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The Obsolete Oven; Banoffee Tartlets

2012-02-14T17:30:00.001-05:00

My stomach and car rumble and idle together. Rush hour; I am hungry. I tap tanned fingers on the steering wheel and wonder if I have time for a bite of something before picking up the two from school. The two. Plus one. There is always a friend. There are always three.

I move my car ahead three paces and idle some more; mimicry of the stomach. Yet unlike my car, this tank runs on empty.

When did I last eat? Right. Breakfast.

What did I last eat? My mind is blank.

Was it Toast, whole grain, 1 piece + Peanut Butter, 1 tsp + Banana, 0.5?

Or was it Yogurt, plain, no fat, ½ cup?

I search back through the hours: sweaty gym, refreshing shower, slow, sunny, savoured minutes of cleaning bugs off the surface of the pool, hair appointment. I sigh; my days are different now; idleness is the new domesticity.

Someone honks. I drive on. How can I be sure what I ate for breakfast when I didn’t buy the peanut butter, didn’t toast the toast?

I pull in to that Italian place I used to love and decide to have something. The three can wait; it won’t take long anyway.

As I walk through the front door I remember the meals I once had here: spaghetti carbonara, I always ordered. I can taste the creaminess, the saltiness, the finesse of making a heavy dish feel light in the month. I used to love and savour the small pieces of bacon at the bottom of the bowl. And the wine; the red wine of all shades of burgundy that I used to drink, glass after glass with friends. Standing up was always wonderfully wobbly after a meal here. I can hear the beautiful, flamboyant music they used to play. The perfect backdrop; cliched accents; loud tones.

“Mam?” Someone honks; there is no music anymore. I follow obediently. “Here you go. A table for one.”

I take my seat and the waiter smiles expectantly. “You have the app I assume?”

I nod silently and take out my dumbphone. “Here.”

The waiter (in)expertly waves the tiny computer in front of his own. “Okay. I see you had Yogurt, plain, no fat, ½ cup for breakfast and … you worked out afterword on the treadmill … so your caloric intake is right on track. Your app is suggesting you have the spaghetti carbonara. Your “treat for the day.” How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

The waiter bustles off and I throw my dumbphone into the hellish depths of my expensive purse. I close my eyes and try to relax but I am surrounded by clicking. Clicking and the sounds of sick, sick suction. I avoid eye contact with what used to be the kitchen. I don’t need to look; I can well imagine the rows upon rows of machinery; lined up; beeping and flashing; coagulating and printing my “treat of the day.”

Minutes later, someone honks; “Your spaghetti carbonara, mam. Enjoy your treat!” He winks at me and I want to throw up on this joke of a dish. Instead, I swirl “pasta” around my fork, in my spoon, and try not to think about how it was recently created by a 3D printer located ten feet to my left. I can imagine the machine mixing and congealing and the syringes “perfectly” ejecting this flavoured paste. Paste = pasta. This is the new food and it tastes horrible.

Slowly and numbly, I eat the whole thing. The printers here are better than the one I have at home.

For more information on this terrifying topic, please visit:

http://www.cbc.ca/news/technology/story/2011/02/28/technology-3d-printers.html

Or, even worse:

http://www.fabathome.org/

Banoffee Tartlets

adapted from Jamie's Kitchen by Jamie Oliver

I paired this recipe with the story above because I think it is a wonderful example of a dish that could never be replicated by a 3D food printer. This dessert is absolutely amazing but it takes a lot of steps to create. It is definitively homemade: something that only tastes this good when produced in a home kitchen in small quanities. Revel in its simultaneous difficulty and deliciousness and be thankful you don't find yourself desperately idle... yet.

Perfect Sweet Pastry

You will need:

1 cup plus 2 Tbs unsalted butter

1 cup plus 6 Tbs confectioner’s sugar

a medium pinch of salt

3 ¼ cups all-purpose, unbleached flour

seeds from 1 vanilla bean

4 egg yolks

1-4 Tbs cold milk or water

You will:

With a food processer, cream butter, sugar and salt. Pulse in the flour, vanilla seeds, lemon zest, egg yolks. When mixture comes together and looks like coarse breadcrumbs, add the cold milk or water. Pat dough together to form a ball of dough. Lightly flour and roll into two large, short and fat sausage shapes. Wrap in plastic and chill one dough ball for at least 2 hours - freeze the other for another time.

When dough is chilled, carefully slice off thin layers of pastry lengthwise. Fit the slivers into your tart pans, equally covering the bottom and sides of the pans. Freeze for 1 hour.

