A Finger in Every Pie

The Browning Version: Browned-Butter Nectarine Cake

     Arranged by twos as peaches are,
at intervals that all may live --
     eight and a single one, on twigs that
     grew the year before -- they look like
a derivative;
     although not uncommonly
the opposite is seen --
nine peaches on a nectarine. 
     Fuzzed through slender crescent leaves
          of green or blue or
          both, in the Chinese style, the four

     pairs' half-moon leaf-mosaic turns
out to the sun the sprinkled blush
     of puce-American-Beauty pink
     applied to bees-wax gray by the
uninquiring brush
     of mercantile bookbinding.
Like the peach Yu, the red-
cheeked peach which cannot aid the dead,
     but eaten in time prevents death,
          the Italian
          peach-nut, Persian plum, Ispahan

     secluded wall-grown nectarine,
as wild spontaneous fruit was
     found in China first.  But was it wild?
     Prudent de Candolle would not say...

          -- Marianne Moore, from "Nine Nectarines"

Browned-Butter Nectarine Cake

A plethora of nectarines, the desire for cake made with beurre noisette -- sometimes inspiration strikes early in the morning.  This cake is not your light-crumbed fluffy high-riser; instead it's buttery, dense and slightly chewy with crisp edges --  the best elements of pastry and cake.  The sprinkling of light brown sugar on top provides a crunchy, sugary crust surrounding the fruit.  If you prefer a softer top, it can be omitted. 

2 1/2 sticks (10 oz.) unsalted butter
3/4 cup light muscovado or light brown sugar
3/4 granulated sugar
4 eggs
2 tsp. best-quality vanilla paste or extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1- 2 tsp. salt (this depends on how salty a kick you like in your desserts)
1 pound nectarines (about 4), each fruit sliced into approximately 12 wedges, for a total of 48
2 Tbsp. light muscovado or light brown sugar for sprinkling on top

Browned Butter Glaze (optional)

1/2 stick (2 oz. unsalted butter)
1/2 cup confectioners sugar
1 or 2 tbsp. milk, or enough to make a thick glaze
salt to taste

Preheat oven to 325 F.  Butter and line two 8 or 9 inch round layer pans with parchment, then butter the parchment as well. 

Whisk together  flour, baking powder and salt in a small bowl.   Melt the 2 1/2 sticks of butter over medium heat.  Cook slowly until brown, stirring all the while.  If the butter burns a little, strain it to get rid of the dark sediment -- the butter will still taste good.  If it burns a lot, toss it out and begin again.  Let the butter cool to room temperature -- it should begin to solidify.  Beat it in a large bowl with both sugars until creamy.  Add eggs, beating them in one at a time.  Beat in the vanilla.  Lightly stir in the  flour mixture until just blended.  Divide the mixture between the two pans, spreading it lightly and evenly over the bottom of the parchment lined tins.  Arrange 24 nectarine slices in circles over the top of each cake; sprinkle them each with a tablespoon of  light muscovado or light brown sugar.  Bake for about 35 minutes; start testing them at 25 to make sure they're not browning too quickly.  Remove when a toothpick or cake tester comes out more or less clean; cool on a rack for 15 minutes, then remove from the pan.  They are delicious as is, or drizzled with the optional browned-butter glaze. 

For the glaze, brown the smaller quantity of butter as you did for the cake, and strain if necessary.  Stir in confectioners' sugar and milk to make a thick but pourable glaze.  Add little pinches of salt until it tastes just right to you.  Drizzle over the cooled cake if desired. 

Yield:  2 cakes -- one for home and one for workmates or neighbors, or one for now and one for the freezer. 

Breaking the Rules

In the first few days after 9/11/01,  I suffered from a mild form of survival guilt, as did many of us in NY and elsewhere.  I awoke each morning, and thinking about what to wear that day would make me sob.  Who was I to be able to choose my clothes when so many had died or were suffering?  Trying to decided what food to buy or cook caused a similar response.  Those feelings faded, of course, and life, as it does for all survivors, went on.  I baked brownies and plum cakes to leave at fire stations and police precincts, and once again became capable of being exasperated by my own life's large and small frustrations.

