. Finally, once removed from the heat, caramel hardens quickly. Pour fast and spread evenly. If it gets too stiff to spread, set the skillet over the burner for a few seconds to soften.

It may not be a Tart (no 'e') Tatin in the strictest sense of the word, (unless you consider the sweet potato a fruit, and who am I to judge), but it is delicious. Sweet enough, but not too sweet, (Seriously, where I come from most people would consider this a side dish.), served warm or chilled, with ice cream, whipped cream or unadorned; this is not your Mother's sweet potato pie. But it might be yours.


Sweet Potato Tart Tatin

1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed
3/4 cup sugar, plus 1 tablespoon for pastry
1/4 cup water
1 stick unsalted butter, cut into cubes
2 teaspoons vanilla
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 pounds sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced into 1/8-inch thick rounds
1 egg
1 tablespoon milk

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Roll out one sheet of defrosted puff pastry. On floured surface, roll lightly to blend in any seams. Cut out a 10-inch circle. Transfer pastry circle to a parchment lined baking sheet, prick all over with a fork and refrigerate until needed.

Stir together 3/4 cup of sugar and 1/4 cup of water in a small saucepan. Partially cover and bring to boil over medium-high heat. Cook, partially covered, 3 or 4 minutes or until syrup is clear and bubbling. Remove cover and cook until mixture is a light butterscotch color and the temperature reaches 320 degrees. Turn off the heat (the mixture will continue to cook) and measure the temperature until it reaches 350 degrees (this will only take a few minutes), whisk in the butter, a few cubes at a time, thoroughly blending after each. Stir in the vanilla and the salt. Pour quickly into a 10-inch cast iron skillet, spreading evenly across the bottom.

Layer the sliced potatoes over the caramel, starting in the center and overlapping in a spiraling outward circle as you go. Top with the puff pastry, tucking it in round the edges of the skillet.

Mix the egg and the milk together and brush over pastry. Then dust with the remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.

Bake about 40 to 45 minutes, until the edges are brown and the pastry is puffed and golden. Allow to cool for at least 15 minutes (up to an hour). Invert onto a large plate -- make sure it's larger than 10 inches in diameter as there will be some liquid on the bottom -- and serve.

I really, really love this "pie."

The Great Sweet Potato Pie-Off

Where I grew up Thanksgiving was most certainly not synonymous with pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie was something Yankees ate for the holiday, and if we ever saw one, (like the Thanksgiving when my best friend's mother was puttin' on the dog to impress her son's new North Carolina in-laws), it came out of a box marked Mrs. Smith's.

Come to think of it, Thanksgiving in Middle Georgia didn't mean turkey back then either -- but rather two large, fat hens perched atop a pan of soupy cornbread and biscuit dressing, and baked until the dressing was just dry but still spongy to the touch. Turkeys came later, along with instant mashed potatoes and gravy made with Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, and then the whole holiday went to hell. But that's another blog entry.

This one's about the pies. On Thanksgiving we expected, we anticipated, and we ate that most plain and elegant of southern holiday desserts, sweet potato pie.

Not to be confused, as they invariably are, with yams, sweet potatoes are an indigenous American crop which, if the legends of our forefathers are to be believed, might have been served at the very first Thanksgiving celebration. They've been a staple in southern kitchens ever since. My maternal grandfather, who farmed well into his 70s, planted a big field of them every year, plowed them out of the ground with a mule, (the tractor "cut them up too bad"), and stored them in a mound of earth covered with a thick layer of pine straw, digging them out as needed all winter long.

There's a good chance you've never eaten an actual yam. Native to Africa, and somewhat similar to the sweet potato in shape and color, (though yams tend to be much larger), it's understandable, if not propitious, that the kitchen slaves conflated the two. They are, alas, not the same. I ate yams in Belize and found them dry, with a chalky texture, and bland. If you were expecting a sweet potato, you probably wouldn't like them either.

I'm ever the traditionalist when it comes to the sweet potato pie I serve at Thanksgiving, but my faith was shaken this year when I found a new recipe for a version of the dessert with a hint of citrus and a marshmallow meringue topping. As fortune would have it, we had a week-before-Thanksgiving potluck at the office, and I seized the opportunity to test them on the most discerning of audiences. (Except for Art. Every year he brings a Crockpot full of 'Lil Smokies floating in off-the-shelf barbecue sauce, and everybody loves them. I hate you, Art.)

