A Finger in Every Pie

The Disaster That Wasn't

The flavors of the past can be deceptive.  Do the foods we try to recreate seem to fail us because they don't, in actuality, live up to the treats upon which we once feasted?  Or are they imbued with the savor of nostalgia, a flavoring essence that defies the possibility of true resurrection?   

Not long ago, I had an exchange with my brother in the comments field of a post on this very blog.  The subject was cakes we'd eaten in our childhood, including a chocolate studded ring-shaped cake, glazed in more chocolate and drenched in rum.  It was made by a small French bakery called Le Chanticler in the town of our youth.  This was not the other French bakery which also existed in the town, Le Gourmet.  That was the one where every mouthful was rich with butter.  No, Le Chanticler made bread, tough little cookies and had just a few workhorse specialties.   Their "rum ring" was the only one my mother purchased with any regularity.

I decided that I would try to reconstruct this delicacy for my brother's birthday.  I further decided that I would do it in time for the justly-celebrated David Lebovitz's edition of Sugar High Friday, using a brand-name chocolate.  This way I could do a test-run and repeat the cake the following weekend for the birthday celebration. 

I bought some lovely Green & Black's organic chocolate, and proceeded to construct a recipe.  My memory of the cake was that it was similar in texture to a savarin or a rum baba, so I found an excellent brioche-style dough for savarin in Sherry Yard's The Secrets of Baking, and made it up with quantities of chopped dark chocolate folded into the dough.  It rose beautifully, it baked gorgeously, and received its soaking of rum syrup as well as its glaze of dark chocolate. 

Then we sliced it and tasted it. 

G saw my disappointed face, and shrugged.  "I think it tastes good," declared my loyal fiancé.  It did taste reasonably good.  It just didn't taste like the cake of my memory.  Instead, it tasted like very good brioche with chocolate in it that had been drenched in rum syrup and glazed in chocolate.  It was, in fact, a little bit bready.  Kind of more bready than cakey.  The cake of my memory had had that sodden yet supple quality of a good baba au rhum.  My rummy chocolatey bready ring didn't quite cut it, as far as I was concerned. 

I wrapped it up, put it in the fridge and ignored it quite pointedly for several days.  Since I didn't serve him any, G promptly forgot about it as well.  I didn't post the photos I'd taken of it during its rising and after its baking, and I didn't write a post about it for Sugar High Friday.  I was too busy snubbing the sad rummy thing taking up space in my refrigerator.  And I was too disheartened to try another run in time for my brother's birthday, especially since I wasn't quite sure how to remedy the recipe.  [Instead, I ended up making the same cake I'd made for him last year -- *King of Chocolate* David Lebovitz's German Chocolate Cake, with a few of my own adaptations.  It had been such a success that I thought "well, once a year is certainly not too often for this cake."  It was received once again with much acclaim, including somewhat overblown statements like "This isn't just the best cake you've ever made -- it's the best cake anyone's ever made." ]

But the rum ring that refused to live up to expectations continued sitting coolly in the depths of the fridge.  Finally I decided to take it to work for an afternoon staff meeting.  Hungry high school teachers will eat anything, especially if it's sweet.  Surprisingly, it didn't just get eaten.  It got gobbled, amid declarations of love and avowals of fidelity to this cake/bread, if only I would ever make it again.  Breaching my own disdain, I cut myself a small slice.  To my surprise, although it still was not the rum ring of blessed memory, it was quite delicious.  Unlike most cakes and people, it had benefitted substantially from a combined process of neglect and aging. 

I will try the rum ring again at some point, I think.  I'll probably find another recipe -- something eggier, chewier, springier somehow.  I'll soak it in more rum syrup, and see once again if I can't recreate the Chanticler's special cake.   I'll just try to bear in mind that while cake may be replicable, memory -- experience -- nostalgia -- is not.

Sugar High Friday #26, Sugar Art: Bûche de Noël Pastorale

Voilà une bûche de Noël for Sugar High Friday #26, Sugar Art.  This month's event is sponsored by the ever-adventurous Danielle, of the gorgeous and provocative blog  Habeas Brûlée. 

