A Finger in Every Pie

Playing Favorites: Linzer Biscotti and The SHF/IMBB Cookie Swap

Despite Thanksgiving weekend and all the pre- and post-cooking that the holiday entailed chez Finger In Every Pie, I simply had to get in on the fun of cookie swap time (for those who are new to the game, read all about Is My Blog Burning, Sugar High Friday, and other monthly food-blogging events here).

Nope, can't have a cookie swap without me.  Last year at this time I didn't yet have a blog, so I meekly emailed Jennifer my recipe for Orange-Almond Florentines, and participated in my first Is My Blog Burning -- the November 2004 Cookie Swap.  What a difference a year makes: now I've got a blog AND a camera, as you can tell from the cookies pictured here.  Today has been biscotti day, and my whole house smells like holiday time -- spices and nuts and jam, oh my.

I'm one of those crazed bakers who becomes even more wild-eyed around holiday time.  In my own circles, I'm fairly well-known for the baskets and platters of homemade cookies I give as gifts and bring to various workplaces and parties.  The thing about this mania is that it's contagious.  It doesn't necessarily make other people bake, however; it just makes them anxious about whether or not I'm baking.  As I detailed in last year's cookie swap post, I usually start to get nervous queries around October, to this effect: "You ARE baking the cookies this year, aren't you?  And you're going to bake ______(fill in the blank with the questioner's favorite kind), right?"  These questions probably have their genesis in prior years when, up to my chin in various doughs and batters, with the oven blasting and me cursing at something which wasn't turning out picture perfect, a friend or relative or workmate would call.  "Oh, you're baking? I won't bother you..." they'd say as I mumbled about how I would never, ever do this again. 

But every year as Thanksgiving rolls around and I start ruminating on pie, cookies begin to creep into my consciousness as well.  Some years I've been superbly well-organized.  That's when I make a point of shopping for cookie ingredients at some of my favorite sources over Thanksgiving weekend, and I make at least one batch of one of the "good keepers" -- the ones that stay fresh for a long time, or, in some cases, become even better with age. 

Most years I bake anywhere from 10 to 14 different kinds of cookies.  Each batch averages about 120 cookies, with some doubled recipes going more into the range of a yield of about 250.  It all depends, like so many things in life, on popularity. On evenings after work and on weekends during the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I'm baking somewhere between 1500 and 2000 cookies.    Most of my cookies have stayed in rotation for quite a while; each kind has its devotees who will not be disappointed.  I occasionally make a new one, or retire one that I'm tired of.  Last year I made apricot-date-walnut slices, triple-gingersnaps, pecan puffs, chocolate-dipped meltaways, chocolate-dipped espresso shortbread, orange-almond florentines, G's favorite oatmeal-kitchen sink cookies, peanut-butter/chocolate jewels, lemon gems, dulce de leche bars, triple-chocolate mint-chip, and the linzer biscotti of this post's title and picture.  Last year was the biscotti's first year, their trial run; they made the cut by proving to be extremely popular, both in our own household and elsewhere.  They were, in a word, delectable.  I guess it was something about the crunchy, crumbly, nutty biscuit and the aroma of spices, combined with the chewy ribbon of thickened jam in the center.  Last year I made only raspberry-filled ones; this year, in honor of the combined SHF/IMBB event, I branched out to apricot-filled as well.

The fact is, I adore linzertorte -- and it isn't easy to find.  Sadly, what are often sold as "linzer cookies" at least here in my neighborhood are disappointing.  Mostly they turn out to be just a butter cookie of questionable provenance, filled with jam of questionable quality.  They lack the nutty crumble and the spice bouquet of real linzertorte, the flavors that set off the fruity jam filling.  I've always wanted to make linzer bars or even linzer thumbprints for the holidays.  The problem is that the bars don't keep long, and the thumbprints don't seem to retain the crispness of the nutty shortbread once they've been filled with jam. I'd also had the desire to try my hand at biscotti (or cantucci), since they were a new cookie frontier for me -- and in addition, they're known for their keeping qualities.  Biscotti stay good for months, even butter- and egg-rich ones like these.  I googled the word biscotti, found some recipes from which I could create a general template, and threw my ideas of what a linzer biscotti might contain into the mix.