In the interest of full disclosure, I used packaged refrigerated pie crusts for this experiment; not recommended for your best shot, but a reasonable option if you ever catch yourself making two pies from scratch on a weeknight. There are lots of good pie pastry recipes out there, including elsewhere on this blog, so I'm not going publish the pastry particulars. I do suggest, however, that you bake the pie crusts at 400 degrees for about 10 minutes and allow them to cool completely before filling, as a hedge against a soggy bottom. Also when baking the filled pies it's a good idea to cover the exposed crust with a pie shield or aluminum foil wrapped around the outer edges of the plate, to prevent over-browning.

For the traditional recipe I went with Edna Lewis' Sweet Potato Pie from her classic cookbook, "The Taste of Country Cooking." (For simple yet refined southern style food, you simply can't go wrong with Edna.) The second recipe comes hot off the pages of the 2011 issue of "Southern Living: Our Best Holiday Desserts." Each recipe makes one deep-dish 9" pie or two smaller ones.

Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets and make your pies!


Edna Lewis' Sweet Potato Pie Filling

2 cups cooked sweet potatoes, mashed and sieved
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg (fresh grated if possible)
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 medium eggs, separated
2 teaspoons vanilla
2/3 cup melted butter
1 2/3 cups milk (room temperature)

Bake the potatoes until soft (microwave is fine if you're in a hurry), peel, mash and put through a potato ricer or food mill.

Combine potatoes, sugar, salt, egg yolks (slightly beaten), vanilla and melted butter. Mix thoroughly. Add milk and stir well.

With an electric hand mixer, beat the egg whites to the frothy stage. Then stir them into the potato mixture.

Pour the mixture into the pastry lined pie plates and bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes.

Allow to cool completely. Serve plain or with whipped cream or creme freshe.


Sweet Potato Pie with Marshmallow Meringue

1/4 cup melted butter
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 eggs
3 cups cooked, mashed and sieved sweet potatoes
1 cup half-and-half
1 tablespoon lemon zest
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg (fresh grated if possible)

Bake the potatoes until soft (microwave is fine if you're in a hurry), peel, mash and put through a potato ricer or food mill.

Stir together melted butter, sugar, salt and eggs. Beat until well blended. Add sweet potatoes and remaining ingredients. Stir until thoroughly mixed.

Pour mixture into pie crust. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 to 55 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack for at least one hour, (even better, let it cool overnight), before topping with Marshmallow Meringue.

Marshmallow Meringue

3 egg whites
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 (7 oz.) jar marshmallow creme

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

With an electric mixer, beat egg whites with vanilla and salt until foamy. Gradually add sugar, a bit at a time, and beat until peak form.

Beat marshmallow creme into egg white mixture 1/4 jar at a time. Beat until smooth (about 1 minute) and spread on top of cooked pie.

Bake at 400 degrees for 6 to 7 minutes or until meringue is lightly browned.

AND THE WINNER IS?!


To my surprise, and somewhat to my chagrin, the meringue topped pie was the hands down favorite. Ultimately I had to admit that I liked it best too.

That's not to say that the classic sweet potato pie wasn't good. It was very good, but with a softer, more custard-like texture than the denser and creamer, (great mouth feel!), meringue topped version. I also liked the brightness the lemon added to the flavor of the pie; and the marshmallow meringue topping, well, who could find fault with that?

Paella, Please

I don't have any interesting family tales to tell about paella. In fact, I'd never even heard of paella, much less tasted it, until I was well an adult, and then it was an occasional indulgence and certainly not anything I would ever think about cooking myself. Then one day I was looking for a dish to serve with Sangria and, as luck would have it, the Sur La Table across the street was offering a paella class. I took it. Paella took me.

It would be impossible to love New Orleans food and not notice the dish's similarity to Jambalaya, which undoubtedly has its' roots in the Spanish Paella, introduced into the region when Spain held possession of Louisiana for four decades in late Eighteenth century. So, it would be safe to say if you like one, you'll like the other. As for me, it may be sacrilege to say, but I actually prefer the more subtle flavors of paella.