My woodland scene includes a pure-white marzipan pig which I swiped when my brother and SIL hosted us at a wonderful holiday luncheon at Scandinavia House a few weeks ago.  Piggy is truffle hunting, and has just come upon a gigantic cache of truffles (yes, I'm aware that's not how it happens) next to a prehistorically gigantic yule log.  The scale's kind of off, but I was going with a concept, ya see. 

Each Christmas Eve we go to my beloved cousin's home for a family dinner.  We always have a good time, and feel very lapped in the best sort of family love and warmth.  And each Christmas I bring several multiple sets of cookie assortments -- one for the holiday table, one for cousin Diane and her husband to stash away for themselves, and various other gift assortments.   One year I tried bringing just one cookie assortment for the table, and since there were other desserts, Diane tried to put it away while no-one was looking.  Unfortunately she was discovered in the act and other family members raised a battle cry.  Ever since then, I bring enough cookie stashes for all. 

In addition, I'm generally called upon to make some sort of chocolate cake, since this is far and away the favorite family dessert.  However, because of younger family members and their preferences, it's got to be straight-up chocolate -- no coffee or orange or raspberry, no rum or cognac, and certainly nothing as outré as chestnut, which was an idea I toyed with for a while, and then set aside. 

This year I thought a bûche de Noël would fit the bill, as long as I kept it to straight chocolate, with maybe a vanilla filling.  I used a bittersweet chocolate roulade recipe from Cooks' Illustrated, which I will not reprint here, since I would not use it again.  It wasn't ghastly, and in fact everyone oohed and ahhed and gobbled it all down quite nicely.  But it was very labor intensive -- lots of beating of yolks, and then separate beating of whites -- and then it all deflated when the flour and cocoa were added after the whites had been folded in -- a direction I thought rather bizarre to begin with.   Then it shrank strangely in the oversize pan that I purchased specifically for this purpose.   And then it cracked when I rolled it.  In addition, it was just a teensy bit rubbery for my slightly perfectionist taste  -- perhaps too high a proportion of eggs to other ingredients.  I had expected it would be like a fallen chocolate soufflé cake, rolled around the vanilla filling and iced with ganache.  Truthfully, it all tasted quite lovely.  But then again, I probably could have filled the towel I rolled it in with vanilla-bean mascarpone filling and iced it thickly with bittersweet ganache and that towel would have tasted pretty damn good, too.  I have, however, overcome any trepidation I might have harbored about roulades or yule logs or buches, since the easiest and most fun part of the whole thing was rolling, assembling and decorating. 

So I'll leave you to find your own yule log recipes, and with wishes for the happiest and loveliest of new years, in which you may all find your hearts' desires.  I know I've found mine -- but more about that in a later post.

SHF #24: In Miniature

When I myself was quite small, there was nothing I liked quite so much as little things.  I was fond of dolls, and would lovingly create tiny everything for the favorites in my possession: tiny clothes,  tiny books, tiny tea parties and meals, and entire diminutive environments.  I once, at about the age of ten, transformed a narrow vertical bookcase into a  doll apartment building, complete with teensy hand-sewn cotton-filled  futon mattresses for one of the rooms.  I loved miniatures of all kinds, and would beg, borrow or make them myself in order to have the little things I needed to create miniscule worlds.   I longed for bonsai trees so that my miniature spaces would be green, too. 

Most of all I loved tiny food.  As soon as I saw lady apples and seckel pears in the market each fall, I begged for them.  "They'd be perfect for my dolls," I'd croon to my mother, hanging on her arm at the market pleadingly.  I adored baby vegetables too, even if the scale wasn't quite small enough for my dolls.   But the first time I ever saw petits fours, I really fell in love.  They were the tiny square iced-cake ones with a bitty flower on top, and unlike every other one of their ilk I've eaten since then, they were as delicious as they were beautiful.  Made in the excellent and authentic French bakery in the town where I grew up, they were perfect little layer cakes, made of genoise cake filled with buttercream, dipped in a layer of apricot glaze and iced in chocolate or pastel fondant frosting.  And of course, they were the perfect party food for the petite dining room I had made in my bookcase doll's world. 