It’s been a rough life for the past couple of weeks.   On a paltry, personal level, we’re feeling somewhat overwhelmed by seasonal demands around here.  Sadly, it’s the time of year when everyone wants us both to get to work.  Rather mean of them, since we had a very nice summer, but there it is.  I’m back full-time consulting in schools, planning and teaching evening grad seminars and doing private tutoring – and it all seemed to start up at more or less the same time, which I guess gives meaning to the phrase “back to school”.  At this point I’m trying to remember that recently there were more or less six weeks where I had to do none of these things.  Frankly, I was getting used to that sort of time-frame:  going on delightful vacations or even just nice walks, puttering around the house, shopping at the farmers’ market and cooking delicious seasonal things, taking naps…. ah well.  Even before September reared its head, life became hectic.  And it’s not only me.  Since G is doing school-related computer consulting and his burgeoning business is taking off, his presence has also been required pretty much non-stop for work-related activities.  In addition, we're trying to figure out if our rent-gouging slumlord's greed is going to compel us to move. 

Perspective is always a gem:  considering the state of other parts of the country, life hasn't been rough for us at all, of course.  We have to back to work -- but at least we have jobs.  And a home.  Anything I might be feeling about my current situation is dwarfed by what I see in the media.  Human behaviors (or I suppose I should say some humans’ behaviors) have shown their unrelentingly ugly side in recent weeks.   Those who could have made this (and many another) tragic situation better, haven’t.  Those whom one would vainly hope might know better have demonstrated a pernicious combination of stupidity and cruelty by making remarks which showcased their own sorry conditions. Those who have precious little to give in the first place are being asked to share, to donate, to "make a difference".   

Yesterday, for example, in our East Harlem neighborhood, a large soundstage was set up more or less under our apartment window, and unrelentingly bad music was performed and played all day, broken only by equally unrelenting politicians exhorting the neighborhood's residents, many of whom are either on public relief and food stamps, or living on social security, to give money to hurricane relief.  It’s not that I don’t believe that everyone can contribute in a crisis.  I’m actually a strong supporter of philanthropy at all levels.  I just wish someone would explain to me why they never set up the loudspeakers on Park Avenue, 20 or even just 15 blocks downtown, where the apartments have private elevators, marble kitchens, wrap-around terraces and the square footage of a large house.  Simple economics would demand that they’d certainly raise a lot more money.  As for me, as tired as I was, and considering that the decibel level meant that we couldn’t occupy our front bedroom all day without being blasted, I would have paid them all just to shut up.  If I’d had the money, I would have, that is.  I’m being petty, perhaps, or downright unreasonable, and you can call me on it. 

Whether or not that's true, it seemed like a weekend for rule-breaking, especially when it came time for dinner.  We’ve eaten relatively locally and seasonally pretty much all summer long, and we’ve enjoyed every mouthful.  Last night, however, we wanted both a sustaining and a heartening meal.  Maybe it was time to step outside the foodily-correct parameters, for a change.  I’m well aware that asparagus has been out of season for four months now – but of course the hothouse variety is always available.   G loves it, especially simply roasted with olive oil and Provençal herb salt.  So I broke down and bought it, guilty as I may have felt with all the summer vegetables at their peak.  In about a month, foods like risotto and crisp-skinned roasted chicken pieces are going to be much more suitable to the weather than they are right now.  But for whatever reason, these things sang their siren song to my appetite last night.   I didn’t make an effort to put seasonal vegetables in the risotto; it was flavored with what I had in the house.  My other curtsy to my personal demons of incorrectness is that the chicken is adapted from a recipe of Giada de Laurentiis'.   In all honesty, I just hate most television chefs and their recipes, too I'm not very fond of TV chefs or their recipes, either.  But whatever I may think of Giada and her ilk, I confess to you here and now that this chicken has been a life-saver on a number of occasions.  For a fairly minimal effort, you get richly brown, crisp-skinned chicken pieces with tender, tangy, almost buttery meat, permeated with herbs and garlic. 