Prebake: Blind bake your tart shells (without filling) for 15 minutes at 350 until cooked and slightly golden. Cool.

Banoffee Tartlets

You will need:

7 oz blanched, whole almonds

2 cups confectioner’s sugar

1 can condensed milk

6 bananas

2 cups heavy cream

1 Tbs brewed instant coffee mixed with 1 teaspoon of sugar

Boil can of condensed milk in a large pot for 4 hours to make toffee– frequently check to ensure the can in always covered with water (add more if necessary) – otherwise, the can will explode. Allow to cool. (I recommend doing this step a few days in advance as it is quite time consuming).

Preheat oven to 350. Rinse almonds and mix them quickly with the confectioner’s sugar in a bowl – you want the almonds to be gooey/sticky but covered. Place on a baking sheet and toast for 15 minutes in the oven, turning every few minutes until they are crispy and gold. Allow to cool.

Spread toffee (thickness to your preference – I used probably 2 Tbs per tart) on base of each tartlet. Slice bananas and layer on top of toffee. Whip cream. Fold the sweet coffee into the cream and dollop generously on each tartlet. Top with a sprinkling of almonds and serve immediately.

Food Trend of the Week: Foodie Hypotheticals

2012-02-11T08:35:00.000-05:00

I love them. Questions like: If you could choose, what would be your last meal? (my answer: roast chicken dinner and homemade carrot cake) If you had to eat one thing every day for the rest of your life, what would it be? (my answer: oatmeal) And my new favourite, asked by Siobhan Adcock on epicurious: If you could have only cake or only pie for the rest of your days, which would it be? (my answer: cake, most definitely).

These questions are not uncommon. Our incessant obsession with food forces us to think about the edible in extreme terms. We literally love or literally hate certain dishes and we are more than ready to claim allegiance to our loved ones and throw under the bus our most hated enemies. But most interesting of all is what our answers to these questions tell us (and others). You can learn a lot about a person from these foodie hypotheticals. For example, a roast chicken dinner is absolutely not my favourite meal. It does, however, connote home and childhood for me. In my world, it is the epitome of comfort: nourishing and only slightly indulgent (i.e. mashed potatoes and gravy). From this, it is obvious that I like to indulge, but I am also a moderate person. Similarly, carrot cake is one of those desserts that straddles the line between healthy and its un (basically, it feigns healthiness). I enjoy finding a balance between rich and light in food (and in life).

Siobhan Adcock writes, “I actually think the world is divided between those who’d choose cake and those who’d choose pie.” What does your choice say about you?

Day of Boxes; Brown Sugar Pound Cupcakes with Browned-Butter Glaze

2012-02-08T08:29:00.000-05:00

Boxing Day; waiting for a box.

The night has grown cold in these hours of leisure. The streets are slicked with a sparkling ice. I fall and scrape my knee as I leave the party, amble my way downtown. Maybe there are taxis in the heart of the village.

Storefronts slump darkened and sleepy. I envy their sense of home and security. I must trudge on, in search of a way to my own place of rest. The lampposts burn yellow, alight for no one, and my hometown (so familiar) feels foreign and set-like; post-apocalyptic, a return to the ice age; but where are the actors?

Three wanderers become two and we take refuge in a chain. The smell of sickly sweet coffee and overly sugared nuts of dough hits the face harder than florescent lights. My companion’s dark complexion looks bleached-out and unhealthy under these bulbous, glowing orbs. Unsmiling, I am surprised to see a lone worker; proof that others live on in this most deserted of places. My companion orders two(!) bagels; “everything;” are they anything?; and offers me a bite. A desire to get home, be warm, have a snack, propels my hand forward and upward; a ripped off piece (with cream cheese) enters my mouth as if by magic. It tastes of vomit (everything) and childhood (cheese, so un-cheese-like). I smile in thanks; it was a nice gesture.

We sit and wait; minutes pass, then hours; where are all the cabs? Our trusted taxi company of high school days (so long ago) lets us down for the first time in memory. In the beginning, we are silent. Then, out of necessity, conversation deepens. The lone worker sweeps slowly and steadily behind us, unable to rid the floor of its long accumulated grime; our disinterested extra. She is five months pregnant.

The vessel approaches just as our conversation reaches its peak; a perfect climax, left hanging. As I run toward the cab (carefully; my knee still stings), I wonder if our audience comprehends the pregnancy of this pause; a question I was about to ask. The car’s cab top is like a searchlight and we wave our hands above our heads as if lost and found.

“Only two of us working tonight,” the cab driver tells us.

We nod in unison; we suspected as such; everyone needs a holiday.