When I saw that Jeanne was hosting a Sugar High Friday with tiny treats as the theme, I first thought of recreating those sweet little cakes of fond memory.  But knowing in the midst of the tangle of several hellish weeks that I was going to be running late for this event (and I'm still hoping that I get this posted before our lovely host awakens from her slumbers, since she extended the deadline to whenever she wakes up on Saturday), I decided that I couldn't quite manage the multiple recipes that iced and filled petits fours would require.   I decided upon two other treats:  first, miniature Korova cookies.  These required only that I defrost some frozen cylinders of dough made last weekend, and re-form them into tinier cookies for baking.  I gave them the bit of dress-up that true mignardises require:  a sparkly fragment of candied violet stuck on with an extra dab of chocolate. 

My other treat required a little more ingenuity.  It's a sort of scented almond baby financier cupcake filled and topped with a droplet of this summer's apricot curd, waiting in the freezer for a special occasion.  What better moment than SHF? 

The financier is made from my favorite scented madeleine batter, made with beurre noisette instead of plain melted butter.   The apricot curd can actually be made in any season, and is almost as delicious made solely with dried apricots as it is with fresh.  Assembly requires only that tiny cupcake cases in tiny muffin tins be almost-filled with the madeleine batter, and a half-teaspoon drop of apricot curd dolloped on top.  The batter rises around the curd, which provides a tangy, creamy fruit center in the middle of all that fragile, fine-crumbed almond cake.   These bake just like my original madeleines recipe, for 8-10 minutes at 400F.  At serving time, you need only dollop another drop of curd on the top of the cooled cakelets for a pretty presentation. 

I still love miniatures, but I no longer waste my tiny treats on dolls.  It's fortunate that as small as these cakes may be, both recipes have a large yield.  Little things as tasty as these demand multiple servings in a big-people world.

Sugar High Friday #21: "Fresh Peaches 'n' Cream" Sorbet/Ice Cream Swirl

Ice Ice Baby, it’s brain freeze time
Get out your freezer and start to rhyme
Don’t do no hand-crank, got some higher tech
I ain’t talkin’ pacojet, no, not yet
Decisions, decisions, it’s all about flava
Something delish, to make ‘em all rave-uh

Yo it’s simple, vanilla’s the flash
Playin' the back-up to a seasonal splash
A little taste makes you shiver and shout
Sweet summer peaches, that’s what I’m about
Peel ‘em, puree ‘em, mix ‘em with liqueur
Put it in the freezer, can’t happen no quicker

Marble that vanilla, make it swirl,
Peaches 'n' Cream for Big G and bad girl.

Thanks to Sarah, this month's edition of Jennifer's brainchild  Sugar High Friday helped me discover that I share Sarah's feeling about my own abilities as a rapper. I, too, am probably more suited to making ice-cream than writing Vanilla Ice parodies, a talent break-down for which I find myself immensely grateful.  Yes, I know you are too.

About a year and a half ago, my brother and SIL bought us a Cuisinart ice-cream maker with an extra canister.  Although we’ve made ice-cream several times, this is the first time I’ve taken advantage of two canisters by making two flavors, one right after the other.  We now have a LOT of ice cream in the freezer, particularly since last week we had some Ben & Jerry’s coupons and decided to stock up.  The beneficiaries of this creamy frozen treasure trove will be our apartment-swapping friends Betty, Alma and Martín, who will arrive here from San Francisco as we wend our way west next week to take over their home in the Mission after a week's stay with friends in Berkeley.  That's fine; we plan to spend a lot of time at Mitchell's.

“Peaches and Cream” Sorbet/Ice-Cream Swirl
This turned out even better than I'd hoped.  We've been enjoying it late at night on warm evenings, when it's just right to satisfy the desire for something cool and lightly sweet but not too sticky.  Neither heavy nor cloying, it seems to strike a nice balance between luxurious and refreshing.   

Part I:  Simple But Excellent Vanilla Bean Ice Cream
I created this a couple of weeks ago.  I had just baked a peach-apricot-blueberry pie but knew that even if I wanted homemade ice-cream with it, I didn’t have enough patience remaining to a) stand over the stove making a custard in the heat, b) chill it down, and then c) freeze it.  G commented that this actually tastes more like “frozen custard” than the usual custard-based vanilla.  After some thought, I figured this was probably due to the condensed milk, which has a pronounced “cooked-milk” flavor.  This ice-cream is amazingly simple and yields very fast, extraordinarily creamy and delicious results.  The only planning ahead you need to do is to remember to freeze the inner canister of your ice-cream maker if you have one that requires 6 to 24 hours in your fridge’s little tiny freezing compartment or in your big ol’ freezer.