We found them pretty addictive on their trial run, and we weren't the only ones.  And they're at least as good this year as they were last year.  Many thanks to Jennifer and Alberto for providing the impetus to make these early.  The only downside is that we may eat them all before the giving and bringing begin, either depriving our friends or necessitating the baking of another batch...

Linzer Biscotti

1 cup unsalted butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons cognac
Grated zest of one lemon (organic preferred)
1 cup ground walnuts (you can also use hazelnuts)
2 cups toasted slivered almonds
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 tablespoons cocoa
4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 teaspoons baking powder

1 1/4 cups raspberry preserves, mixed with 1 tablespoon eau-de-vie de framboise
1 1/4 cups apricot preserves, mixed with 1 tablespoon apricot liquer or Grand Marnier

Preheat oven to 350 F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Cream the butter and sugar -- I do this by hand, since I actually don't have a stand mixer. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well.  Add vanilla, cognac and lemon zest, and blend together. Mix in the nuts, spices, cocoa, flour, salt, and baking powder, and stir well. You should have a soft, sticky dough.

Divide the dough into 4 sections.  Taking one section, divide it in half, and make a long sausage shape.  Use wet hands rather than floured ones to work with the dough; keep a bowl of cold water handy.  Pat the dough out flat on your baking sheet, and make a trench in the middle.  Fill the trench with 1/2 cup of either the raspberry or the apricot preserve.  Pat the other half of your dough section into a flattened long oval to match the shape that's already filled on the cookie sheet.  Lay it carefully over the jam-filled section, and pat together with wet hands.  Try to make sure that the jam is completely covered, and none is peeking through. Repeat with the three other dough sections, dividing each in half, filling with jam, and patting dough over the top to create a long oval loaf.  The dough will crack somewhat during baking, and some jam may ooze out, but it doesn't matter -- the jam will help to keep the slices together.     You should have about 1/4 cup of each flavor of jam left.  You may need this later. 

Bake loaves until set, 35 - 45 minutes. Let loaves cool for about 15 minutes.  Reduce the oven temperature to 300 F.  Cut loaves into slices about 1/2 inch thick. Glue together any slices that fall apart with extra jam, and fill in any large gaps in the middle of the biscotti slices with more jam.  Bake again, just to dry out, 15 - 20 minutes (depending on how crisp you like your biscotti).

These keep in a covered airtight tin for several weeks, and perhaps longer -- since they were one of our first tins to empty out last year, I'm not sure of the far side of their shelf life. 

Remains of the Day

Thanksgiving often includes one or more of the following: physical and emotional ups and downs, enormous changes at the last minute, and triumph snatched from the jaws of disaster.  Ours, this year, combined all of these sterling attributes.  I'll draw a tasteful veil over several of the ups and downs, sufficing with the story of my aged father, who, after having agreed to come to Manhattan, began waffling about going out of the house.  A barrage of phone calls between his household, mine, and my brother's occurred as I was up to my elbows in the makings for pie, stuffing, turkey, etc., in an apartment that resembled the seventh circle of hell due to a 500F oven and the apartment's customary state of extreme disorganization.  My dad was finally persuaded to come out.  He had, however, already stolen G's thunder for the day by trumping him in the role of cranky-guy-who-didn't-feel-like-leaving-the-house.  Finally the first round of crises were resolved.  Souffléed pumpkin and toffee-apple-crumble pie were cooled, turkey tested at the correct temperature, and we prepared to go downtown with our many bags and boxes.

What had been planned as a quiet dinner for five in the suburbs had turned into a merry roistering evening for fifteen on the Upper East Side.  This was no problem, since we probably had food enough for thirty.  People brought wonderful dishes and conversation was as effervescent as the sparkling Flag Hill cyder.   Everything was going just swimmingly; all were imbibing and nibbling the savory cheese dollars I'd baked right before leaving the house, and exclaiming over the gorgeous smoked trout paté made by my brother.  Everything that needed heating was in the oven. 