Brown Sugar Pound Cupcakes with Browned-Butter Glaze

Adapted from Martha Stewart

These cupcakes are the opposite of the Canadian chain portrayed in the story above: they are sophisticated, decadent and worthy of a fancy dinner party or special brunch. They put processed donuts and bagels to shame. Enjoy them with an after-dinner drink or a cup of strong coffee. Who doesn’t love browned butter?

(Recipe makes roughly 25 cupcakes)

You will need:
3 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter – room temperature

2 ¼ cups packed light brown sugar

4 large eggs – room temperature

¾ cup buttermilk (I made my own by add half a lemon’s worth of juice to ¾ cup of regular milk – allow to rest for 20 minutes and you’ll be ready)

1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter

2 cups confectioner’s sugar (sifted)

2 tsp pure vanilla extract

2-4 Tbs milk

Preheat oven to 350.

Sift flour, baking powder and salt together in a medium bowl. Cream butter and sugar in a stand mixer until soft and creamy. Add eggs one at a time, beating until incorporated after each addition. Add flour (in 3 portions) and buttermilk (in 2 portions) alternately (finishing and ending with flour). Fill medium muffin pans (lined with cupcakes liners) with batter until they are ¾ full. Bake until a toothpick tester comes out clean (a few crumbs clinging) – about 25 minutes. Allow to cool.

Heat butter in a saucepan over medium heat until golden brown and fragrant - about 10 minutes. Pour butter into a bowl and add confectioner’s sugar, vanilla and 2 Tbs milk – stir to combine. Add more milk to glaze if it is too thick. Glaze cupcakes immediately and serve.

Food Trend of the Week: Southern Cooking

2012-02-05T09:08:00.001-05:00

Despite Paula Deen’s public confession (she has Type 2 Diabetes) and Anthony Bourdain’s public charge (he called Deen “the worst, most dangerous person to America”), southern cooking and all that that entails seems to have resurged in foodie popularity. Despite my comments last week on the sacredness of January’s healthfulness, the blogs and magazines do not lie: the fried, the creamed and the deviled are back with a vengeance.

The February 2012 edition of Bon Appetit features southern cooking in all of its forms: Coconut Southern Comfort Layer Cake, Corn Griddle Cakes with Sausage, Fried Catfish and the aptly named Southern Mac and Cheese.

Epicurious, staying true to tradition, once again created menus to match those films newly nominated for the award for Best Picture by the Academy (check out all the menus here). While the menus vary in appropriateness, the dishes detailed for The Help seem a perfect Southern fit: Deviled Eggs, Fried Chicken with Bacon and Pepper Cream Gravy, Roasted Potato and Okra Salad, Chocolate Cream Pie and, of course, Sweet Tea.

Resolved to a healthful 2012 or not, it seems that southern cooking has invaded the North American food consciousness. My advice? Feature (and savour) a recipe in southern style with a normal, less calorie-laden meal.

Coconut Cream Pie

Food Trend of the Week: Holding on to the Holidays

2012-01-28T09:49:00.000-05:00

As a way to start back up my weekly series on Food Trends (which I neglected over the holidays), I thought this trend in particular was wonderfully appropriate...

“It’s over,” they say. The pre-holiday madness and the over-indulgent days of. The eating too much and the drinking just enough (Dark and Stormys every afternoon, a cheese plate every evening). The Holidays, as they call them, have reached their close, and what are we left with? Salad and soup and green tea; eating well, being well, resolving one’s self to a new you, a new year. But maybe, not completely. Yes, it’s back to work and school and the reality that is forgotten when eggnog is in hand, but the flavours of those not so distant days of past can still be near. Hold on to the holidays with scents of cinnamon, ginger, orange and maple; simply tone it down and make humble cakes, healthy muffins, breakfast cookies. Feel nostalgic much too soon and make gingerbread all through January: it won’t taste as good in July.

photo from Bon Appetit December 2011

This cake exists somewhere between a December treat and a mid-winter reminiscence. It is moist and fragrant but not too sweet. The lack of icing helps. The original recipe calls for folding store-bought lemon curd into the whipped cream topping, but keeping with the rules of after-Christmas, I like to make it humble and simple. Whipped cream sweetened with maple syrup will do; maybe zest some lemon for a little colour. With visions of gingerbread men dancing in your head, eat this and enjoy.

as part of a dessert plate for two

Gingerbread Cake

Adapted from Bon Appetit

You will need:

Butter for greasing your 8-inch square pan

1 ½ cups all-purpose, unbleached flour

1 teaspoon ground ginger

¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¾ teaspoon kosher salt

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into ½ inch pieces

½ cup light molasses

1 large egg, beaten

2 teaspoons fresh ginger, peeled and grated

1 cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons maple syrup

the zest of half a lemon, finely grated (optional, but recommended)

Preheat oven to 350. Butter pan and line bottom with parchment. Butter parchment.