1 14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
2 cups excellent heavy cream*
1/2 - 1 cup whole milk
1 vanilla bean
1 teaspoon best-quality vanilla extract (Nielsen Massey preferred)
pinch salt

Stir together the condensed milk and 2 cups of the cream.  Split open the vanilla bean and scrape as many of the seeds as you can into the milk/cream mixture (and then of course put the spent bean into the container of vanilla sugar in your pantry).  Add the vanilla extract and the salt.  Taste.  If it’s way too achingly sweet for you, add 1/2 cup of milk and taste it again.  Add more milk if you need to.  You want it to be just a little too sweet for your taste, since when the mixture is eaten frozen it will dull the palate and not taste quite as sweet as it does at room temp.   Many condensed milk ice-cream recipes call for sugar in addition to what’s already in the condensed milk, which makes my teeth hurt just to think about it.  When it reaches the desired level of sweetness, pour it into your ice-cream maker and freeze. 

*Get the best, heaviest organic cream you can find – I like Vermont-based Butterworks Farm Jersey cream, or failing that, Ronnybrook Farm Dairy (which is not strictly organic) or Organic Valley, which I find the best brands to be had in my area.

Part II:  Peach Sorbet (adapted from Cooks Illustrated, July 1995)
This is an incredibly aromatic and refreshing sorbet, quite delectable all by itself.  The quality of the ingredients are key here, of course.  Your peaches should be local, fragrant, recently picked and perfectly ripe, probably from a farmers’ market.  Try to obtain a really good peach liqueur (crème de pêche, crème de peche de vigne, or liqueur pêches).  Either something French or one made by a small artisanal grower will be exponentially better than the syrupy, often artificially-flavored schnapps or fruit cordials from big liquor industry producers in the U.S.

6 beautifully ripe peaches, blanched and peeled
1/2 cup water
juice of 1/2 lime
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons crème de pêche or other good peach liquer

Slice and pit the peaches.  Purée them in the food processor.  Pour the puree into a bowl, and add the sugar and liqueur.  Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved, then chill the mixture until cold in the refrigerator.  Freeze in the ice-cream maker. 

Part III:  Assembly

Make the vanilla first, and let it freeze a bit while the peach sorbet is churning.  Get your containers ready – you’re going to need about 5 pint containers.  It’s up to you to decide how many you want of the mixed swirl, and whether or not you want a pint or so of just peach sorbet and one of just vanilla.  When the peach sorbet is thick and nicely frozen, you have to work quickly.  Take the vanilla ice-cream out of the freezer and put some into the desired container. Make deep swirly grooves and valleys in it with a spoon.  Pack the sorbet into the valleys, and fold and swirl them together some more, making an effort not to actually mix the two ices.  You want to maintain them as separate ribbons in the frozen dessert.  Cover and freeze again until fairly solid but still scoopable.  Repeat until you’ve filled up all your containers.  When ready, serve in beautiful dishes with lovely homemade madeleines or something good like that. 

Makes about 5 pints – 3 mixed, and one each of peach and vanilla.

SHF #16: Recipe for Love, or Something Sweetly Suggestive

And a nameless longing filled her breast, - a wish, that she hardly dared to own, for something better than she had known…
    -- John Greenleaf Whittier

But then again, even if I were to wish for something better than I had known, what could be better than some of our favorite aphrodisiacal friends:  almonds and chocolate?  They are here combined in a sweetly suggestive cookie in order to fulfill, with no small  haste, this month's Sugar High Friday which demands sweets that invoke the act of love.  This treat is hosted by none other than Jennifer of the lovely blog Taste Everything Once. 