You can save these recipes for cooler weather if you wish.  But if the world is too much with you these days, and solace in the form of food would sound good on your menu, too, this dinner is worth a try. 

Roasted Chicken with Vinaigrette (adapted from Giada de Laurentiis)

A friend of mine suggested I try this recipe about a year ago.  I happened to have both blood orange vinegar and fresh thyme in the house, so I added those to the recipe.  If you'd rather try the original, here it is.  I’ve made it many times since then, and I have to confess that it never fails.  It’s an excellent dish for guests or holiday meals too, since it can easily be multiplied and everyone seems to love it. 

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons blood orange vinegar
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
zest and juice of an organic lemon
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, or 1 tsp. dried
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 (4-pound) whole chicken, cut into pieces (giblets, neck and backbone reserved for another use) 

Whisk the vinegars, mustard, lemon juice and zest, garlic, thyme, olive oil, salt, and pepper in small bowl to blend. Combine the vinaigrette and chicken pieces in a large resealable plastic bag; seal the bag and toss to coat. Refrigerate, turning the chicken pieces occasionally, for at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Remove chicken from the bag and arrange the chicken pieces on a large greased baking dish. Roast until the chicken is just cooked through, about 1 hour. If your chicken browns too quickly, cover it with foil for the remaining cooking time. Transfer the chicken to a serving platter, and drizzle with pan drippings if desired.  Serve with risotto and roasted asparagus, or indeed any side dishes.

Risotto In the House

It was a bit of an experiment, but the flavors of leek and shallot, saffron, basil and cheese work beautifully together, unlikely as the combination might sound. 

2 leeks, halved, cleaned and thinly sliced
4 shallots, finely chopped
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups risotto rice (I used vialone nano, but arborio or carnaroli are fine too, of course)
2/3 cup dry white vermouth (Noilly Prat preferred)
1/2 tsp. saffron dissolved in 4 –5 cups warm rich chicken stock
salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil
1/3 cup cream, optional
1/2 cup mixed grated parmigiano reggiano and romano cheeses

Saute the leeks and shallots in a mixture of butter and olive oil until soft.  Add the rice, and sauté for several minutes, until the grains become opaque.  Keeping the pot over medium heat, add 1/3 cup of vermouth, and 1 cup of stock, stirring until it’s absorbed.  Keep adding stock, 1 cup at a time, letting each cup be absorbed before you add the next.  Add salt if necessary, and some pepper.  Taste a rice grain occasionally to test for doneness.  You want the grains still firm, but with no hint of chalkiness.  When you’re getting close but not quite yet there, add the second 1/3 cup of vermouth with your next (and probably last) cupful of stock.  When the rice is creamy and firm, add the basil, cheese, and cream if desired.   Stir well, taste, season again, and serve with additional grated cheese on the side. 

Delights From the City of Lights

This is another long-overdue post.  Much earlier in the summer, my cherished pal Ernestine, known in the comments section of this blog as Ernie, had herself a lovely fling visiting family in France.  Always one to share the wealth, she came back with all kinds of treats for her friends, among whom I'm clearly lucky to count myself.  After her return,  I met up with Ernie as well as our mutual and also delightful pal Andrea for a farmers' market excursion and lunch on a horrendously hot summer day.  As we desperately tried to restore our fluid balance and get in a little nutrition at 'wichcraft, I unpacked the seemingly never-ending bag of goodies that Ernie had brought me.  All I can say is if this is what she brought just for me, I can barely begin to imagine what her luggage must have looked like.  It's a good thing that she's both beautiful and charming, since a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, especially when it comes to those stern customs officials. 