Whisk flour and following five ingredients in a medium bowl. Add butter pieces to a large bowl. Pour and whisk ½ cup boiling water into butter: continue whisking until butter is melted. Whisk in sugar and next three ingredients. Add dry ingredients and whisk to blend. Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 25 minutes (or until a tester comes out clean). Let cool in pan for 10 minutes and then invert onto wire rack to cool completely (peel off parchment).

Whip cream and maple syrup until soft peaks form. Coat cake generously with topping and grate lemon zest over to finish.

Food in Montreal: Restaurant La Prunelle

2012-01-20T12:43:00.000-05:00

A taxi rumbles down a narrow, snow-covered side street. Its headlights flash up and over road bumps, guiding the way through winter twilight.

“It’s just a bit further,” she explains apologetically, smiling in secret at her companion.

The taxi screeches to an almost-stop, and wheels still spinning, the two hop out into the bitter cold. This is winter. This is Montreal. This is -24 with the wind chill.

They dash over snow banks and nearly slip into one another as they find their way to the door of La Prunelle. Candle light and the warmth of good atmosphere washes over their just bitten faces. They de-layer and pull a bottle of wine out from the depths of their winter wear. “Bring-your-own” says the sign and the lone waiter uncorks without judgment or comment (an Italian grape for a French restaurant). They settle down happily at a table for two by the window.

Sipping and surveying, the Menu Degustation (a mere $48 for three courses; trou normand; tonight, raspberry sorbet in calvados; and coffee), they are excited to choose, unsure what to pick. While the options are French at heart, strokes of cosmopolitan flair paint the menu colourful; mango in the warm Saint-Maure goat cheese salad; BBQ Bison ribs with Polenta fries.

Decisions, decisions; they make it easier by deciding to share.

His Foie Gras is rich and creamy (as it should be); paired with a fig and onion jam that spreads beautifully on crusty bread. Her scallops are seared and buttery; a light dressing of cream and smoked paprika, fennel and chorizo, is unexpected but welcomed with oohs and ahhs and mmm this is good.

Lover of game, he goes for the Rabbit Cassoulet. It’s hearty peasant food (as one would expect) but wonderfully indulgent thanks to a sauce of Scottish ale and blue cheese. Her duck is cooked perfectly; the salty fat, crispy and offset by a sweet black-currant caramel sauce. She loves the white asparagus.

Dessert is just enough; a bittersweet chocolate mousse with lemon whipped cream, a caramel crème brulee that cracks loudly upon breaking. They sip coffee and peck away at the meal’s close.

Stomachs full, they’ve spent two and a half hours here; the pace of the place is sleepy and comforting. Weary of returning to the winter wind, they linger a few minutes longer over an extinguished candle.

Restaurant La Prunelle is open only for dinner and located at 327 ave. Duluth E.

Food Trend of the Week: Give Life to Leftovers

2011-12-05T08:53:00.001-05:00

After days of big feasts and evenings of little bites, stacked and stored leftovers dominate the holiday fridge. Most cringe at the thought of another Turkey sandwich, but food writers from all over are this year offering encouraging words for the over-burdened host: re-think leftovers.

In Tidings magazine, Duncan Holmes recommends masking your leftovers. Disguise any semblance of eggnog ever having been a drink: bake it into delicious, fluffy eggnog muffins.

Gourmet’s 2011 Holiday Special Edition tackles the issue with a repertoire of recipes (all leftover-based) that are too appealing to pass up: think Turkey Reubens and Fried Rice with Eggs and Country ham. The idea? You’ll want to make these!

Nigella Lawson is infamous for her declared love of leftovers. Her thought? What’s wrong with having a full fridge? Holiday traffic is sure to bring many hungry stomachs and eager mouths through the front door.

This holiday season: what's left is not over.

Gourmet's Fried Rice with Eggs and Country Ham

Food Trend of the Week: The Hot Toddy

2011-11-27T13:16:00.001-05:00

‘Tis the season of drinking and eating; but who wants a frosty-cold beer on an icy-cold night? Even a tumbler of red wine (held in cupped hands) isn’t quite the warmth we seek. Enter the Hot Toddy; steaming, golden, spicy; a hint of sweet, a dose of citrus; perfect for chilly Sunday afternoons or long, dark evenings after too-short days.