Suddenly there came an urgent call.  I was needed in the kitchen.  I walked in to find my brother wielding a carving knife and looking askance at my lovely herb-roasted, crisply brown 18-pound natural free-range high-roasted turkey, which he had carved enough to reveal a rather reddish-pink center.   That meat thermometer had lied to me.  What to do?  I felt my ego collapse more quickly than my popovers, but this was no time for pride.  The day -- and the turkey -- had to be saved.  We shoved our poor, semi-butchered bird back into a high-heat oven, and decided that since we had almost everything else out on the buffet already, we'd serve, and turkey would come out a bit later.  This plan worked well, and the bird, when it was finally ready, was absolutely delicious. 

So all turned out well despite the dire warnings of Christopher Kimball, who made a point of calling in to Radio Open Source when I was on the Thanksgiving 2.0 program on Wednesday night.  Chris had called to tell me that roasting at 500F would be a disaster; he predicted the turkey breast would come out like cardboard.  I had entertained visions of a perfectly roasted, juicy bird that would stand up on its hind legs and say "Take that, Christopher Kimball!"  Don't get me wrong about the monarch of America's Test Kitchen -- after all, I wouldn't want to be un-American on this particular holiday.  I'm actually rather fond of his publication and website,  Cook's Illustrated, which can be a great reference.  For me it usually serves as a starting point rather than as the final word, however.  My problem with Cook's is that it sees itself as THE answer, operating on the premise that there's one right way to do everything.  I actually think there are at least as many ways to roast a bird as there are good cooks.  That can be the only reason why so many accomplished cooks each swear by their own method. 

In any case, our bird finally emerged still juicy and succulent, with an incredibly crisp brown skin.  While it wasn't picture perfect, due to its premature butchering, we found that the high-heat roasting had promoted a heavily seared exterior, and locked in the juices.  Our problem was due to the fact that the meat thermometer didn't give an accurate reading, perhaps because it was such a large bird.  And, interestingly enough, I've already encountered two other experienced cooks-cum-food-bloggers who ran into the exact same problem this very Thanksgiving.  So I do feel better about it all, and I'm still willing to give high heat roasting another go. 

Our leftovers were excellent last night, still moist and yummy upon reheating.  And consider what you see in the photo at the top of this post.  The frame of this turkey produced the richest, brownest poultry stock I've ever seen, which in turn produced a turkey-vegetable-barley soup which has all the deep flavor of the most divine turkey gravy imaginable, savory with vegetables and aromatics.  Can't wait for tonight's dinner, either --  especially since there's still some toffee-apple-crumble pie for after the soup and sandwiches...

Radio Days!

I've been invited by Open Source, a public radio show out of Lowell, Massachusetts, to be on their Thanksgiving 2.0 radio program tonight at 7 p.m. EST.  I'll be joining foodblogging luminaries such as Derrick from An Obsession With Food and Dr. Biggles of Meathenge, both great favorites of mine, to talk about Thanksgiving.  Not only will it be an honor to be in their company, but I have a feeling it's going to be a fun conversation, especially since Jim Leff, the one and only Chowhound, will be the in-studio guest. 

You may not be in listening range, but here's what I was told is the best option for streaming the show:

Go to the following url:  http://www.wgbh.org/.  On the left you'll see a menu; click on "radio," which will produce a drop down menu.  Click on "listen live."

You can listen to Open Source at the stations listed here.  They are also on XM Satellite radio.  Podcasting is another option available on the Open Source homepage,  either in iTunes or in Odeo. 

Back to the kitchen -- time to start making some potato-leek gratin and pies. since my Thanksgiving Dinner has a) moved venues, b) more than doubled in size, and c) had some menu changes. 

Just In Time, Just In Case

No luscious lickable photos, no backstory, no cozy memories of Thanksgivings past or harried tales of the frantic buildup toward the one to come.  All I offer you at the moment are some of my favorite  recipes, developed over years of family Thanksgivings.   I'm planning to use them myself if I ever finish work, go shopping and actually get this meal on Thursday's table.  In other words, recipes now, stories to come later.  I just thought that if anyone out there is still trolling for ideas, these might be of use.