Almond Butter Dark Chocolate "Blossoms"
Adapted from Fran Gage's recipe for Almond Butter Cookies from
A Sweet Quartet: Sugar, Almonds, Eggs, and Butter

1/2 cup whole blanched almonds
1 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Pinch of fine sea salt
1/2 cup almond butter (mix before using)
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature

30 dark chocolate Wilbur Buds or other dark chocolate "kiss"-shaped candies

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Toast the almonds on a baking sheet until they are lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Let them cool, then roughly chop them with a knife.  Line a large baking pan with parchment paper.
Sift the flour baking soda, and salt together.  Put the almond butter and the unsalted butter in the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer, and beat with the paddle attachment until they are mixed together. Beat in the brown and granulated sugars, then the egg. Add the flour, baking soda, and salt, and beat until the dough is uniform.  Beat in the almonds.  Take about a tablespoon of dough from the bowl and roll it in your palms, shaping it into a ball. Put it on the baking sheet and continue with the rest of the dough, placing the balls about 2 inches apart. Press a small indentation into the tops of the rounds with your finger or the handle end of a wooden spoon, as for thumbprint cookies.  Put the baking sheet on the middle shelf of the oven. Turn the pan halfway through cooking and bake until the edges of the cookies start to turn brown but the centers are still slightly soft when pressed with a finger, about 12 minutes.

Remove the pan to a rack to cool. While still quite warm, place a dark chocolate bud or kiss into the center of each cookie.  Let cool completely.  Store the cookies in an airtight container in a cool but not cold environment.

Makes about 30 cookies.  Can be used as part of the costume for an exotic dance -- or you can just take turns feeding them to each other...

SHF16

Sugar High(Low) Friday #15: Wallflower (Date/Apricot/Walnut) Loaf

This time, I knew right away what I would make.  No indecision, no wavering -- I had this one ready to go, in more ways than one.    As soon as Sam (doyenne of Becks & Posh) posted the theme of Low Sugar for Sugar High Friday's 15th installment,  I was raring to get started.  This month's challenge for dessert lovers and makers was to use as little refined sugar as possible -- perhaps none at all -- and to present a sweet that would still satisfy.

As you're probably aware by now, I adore opulent desserts.  I don't like anything that's super sweet, but there's no question that I'm overly fond of my share of caramelly flavors, plenty of dark chocolate, and boy-oh-boy, do I love things rich.   Heavy cream, butter, crème fraîche -- the sinuous, lush combination of creamy and sweet is what's for dessert, as far as I'm concerned. 

But I do have one dessert morsel in my arsenal that not only contains no refined sugar -- it also has no butter, no cream, no oils.  And it's one of the most popular desserts I make.  What does this modest little miracle contain?  It's a simple yet compelling confection with the chewy sweetness of dried fruit and a bit of honey, balanced with a crisp counterpoint of toasty walnuts (which are the only source of fat in this dessert).    

It's not fruitcake.  It sort of looks like it could be one, and I always have to tell people "It's not fruitcake."  After one bite, they get it.  I discovered this moderately healthy dessert miracle many years ago at an almost forgotten workplace.  My office was hosting a reception, and one of my co-workers brought me a slice of something she'd baked for the occasion.  "Eat this," Ronnie said to me.  "I don't eat fruitcake," I told her, trying to fend off the advances of this dark baked thing and its maker.  I wanted to be off in search of some other sort of dessert platter, filled with cream puffs or brownies.  "It's not fruitcake."  I still must have looked hesitant.  "Just try it," she insisted.  She was a large, imposing, pushy sort of gal, and it seemed that my only way toward any other part of the room would be to take a bite of this fruitcakey-looking thing, so I did.  "Wow."  My senses were flooded with the perfect balance of tanginess and sweetness, and then the happy chew and crunch factors kicked in.  My reaction was immediate.  "Ronnie, can I please have that recipe?"  Having made several of the loaves that day, she knew it by heart. 

Since then I've never looked back.  I make several of these loaves every holiday season, and I slice them into neat bars to go on platters and nestle alongside more lavish sugarplums like chocolate-dipped espresso shortbread and pecan butterballs.  Despite their proximity to those sexier sweeties,  they always end up being sought-after.  Workmates say "Are there any more of those fruity chewy nutty things?"  My friend Ernie, a fabulous baker who introduced me to my favorite scented madeleines, is mad for them.  When I did a cookie-swap by mail several years ago, sending out a dozen different sweets to a dozen people I'd never met, this was the most requested recipe. 

A slice of this virtuous cake will be your best friend when you're home alone with a hot cup of tea, curled up on the sofa on a chilly, windy, rainy afternoon.  But don't just leave this little loaf at home -- despite its shyness, it really does know how to socialize.  I bring these sweet slices to parties and at first, they seem like the lonely wallflowers on the platter, watching as the florentines and dulce-de-leche bars are asked to dance.  But then someone gives them a whirl, word gets out, and their popularity is no longer in doubt. 