So, clockwise from the upper left-hand corner of what is not the world's clearest nor best photo, we have a gorgeous set of tiny mustards from Maille .  Continuing on, a pineapple-vanilla conserve from none other than Christine Ferber .  Long thin Carambar candies are a delight to any lover of chewy, caramel treats -- and some of them have (or I should say, had) a nougat center.  A beautiful bag of violet-flavored hard candy is next, and then something I have absolutely never seen -- sugar in lemon and violet flavors.  Here's where the quandary sets in -- what to do, what to make with these glorious treats?  From sugar to salt and spice:  three of the little bags contain mixtures of fleur de sel -- one scented with vanilla bean, one mixed with smoked paprika and another labeled simply "aux epices" which I think is mixed with a quatre epices mixture.  The last little sack contains an amazing curry powder with rose petals and mint, which I used to great effect in a shrimp makhani not long ago.   

I need no advice for the delights in the middle -- the first, a glorious tube of gianduioso, which I first saw on Chocolate and Zucchini, and lusted after.  Ernie somehow telepathically knew this and brought it to me.  And the last treat, something I'm still savoring in small bites -- a bar of Nougat "Decouverte" from Arnaud Soubeyran, makers of gorgeous Montelimar nougat.  This particular confection is composed of dark chocolate nougat with toasted almonds and candied orange peel.  Ever since I opened it and began to dole it out to myself in carefully rationed portions, many of my waking hours have been spent in trying to figure out how to get some more. 

So to Ernie, merci mille fois for the gorgeous goodies I'm still enjoying.  And as for the rest of you, put your thinking caps on (the schoolteacher does rear her pince-nez at the worst moments).   I'm thinking tiny butter cookies sprinkled with lemon and violet sugar on top or maybe on the  sides like sablée cookies.  And maybe the vanilla fleur de sel gets scattered on that bread and chocolate and olive oil thing I've always meant to make and never have.  Smoked paprika fleur de sel would have to be good on lots of things -- but what?  And the quatres epices I don't have much experience with, but it smells heavenly. 

Let me know if inspiration strikes, or if you've used any of these lovelies yourself.  In the meantime, you'll find me taking a tip from Clotilde and pointing the tip of the gianduioso tube directly mouthward...

EoMEoTE#10: Eggs and Seuss on Toast

To take my mind
Off current woes
A food event
Will need some prose
And a tasty pic
So you can see
What I just made:
EoMEoTE!

This month's task
From Jeanne, our host
Demands some Seuss
With Eggs and Toast!

But how to cook?
What must I make?

Should bread be fried?
Shall eggs I bake?

I dearly love
Oeuf en cocotte
But that takes time
What I ain’t got. 

I know just what
Will fit the bill
An omelet
To cook and fill. 

The market yields
Tomatoes red
Fresh corn, basil,
Cheese and bread.

And here’s the dish
That I have wrought
An omelet fresh made,
Not bought.

Toasty, buttery
Ciabatta
Stuffs my mouth
And stops my chatter.

So if you're starved,
Don't clown around --
Just whip this up
And chow it down!

No Category Selected

I'm having a hard time writing this admittedly off-topic post.  When Typepad's nice little template asked me to categorize this, the only place I could find to land was "No Category Selected", so that became the title as well.  Please forgive me in advance, since I'm not going to stop and edit -- if I stop, I won't be able to write this at all.

I visited New Orleans for the first time this year.   Each summer for the past several years, my friend and colleague Richard has invited me to join in the New Orleans Writing Marathon that he coordinates in the French Quarter every July.   Richard and I are part of the same national organization; his project site is in southeastern Louisiana, while mine is here in NYC. 

I first met Richard in November of 2001.  He was running a Saturday morning writing marathon at our annual national conference in Baltimore, and my site director suggested that I attend.  In a hotel room, Richard explained to a group of about fifty educators that they should just fall into groups, walk around the Inner Harbor, stop in cafes or bars or parks, write, read their writing aloud to each other, walk some more, write, drink, eat, read, repeat.  I fell in with the awe-inspiring Richard and the  remarkable Kim, as well as a lovely Southern woman and a charming man from a midwestern state, and I began to write about the experience of being a New Yorker at a national gathering just two months after 9/11.  I wrote about being introduced to people, and how a hush would come into their voices and they would take my hand between their hands and say, "Oh.  You're from New York."  Letting me know that yes, we were all in mourning, but they understood that my city and and I were still waking our dead.  As I read this out loud in the cafe at Barnes and Noble overlooking the Baltimore Harbor, I cried.  I looked up and found that everyone else had kind of lost their shit, too.   The only other thing I remember from that day is that Richard and Kim told me to that I had to write, to not stop writing, to stop "trying to make time" to write and just do it. 