The key to making this paella is good quality short grain rice, Bomba rice, which you can usually find in most large supermarkets, or, that failing, order on-line. Choose your sausage, spicy or mild, depending on how piquant you like it, (in an homage to jambalaya, I use Andouille), and, yes, you will need a paella pan. There are many to choose from with price ranges from $19.99 all they way up to $250.00. If, like me, you just want to date paella before you marry it, I suggest a mid-range steel vessel. Expect to pay about $40, (do not, I repeat, do not go non-stick). Then, if you decide to commit, invest in one of those All-Clad big boys. (I'm saving up.)

It's a meal for a crowd in a pan. Just add a salad, maybe some good French bread, and, of course, Sangria. Oh, paella, where have you been all my life?!

MIXED PAELLA
(serves 6)

1/2 teaspoon saffron threads
2 tablespoons hot water
1 3/4 cups Bomba rice
6 tablespoons olive oil, divided
6 chicken thighs, skin-on
1/2 lb. spicy sausage (Andouille) sliced 1/4" thick
2 medium onions, chopped
4 large garlic cloves, pressed or crushed
1 teaspoon Spanish smoked paprika (hot or mild to taste)
8 ounces green beans, broken into 1" pieces
5 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 lb. medium raw shrimp, shelled & deveined
1 lb. mussels (unopened & well scrubbed)
2 red bell peppers, roasted, peeled, seeded and sliced
Salt & black pepper to taste
1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped fine

First thing I do is roast the peppers, usually earlier in the day. I half them and seed them, then put them under the boiler, skin side up on a lined cookie sheet, until the skins blister and brown. Pop them in a brown paper bag to cool, then peel and slice into strips.

Place saffron threads into a small bowl with the 2 tablespoons hot water and let soak. Meanwhile place rice in a strainer and rinse under cold water until the water runs clear to remove some of the starch. Set aside.

Put green beans in a small bowl with about a teaspoon of water and cook in the microwave for about 2 minutes, until just crisp tender. Set aside.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a 14" paella pan or over proof skillet. Add chicken thighs and cook, turning frequently, until the skin is golden and crisp (about 8 minutes). Transfer to a plate. Add sliced sausage to the pan and cook a few minutes until beginning to crisp. Remove from pan to plate or bowl. Add shrimp to pan and stir until just pink (about 1 to 2 minutes). Remove shrimp to plate or bowl.

Add remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil to pan. When hot, add chopped onion, garlic and paprika and cook until the onions are soft, but not brown. Add the rinsed rice and stir until the rice becomes translucent. Stir sausage slices, green beans and any accumulated juices into the rice. Stir in the chicken stock, saffron and soaking water.

Season to taste with salt and pepper. Arrange chicken thighs on top of paella and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and let simmer, uncovered and without stirring, for 15 minutes, or until the rice is tender and almost all of the liquid has been absorbed.

Carefully stir in the reserved shrimp. Arrange the bell pepper slices on top and tuck the mussels, seam side up, into the paella. Put the pan into the preheated oven and cook for an additional 5 minutes, until the mussels have opened and the shrimp are cook. Sprinkle with the parsley and serve immediately.

NOTE: If after the initial 15 minutes of simmering there is still a lot of liquid in the paella, place the pan in the oven and bake for about 10 minutes before adding the peppers, shrimp and mussels. Alternately, for ease of preparation, the paella can be baked in the 400 degree oven instead of simmered on top of the stove. However, this method won't yield up the 'crunchy rice' bottom so prized by paella aficionados.

Tastes Like Summer

A hot summer day, there's barbecue on the grill, and a tub of cool ones chilling on the porch. What's a non-beer drinker like me to do? Why make Sangria, of course.

This nectar of the Gods is easy to prepare, pretty to look at, and surprisingly potent, depending on what you put in it. For the wine, I usually choose an inexpensive Spanish Tempranillo or Rioja, (This is not the time to use your premium reds. I try to keep it in the under $10 per bottle range.), but any dry red wine will do, even if it doesn't say, "Ole." Don't skimp on the spirits though. Nothing ruins a good Sangria like cheap vodka or an off-brand orange liquor.