There's a lesson in there somewhere.  Like a Wallflower Loaf, we should all just be our modest, innocent, sweet selves.  Soon, soon, we'll be discovered and appreciated for the very subtlety of our charms.

Wallflower Loaf
adapted from Ronnie, wherever she may be

The challenge here is to regulate the baking of this loaf.  It does have a bit of a tendency to burn, due to the honey in the batter and the dates that press up against the sides of the pan and blacken too soon.  Watch it carefully -- you want the center of the loaf to get completely cooked before the edges get burned. I sometimes cook it for longer at a lower heat, but this depends on your oven.  If it does burn slightly on the sides and bottom, don't worry.  Wait till it's completely cool, and then use a thin serrated knife to shave off the burnt parts.  Once it's cut into lovely mosaic slices, no-one will ever know the difference. 

I generally use Turkish apricots and Medjool dates.  California apricots would be tangier, but not as soft and lush. 

1 1/2 cups apricots
2 cups dates
3 cups walnuts
(all in big pieces)

3/4 cup flour
1/4 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt

1/2 cup wildflower honey (any fragrant, flowery honey works well here)
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
Grated zest of 1 orange, or 1/2 tsp. orange oil

Combine coarsely chopped fruits and nuts in a large bowl. Combine dry ingredients and whisk together in a small bowl.  Beat honey, eggs, vanilla and orange zest or oil together.  Combine lightly with dry ingredients to make a thick batter. Mix into bowl of fruits and nuts until they appear thinly coated with batter. It will seem to you that there's barely enough batter to cover the fruits and nuts, but don't worry -- the batter rises up around them.  Press the mixture lightly into a greased, parchment-lined 9" x 5" loaf pan. Bake at 350F. for approximately an hour, or until a cake tester comes out clean.  Cool completely.  Slice thinly and serve, or cut each slice into small bars before serving.

Optional additions to the batter are cinnamon and/or freshly grated nutmeg.   Lately I prefer the simple purity of nut and fruit, with no extraneous flavors. 

Tagged with: SHF # 15 + Low Sugar

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. 

Sugar High Friday #13: Heart of Darkness

Chocolate clafoutis, chocolate clafoutis, chocolate...pear clafoutis.  Chocolate pear clafoutis, Chocolate Pear Clafoutis!  Each time I thought about this month's Sugar High Friday (a marvelous online event conceived by Jennifer at Domestic Goddess and kindly hosted this month, in its one-year anniversary edition, by Kelli at Lovescool), I felt as if I had developed an idée fixe.  The words "chocolate clafoutis" and after a day or two, "chocolate pear clafoutis" became a repetetive mantra.  I couldn't work, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat -- well, that's a lie.  But I did want to create this imagined sweet...perfectly ripe autumn pears in a rich, oozing heart of chocolate darkness.  None of the recipes I found, however, satisfied me.  My search turned up a recipe, widely published online, for Chocolate Clafoutis with Caramelized Oranges.  This was courtesy of the brash, slapdash Jamie -- and even though I'm not fond of celebrity chefs, I might have used his proportions as a place to start.  But he uses a whole cup of flour, in what should essentially be a light batter pudding, not a cake.  What would this do to the chocolate flavor, to the delicate pears?  I found other recipes, but realized that I didn't want simply a chocolate custard either.   I wanted chocolate intensity.  You might understand how I feel about chocolate, especially dark chocolate, if you were to visit me at the moment of this writing.  On my bedside table, I have two chocolate bars, one 70% with cocoa nibs, the other 60% with macadamias and cranberries.  Alongside the bars stands a ribbon-tied bag of chocolate coffee beans.  Close by is a little clear plastic box of Lake Champlain chocolate leaves and a long box of Normandy butter biscuits enrobed in dark chocolate.  And no, I didn't lay in special supplies for this evening.  That's just what I happened to see when I looked over at the table. 

While waiting for inspiration to strike in terms of devising a chocolate batter, I decided to focus on the fruit.  Pears it would be.  Ripely, gushingly in season; they have been so good this year.  Pears...pears and chocolate; it is a combination I've loved ever since my first taste of my mother's Poire Belle Helene, made with canned pears, good vanilla ice-cream, and homemade bittersweet chocolate sauce.   