Cornbread-Sausage Stuffing
One recipe of your favorite cornbread, baked, chunked and allowed to dry out for a day or two
1 lb. sausage, removed from its casings
2 Tbsp. butter and/or olive oil or mixed
2 large onions, chopped
3 stalks of celery, chopped
6 cups of herbed bread stuffing (I use Pepperidge Farm)
2 large handfuls of chopped parsley
1 Tbsp. minced fresh sage if you have it; if not, 1 tsp. dried
1 Tbsp. fresh thyme leaves (or 1 tsp. dried)
2 flavorful tart-sweet apples (Macouns or Northern Spies or Golden Delicious), peeled, cored, quartered and sliced
1 tsp. or more of Bell's Seasoning (a poulty herb-mix which can be found in supermarkets; comes in a small yellow box)
salt and pepper to taste (go easy on the salt; there are a lot of salty elements in this stuffing)
1 1/2 - 2 cups boiling chicken broth
handful of crushed walnuts (optional)

Sauté the crumbled sausage, and reserve. Add the butter/olive oil to the drippings in the pan, and saute the onion and celery until soft and translucent. Add the  cornbread, bread-crumb stuffing, fresh herbs, sausage, apples, and seasoning; toss till combined. Gradually add broth, tossing until the mixture is nicely moistened but not soggy. Add the chopped walnuts if desired. This is plenty to both stuff into the turkey if you wish, and to bake in a glass or ceramic baking dish until crusty and moist within, about 30-45 minutes at 350F.  The mixture that's baked in the dish will need more broth, and perhaps a baster full of turkey drippings,  since it tends to dry out.   

My Sainted Mother's Cranberry Sauce
This is the very simple, basic, fresh whole-berry sauce that my mother always made for Thanksgiving. A few years ago when we went to catered T'giving dinners at the houses of other family members, my brother emailed me and begged me to bring cranberry sauce "a la Mom" as he called it. Add more sugar as it cools, if you like...we tend to prefer it very tart.

1 12 oz. pkg. fresh cranberries
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 large navel orange

Put the cranberries, sugar and water in a pot. Bring to a boil, and cook just until the cranberries start to pop. Turn off the heat. Grate the rind of the orange into the still-warm sauce, and squeeze half of its juice in as well. Section the other half, and cut off all the membranes -- or scoop the little half sections out with a grapefruit spoon.  Add them to the sauce.   Cool to room temperature and then chill it in the fridge. Serve in a pretty bowl. Makes about 2 cups.

Souffléed Pumpkin Pie with Brandy
Truthfully, I never liked pumpkin pie very much -- until I had the one that inspired the creation of this recipe.  This is light and creamy and spicy.  Even people who think they'd prefer a traditional pumpkin pie end up loving this one.   I  invented this a couple of years ago when I was asked to bring a pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's in-laws.   I reconstructed it from a memory of that first pumpkin pie that I ever really liked, which was baked by a cousin of mine who then claimed to have lost the recipe. Harrumph.

1 16 oz. can pumpkin   
1/2 c. heavy cream
3 eggs, separated   
1 c. sugar   
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. ground ginger
1/8 tsp. ground cloves   
1/8 tsp. nutmeg
2 Tbsp. good cognac  or armagnac
1/2 tsp. salt   
1 tsp. vanilla   
1 unbaked 9 inch pie shell

Preheat oven to 425F.
Beat together all ingredients except the egg whites (and the pie shell, of course). Beat the egg whites stiff, and fold gently into the pumpkin mixture, trying to aerate it as you would a souffle. Pour into pie shell and bake for 15 minutes. Turn the heat down to 350F, and bake for 30-35 minutes more, until the filling is puffed and firm. (You can use the old "stick a knife in the center and see if it comes out clean" test, if you're not sure.)  Serve with whipped heavy cream, very lightly sweetened and flavored with a spoonful of cognac or armagnac. 

Vermont Maple Pecan Pie
I developed this recipe a number of years ago after I first tasted maple pecan pie at my favorite Blue Benn Diner in Bennington, Vermont.  I was busy breaking up with someone at the time, but somehow that didn't keep me from filing away the taste for future reference.