It's a party in a pitcher. Even the beer drinkers will beg for a glass, and when it's all gone, you can fight over the wine soaked peach slices at the bottom; a treat not to be missed and well worth a broken fingernail or two.

Be warned. This is a kick-ass Sangria, but it drinks like fruit punch. So pace yourself. For less of a punch (pun intended) you can leave out the vodka. But what would be the fun in that?

Summer Sangria
(makes 8 to 10 glasses)

2 bottles Tempranillo, Rioja or other dry red wine
2/3 cup lemon flavored vodka (Absolut Citron rocks)
2/3 cup brandy
2/3 cup Cointreau
2 cups fresh orange juice
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 1 lime
3/4 cup sugar
1 whole orange, sliced
1 whole lemon, sliced
1 whole lime, sliced
1 ripe peach, sliced

In a large pitcher combine wine, liquors and fruit juices. Add sugar, stirring until completely dissolved. Slice whole fruit and add to pitcher. Cover and let the Sangria sit in refrigerator at least 6 hours, preferably overnight, before serving. Serve over ice with a slice of orange or lime. Tastes like summer.

Ice Cream for the 4th

A couple of months ago, on the occasion of my birthday, a well-meaning friend gifted me with a spiffy Cuisinart ice cream maker. A devilish red plastic contraption, built for temptation and suitable for display, and not much else, I concluded, since I am perpetually dieting and currently on the upside of that extra five pounds. I put the demon machine out of sight and out of mind, on a shelf in the junk closet of my life, with the thought that I'd maybe use it 'someday.'

Now that the 4th of July is almost upon us, I've decided to call it 'someday' and pig out. When I was growing up a family get together on the 4th meant homemade ice cream, usually fresh peach right-from-the-tree, hand cranked with ice and rock salt in my grandfather's old wooden ice cream maker. The grownups would take turns cranking, and us younguns' would take turns tasting, to make sure it was firm enough to eat. When it was done, we'd devour huge bowls of it, with tablespoons, until, inevitably, somebody got sick from all the rich food they'd consumed during the day and threw up. I remember one year my cousin T-Boy Fordham, who was home from reform school for the holiday, projectile vomited all over the picnic table and a big chunk of regurgitated peach smacked me in the eye. (I can't recall if that was before or after he'd stolen the spare tires off everybody's pickups. Or that might've been at Christmas. No matter.)

So maybe not peach then, but what? I finally settled on Blackberry and Buttermilk Sherbet (from the latest edition of 'Taste of The South' magazine), because blackberries were on sale at the Farmer's Market for $1.00 a half-pint, and French Vanilla, (from 'Ben & Jerry's Homemade Ice Cream & Dessert Book'), just because I like it. Turns out to have been a serendipitious flavor
combination; one rich and smooth, the other fruity and tart. Perfect.

Blackberry and Buttermilk Sherbet
(makes 1 quart)

4 cups fresh blackberries, plus extra for garnish
2 cups sugar
2 cups buttermilk

Smash the 4 cups of blackberries with your favorite mashing tool (I use an immersion blender ) -- or toss them into the blender or food processor -- until completely pureed. Force blackberry puree through a coarse strainer to remove most of the seeds.

Stir in sugar. Add buttermilk and blend thoroughly (I give it a whirl or two with the immersion blender). Cover and refrigerate at least 4 hours, or until mixture is very cold. (If you're in a hurry -- stick it in the freezer for a half hour.)

Transfer the mixture to an ice cream maker and freeze following the manufacturer's instructions.

The sherbet will be soft, almost like a thick milk shake. To freeze hard enough to scoop, transfer to an airtight plastic container, press plastic wrap directly onto the surface, and freeze until firm. (About 4 hours)


Ben & Jerry's French Vanilla Ice Cream
(makes 1 quart)

2 large eggs
3/4 cup sugar
2 cups heavy whipping cream
1 cup whole milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Whisk the eggs in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Whisk in the sugar until well blended. Pour in the cream, milk and vanilla and whisk to blend.

Transfer the mixture to an ice cream maker and freeze following the manufacturer's instructions.

Mixture will be very soft. Transfer to a quart container and freeze until hard enough to scoop.

I like to serve a few scoops of each in a fancy ice cream goblet, garnished with a few blackberries, maybe a couple of crisp lemon cookies on the side. Seriously delicious.