I found some very lovable Bartletts at the Greenmarket, trucked down to the city from an upstate farm.  The farmers had done their part, so I did mine.  The pears were nurtured gently in a brown paper bag until they yielded, like shy but willing virgins, to the slightest pressure at their stem ends (so to speak).  They were delicious, as William Carlos Williams liked to say of plums.  I wanted to give their subtle flavor just a little bit of heightening -- the tiniest little kick.  I wanted nothing that would mask them, but something that would make them more themselves.

Somehow, I found myself in a liquor store, paying an only just bearable sum of money for a bottle that contained such beauty, I could hardly bring myself to open it.  And indeed, opening it proved quite difficult.  G was pressed into service, and the deed was done.  The sight of this drinkable objet d'art consistently provoked the obvious question, "But how do they get the pear into the bottle?"  Some of us know these things, because we stay up late at night reading obscure tracts about eaux-de-vie.  For others, however, it remains a mystery.  Whatever you may know or not know about its making, the liquid itself is delectably perfumed and quite potent. 

Once I'd gathered my fruit and spirits, the chocolate part suddenly became clear to me.  I remembered a certain warm baked chocolate pudding.  Nigella Lawson (I prefer to think of her as an excellent home cook who has achieved fame, rather than as a celebrity chef) published a recipe for Gooey Chocolate Puddings in her first book, How To Eat.  It's one that we've made and loved fairly often.  I began to dream of it with disks of extra dark chocolate bubbling under the surface,  and pears -- pears soaked in Poire William eau-de-vie.  This would be the batter for my chocolate pear dessert , even if it wasn't a true clafoutis.   Even when I'd decided, I still flirted with the idea of a chocolate  mascarpone cream, baked with pears.  I considered a custardy variation, with heavy cream and egg yolks for a perfect silken wobble.  And I may still try those too, soon, while there are still glorious pears to be had.

But in making and eating this recipe, I found this much at least to be true:  if you love dark, dark chocolate, tempered with the musk of ripe pears, this is your dessert.  You can call it chocolate pear clafoutis if you wish.  If not, I'll leave you to put words to the obsession yourself.

Chocolate Pear Clafoutis

2 small/medium just-ripe Bartlett pears
2 Tbsp. Poire William (pear eau-de-vie)
5 oz. best-quality dark chocolate (70% or more cocoa solids; I used 85%)
4 oz. unsalted butter
1 tsp. pure vanilla
4 Tbsp. flour
1/2 cup sugar
3 extra-large eggs
good pinch of salt

24 flat dark-chocolate discs (Jacques Torres makes these)

Preheat oven to 400F.  Butter and flour 8 1-cup ramekins.  Quarter, core and slice pears into small chunks.  Toss them with poire eau-de-vie and allow them to macerate while you’re preparing the rest of the dessert.  Melt chocolate and butter together; stir in vanilla.  Beat flour, sugar and eggs together lightly but thoroughly; add a pinch of salt.  Drain the pear slices, reserving the eau-de-vie. Stir the reserved eau-de-vie into the melted chocolate, then whisk the chocolate mixture into the egg/flour/sugar batter.  Divide the pear chunks among the ramekins; top with equal portions of chocolate batter.  Slide three chocolate discs just under the surface of the batter at approximately equal intervals in each ramekin.   

Bake for 10-15 minutes, until the edges are set and the tops are lightly cracked but still a tiny bit soft in the center.  Watch carefully at this point – it’s very easy to overbake these, and you want a soft, slightly molten chocolate center.  Serve right away.  Freshly whipped heavy cream, slightly sweetened and flavored with a bit of the Poire William would be a lovely accompaniment.  Good vanilla ice-cream works just as well though – the contrast of hot dessert and cold ice-cream is always a winner.

SHF #9: Falling Apart with an Apricot-Pluot Tart

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold..."
    - William Butler Yeats
It looks pretty, doesn't it.  Well, that was before we cut into it.  Pretty is as pretty does.  You know how it is with those custard and fruit tarts.  Unless you glue them together with a ton of sticky glaze instead of the preferable light sheen, they do tend to fall apart upon the moment of cutting and serving.  And that tendency is only heightened by a crumbly walnut crust and a pastry cream filling lightened with mascarpone cheese and well...there's a reason why I'm not showing you how it looked when it was plated, so to speak. 