1/4 cup  butter
1 cup light brown sugar
1 cup  dark amber Vermont maple syrup (Grade B is best; organic if you can get it)
3 eggs, well beaten
1 tbsp flour
1/4 tsp  salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp dark rum
1 cup  pecans

1 9" unbaked  pie shell
 
Cream butter and sugar. Add syrup, eggs, salt, flour, rum and vanilla. Mix together and add pecans.  Pour into unbaked pie shell.  Bake 1 hour and 10 minutes at 300F or until firm. Makes one 9" pie.

 

Blog Sloth and Pretty Much Perfect Toast

"The toast was pretty much perfect, sweetheart."
             - G

When I googled the phrase "bloggers' block" there were over three million hits.  Most of the early ones were lists of helpful suggestions for finding material about which one might blog. 

I realized then that I don't have bloggers' block.  Instead, I seem to be suffering from a hazy blogging malaise mainly characterized by a lack of motivation.  Honestly, I just haven't been able to get myself to blog.   I have no lack of material; I've been cooking, at least when I'm in town.  We've certainly been eating, and eating well.  And I even have photos of some of the things I've made and some of the places where we've eaten recently, most notably on our recent Vermont trip. 

Truthfully, I'm probably just a bit tired.  November has been hell month here at the home of Finger In Every Pie.  I have two conferences this month, requiring travel and various presentations to prepare, another out-of-town trip to visit family, and special events to coordinate at work.  Thanksgiving, for which I will bear major responsibility this year, looms on the horizon.   In addition, there's always the day-to-day:  the demands of a job in the public schools, teaching a weekly graduate seminar, and private tutoring.  Today's challenge was a celebratory dinner for my father (happy 93rd, dear Dad!) which I didn't cook, thanks to my dear sibling and his wife, who procured a splendid Chinese meal and plenty of festive beverages for all.  It did entail a homemade chocolate cake and the purchasing of numerous gifts, however. 

With substantial support and unflagging love from G, all these demands are not only being met, but for the most part have been going swimmingly.  In fact, my LA presentation was so well received that I've been invited to present at two more conferences.  Both, thankfully, are a ways off -- San Diego in April; San Francisco in July. 

Even when all goes off as planned, the spirit can sometimes be weary.   But there are always solutions.  Perhaps the easiest and best of these is toast.  As comforting as noodles or mashed potatoes, toast gives you not only the wished-for vehicle for butter, but supplies a lovely contrast of textures.  In this particular instance, I refer to not just any toast, but toast made from homemade bread, spread not once but twice with good butter. 

The toast pictured above owes its dear perfection to the much lauded and truly delightful Bakerina, who supplies the recipe for rice bread, which she acquired from Elizabeth David, who had it from Eliza Acton.  So do good recipes find not just a home, but many homes.   With good reason, Bakerina herself  has posted more than once about the virtues of this bread --  but I can't resist a turn at singing its praises too.  It is almost as easy as it is wonderful, and that's saying a lot.  It's hard to imagine mixing, proofing and baking bread after a full workday, but this bread makes such an act possible.  I'm big on trying new things;  recipes have to be pretty special to bear repetition in my book.  I've made this bread repeatedly in the past several weeks, and it just tastes better and better to us.  The fragrant nutty smell of basmati rice, the wonderful crunchy crust with its browned rice grains, and the pillowy, just slightly chewy texture of the innards draw us both to eat slice after slice.  Each time I make it, I marvel at the fact that I'm spending pennies to make a bread that would cost me dearly in an artisanal bakery. 

This bread makes great bread-and-cheese to have with soup, and lovely sandwiches, especially when grilled.  But its finest hour comes when it is toasted.  And if you are simply bad to the bone like we are, you will toast it the way that we sometimes do, at least for our late-night toast binges.  We employ a dreadful trick of G's, known as "double buttering".  Maybe everyone already knows about this and does it, but they just don't talk about it.  If that's true, then I'm probably committing a horrendous gaffe.  Ah well...you're only as sick as you are secret, as the self-help group enthusiasts say.  And your cardiologist already knows all these bad things about you anyway, because she probably double-butters her toast too. 