Six weeks ago I flew down to New Orleans and checked in at the Hotel Richelieu in the French Quarter.  I didn't know a soul except Richard, and G wasn't joining me until a few days later.  I found myself talking and listening to Chris and Ann about writing and cooking and students and classrooms, and going down to the pool courtyard for a smoke with Melanie and Dave.  I met Richard's lovely wife, Doris, and later walked in wonder and joy through raucous nighttime Bourbon Street to go have dinner at Galatoire's with Margaret and Mary and Tracy and Jeff.  I  wrote with Dave and Patty and Ruth while having drinks at Harry's Corner at 9:00 in the morning.  It was New Orleans, after all.  We crossed Jackson Square and went to look at Faulkner's house in the alley around the corner from the St. Louis Cathedral, and then went and wrote in the Cathedral.  We had coffee and beignets at the Cafe du Monde, and read our writing, and then went and wrote some more.  I wrote with Richard and Karen and George and Ellie in the Paul McCartney Suite of the hotel, and in Richard's tiny apartment, and in Molly's At The Market, a bar with a writer-friendly reputation.  Each evening everyone came together for a read-around in one of the hotel suites.   

G flew down, and we walked and ate and drank and explored, glorying in a new place together as I showed him my latest haunts, the Clover Grill and Molly's, Coop's Place, Fiorella's, and of course the Cafe Du Monde.  A few days later we returned to New York.  I brought home feather Mardi-Gras masks from the market and beads that Doris had given me, all sorts of edible treats, many thick creamy pages of writing in my leather-bound book, and memories of a whole new set of friends and colleagues.

I decided that New Orleans was the American place that was most like being in a wonderful foreign city.  The French Quarter reminded me of both colonial cities in Latin America and the European cities that they in turn echo.  But New Orleans is a wonder unto itself, with gorgeous curlicues of wrought iron and greenery that drips from balcony to balcony in the steam of a summer day.  What a lush, exotic beauty you are, New Orleans.  You are, you are, and you will be. 

On top of one of my cabinets there are still boxes of Cafe Du Monde's beignet mix and cans of coffee and chicory.  There are pralines from Loretta's in the fridge, and a giant jar of olive salad from the Central Market in the pantry.  I haven't yet gotten around to making a beignet breakfast for my family, or dividing up the olive salad into small jars to give away.  But I can't even look at all of that right now.  I know there's neither cell-phone nor land-line service in many hurricane-hit areas.  I know that the power is out in New Orleans and much of Southern Louisiana, and that means servers are down and I can't yet expect an answer to my wish-filled emails.  I've heard from Ann and Chris and Tracy, and Tracy's heard from Karen.  Like the rest of those in the world who have loved ones on or near the Gulf Coast, many of us are hoping to hear soon from Richard and Doris, Melanie, Dave, George, Patty, Mary, Margaret, Jeff and others.  We're waiting.

P.S. After I posted this last night (or this morning, actually), I finally fell asleep for a while.  I dreamed I was sitting in a cafe with Richard, and although during writing marathons most of us write in notebooks, I had this laptop with me.  I had just finished this post.  I pushed the computer across the table to Richard, and he read this piece.  He looked up at me and said, "Can't you stay in New Orleans another day?  We could edit this and send it in to the Quarterly..."

Update: As you can see from the comments, Margaret and Mary as well as Tracy have been heard from, to my increasing relief.  And Richard and Doris are fine, as I heard from their NYC-based daughter yesterday.  So although grief and devastation continue, I take comfort in hearing of the safety of these friends.