The first picture also doesn't really show how challenged I was when I tried to make a gorgeous whirling swirling design with my fruit, and ended up with a partial tart of whirling swirls, and then just a lot of room that needed to get filled in by fruit.  Next time I'll do this more mathematically, and figure out where the center of the tart actually is so that I have a place to begin my pinwheels of jewel-toned fruit.  Below you can see how the design got sidetracked:

However, this tart's refusal to slice neatly or to arrange itself into a perfect swirl pattern had no effect on its flavor.  Truthfully, the combination of fragile, cookie-like walnut tart crust, rich mascarpone pastry cream and slices of fragrantly ripe apricots and pluots brushed lightly with apricot glaze made a rather delectable summer dessert.  And it all came about by chance. 

I was determined to participate in this month's Sugar High Friday, having missed the last one.  Knowing that I'll be out of town all next week, it seems unlikely that I'll get anything posted for Viv's eggciting IMBB.  So that was all the more motivation to make something sumptuous for this month's theme of tantalizing, titillating, tempting tarts, brought to us by the amazing folks at life in flow, who also bring us the vital food porn watch. 

I decided to cook with what I had in the house.  Fortunately, I tend to keep lots of baking and cooking ingredients in the pantry and fridge at all times.  I'd been on a recent fruit-buying binge, so I knew that the apricots and pluots were just begging to be used.  In addition, there was a lovely container of mascarpone in the back of the fridge.  So the combination was waiting to happen, and happen it did.  We enjoyed our crumbly, fall-aparty slices last night after the tart had its photo op.  Hopefully you'll be able to tune in to the comments section a bit later on to see what my workmates (who really look forward to Sugar High Fridays) think of it...

Apricot-Pluot Tart with Mascarpone Custard and Walnut Cookie Crust

Walnut Tart Pastry

2 cups + 2 Tbsp. flour
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 cup ground walnuts
1 cup cool butter, cut in chunks
2 egg yolks

Preheat oven to 350F.  Place flour, sugar, salt and walnuts in the workbowl of a food processor.  Pulse to mix.  Add butter in chunks, and pulse until the butter is in pea-sized lumps.  Add egg yolks, and pulse just until a dough is formed.  Take it out and knead it very lightly to mix.   Press into a fluted tart form with removable bottom (this filled a 10" tart form, with quite a bit left over.  It would probably make 2 8" tarts).  Chill for 30 minutes, and then bake for 25 - 30 minutes, until nicely browned and cooked through.  Baking time will depend on the thickness of the tart dough as well as your oven's eccentricities, so it's wise to check the crust regularly from 15 minutes baking time on.   Remove from oven, and cool on a rack.  Don't remove the fluted tart ring yet. 

Mascarpone Crème Pâtissière

1 cup whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup + 1 Tbsp. sugar
1 whole egg
4 egg yolks
2 Tbsp. flour
2 Tbsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. vanilla bean paste
8 oz. Mascarpone cheese

Beat the egg, yolks, flour, cornstarch and 1 Tbsp. of sugar together in a bowl until light and lemon colored.  Heat the milk and cream together with the remaining 1/2 cup of sugar until steam begins to rise from it.  Slowly whisk half of the hot milk/cream  into the egg mixture until thoroughly mixed.  Then pour this back into the rest of the milk, whisking all the time, and heat slowly until the mixture begins to thicken.  Keep beating/whisking it as it thickens, until a custard that mounds when you drop a spoonful of it back into the pot is formed.  Remove from the heat, and stir in the vanilla.  Whisk again lightly to make sure the mixture is smooth and uniform.  Cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate to chill thoroughly.  When the mixture is chilled, beat in the mascarpone cheese.   Chill again. 

Assembly:

4 ripe pluots or plums
4 ripe apricots
1/3 cup of apricot preserves, heated and strained

Slice fruit into neat crescent-shaped slices.  Fill the cooled Walnut Pastry with the chilled Mascarpone Cream.  Arrange the sliced fruit into concentric circles or a swirl pattern or whatever else might delight you and your audience of tart-eaters.  Brush lightly with the warm strained preserves.  Chill once again to help all the elements set up a bit, and then serve.