The socially frowned-upon act of double buttering requires a light slathering of butter before the bread is placed in the toaster oven (please, kids, don't try this in a vertical slot toaster.  This is meant for the toaster oven only).  When the bread is crunchily brown on the crusty edges, and the buttery tops have begun to glaze over with browny-gold goodness, you may remove the toast and give it just the tiniest touch more butter.  You don't want to make it violently greasy, so err on the side of lightness here. 

Eat this toast secretly, happily alone or in the company of one who loves you and is eating it too, matching you slice for slice.  Your responsibilities won't go away, but when you're in the middle of a week or even a month that seems like it will never end, and the world weighs heavily upon you, you'll know that there's always toast. 

 

The Plans I Had For You, or Good Intentions (And We All Know What Road Is Paved Therewith)

I have this dreadful sinking feeling which tells me that this is likely to be one of those pictureless, sad, self-flagellating sort of posts on the many things  about which I've wanted and been meaning to write.  Yes, all those things I haven't gotten to, unlike the rest of you competent, well-organized beings who know just how to handle your lives.  Just so you don't dismiss me immediately, I won't begin with the litany of what hasn't happened and why.  Instead I'll tell you some friendly happy comfy things, like about how G and I rented a car this past weekend and took off for Vermont. 

And I won't even tell you what a hassle it was to rent the car.  Suffice it to say that every time we passed an Enterprise Car Rental sign or storefront on our journey (and there were many of them), we flipped them the double bird.  Both of us.  But I wasn't going to dwell on that.  Rather, I should tell you that the foliage in upper New York State and southern Vermont were gorgeous.   And that we had some delightful meals -- first at our favorite Blue Benn Diner in Bennington: chicken-andouille soup, Vermont cheddar mac 'n' cheese, Cuban pork san with red peppers and cheese, sided with perfect fries, coconut cream pie and 2 homemade cinnamon donuts to go, and two iced teas.  The total bill on that was less than $25, by the way, and the quality of everything was absolutely stellar.  Every time we eat there, we begin to think about employment opportunities in southern Vermont.  Sadly, one of our newer faves, the Farmers' Diner in Barre, is closed.  We did, however, dine at a lovely restaurant that G's parents took us to, Ariel's in Brookfield.  G had a wonderful rack of pork, with apples and autumn vegetables, and I had what might have been the best filet of beef  ever.  Organic greens, locally raised meat -- it exceeded all expectations.  This was especially ironic since all the way up the state I treated my love to a diatribe about mediocre food and middle-of-the-road restaurants, and how much better it is to eat in either dives or very upscale establishments.  The premise being that anything in the middle is bound to be, well, middling (or maybe just not-so-ay-yi-yi, as my mother might have said).  Ariel's, just to prove me wrong yet again, provided excellent, excellent food for a not-excessive tab. 

You would think we'd had enough to eat by this time, but no.  We had breakfasts fit for lumberjacks the following day at Eaton's Sugar House in Royalton, a great place for all those who feel a sense of contentment at the sight of platters filled with pancakes the size of wagon wheels -- served with real Vermont maple syrup, of course.  And we shopped.  We hit the Baker's Store in Norwich (many kinds of flour), the Food Co-op in Hanover (aged Cabot cheddar; Northern Spy apples), Vermont Smoke & Cure in South Barre (sausage, maple sausage, chorizo, cob-smoked ham), and took a glorious mountain adventure up a dirt road to the isolated but beautiful Flag Hill Farm where Sebastian and Sabra make British-style hard "cyder" from their apple crop, in both sparkling and still varieties.

All this luscious provender will remained in our fridge for a while, however.  Tomorrow I leave to deliver a paper at a conference in LA; then I have a brief respite at home, continuing to ply my normal routine of multiple jobs, before another conference in Pittsburgh.  And then before you know it, Thanksgiving will be upon us.  So my posts about successful bread (Bakerina's rice bread) and disaster bread (my own multigrain), jams (plum and peach/raspberry/plum), the cooking I did for my friend Katherine's party (devilled eggs,  prosciutto-fig bundles, paté, Joe's caramel apple bars, ultimate brownies) are either going to have to remain on the back burner or be consigned to the place where posts-that-were-never-meant-to-be have to go. 

Wish me luck in LA.  As often as I teach classes and do presentations,  I always have a bit of stage fright.