The December 2011 issue of Bon Appetit features a wonderfully special version of this seasonal drink: the Honey-Bourbon Toddy (pictured above). But I like to keep it simple and use whatever I have on hand. My Hot Toddy is easy, instant and comfort in a mug: enjoy with slippers and a good book.

The Hot Toddy

Serves 2.

2 tablespoons honey or good quality maple syrup

2 cups hot water (about… you may not use all of it depending on the size of your mug and how strong you like your drink to taste)

6 tablespoons brandy

2 tablespoons freshly-squeezed lemon juice

2 cinnamon sticks

Add 1 tablespoon of honey or maple syrup to each mug, top with 3 tablespoons of brandy, 1 tablespoon of lemon juice and 1 cup of hot water. Add cinnamon stick and serve.

Food Trend of the Week: Milk and Cookies

2011-11-19T18:42:00.001-05:00

The eve of all eves; spent wining and dining and lounging and listening; music reserved for only tonight. You’ve hung a shining star on the highest bow, and you’re ready for dessert. After a rich meal, one’s stomach is near bursting; “something light,” “something little,” heads nod in sleepy unison thinking only of flannel pajamas and soft pillows to come. “Something special,” you nod, leading your members into the living room. Gather round, get close; milk and cookies, plain and simple; a throwback to old; Christmas Eve Dessert.

This Christmas Eve, I plan on serving cookies (straight out of the oven) and local, non-homogenized milk for dessert. Fox Hill Cheese House is a wonderful fromagerie located 10 minutes from my home: we get our milk there in glass jugs and it is such a wonderful, creamy treat. This Christmas Eve, plunk down an old fashioned bottle of everyone’s favourite chocolate-accompaniment as well as a tray of assorted cookies. Easy. Delicious. What we all really want for dessert on Christmas Eve (including Old St. Nick).

Here are some of the cookies I plan on making for my Christmas Eve Cookie Tray.
Think variety: an unbeatable combination of interest, decoration and classic comfort.

Chocolate Hazelnut Crinkle Cookies (Gourmet, December 2006)

Cream Cheese-Lemon Bows (Martha Stewart)

Chewy Chocolate-Gingerbread Cookies (Martha Stewart)

Cardamom-Orange Ginger Cookies (Bon Appetit, December 2009)

Food Trend of the Week: Tampered-with Whipped Cream

2011-11-12T14:00:00.001-05:00

Imagine a soft dollop of brandy infused cream; a boozy pillow atop your mug of hot coffee. A slight of hand folds crushed cocoa nibs quickly and carefully into a bowl of luscious whipped white; the perfect addition to a scoop of chocolate ice cream. And speaking of chocolate, what about chocolate whipped cream? Throw your guests off; whip cream and cocoa together for an instant mousse. Splatter on fruit or eat straight from the bowl. Crushed raspberries add a punch of brightness and colour; fold into already whipped cream for a festive topper on a winter pavlova. And for any holiday treat, crystallized ginger adds bite and sparkle to the ordinary blend.

Whipped cream deserves to be more than a side dish to dessert.

Pumpkin Pie with Brandied Ginger Whipped Cream

Culture Shock; Blue Cheese Tart with Fig, Rosemary and Caramelized Onion

2011-11-04T09:45:00.000-04:00

A cloud had rolled in; quietly, discreetly, without notice or concern. It hovered over the heads of couples in fine clothes as they sat perched on armchairs and ottomans; legs crossed, smiles big. It sank lower and lower, ensconcing the tops of heads in stink and smoke; but the party went on, undisturbed.

The food, however, was affected. Lorraine the hostess brought out dish after dish: stuffed olives, clam dip, French’s company ham, mini gherkins. And dish after dish disappeared without comment. The long stale tongues of long time smokers lay dormant in lip sticked mouths and finely shaved faces. Lorraine had spent all day in the kitchen; but the party went on, undisturbed.

The final dish: a blue cheese tart. She knew it was a risk; knew it was unlikely any of the men had ever heard of blue cheese; but her culinary creativity had been sparked as of late and she took the opportunity to do something, cook something, for herself.

“Voila!” She said, placing the large golden tart down upon the coffee table.

“Oh, Lorraine,” Betty spoke breathlessly, holding a delicate hand with long red nails to the top of her chest. “It looks beautiful. Is this the blue cheese tart we’ve all been hearing about?”

Lorraine’s eyes widened as if to silently shh her half-drunken neighbour.

“Blue?” Betty saw her mistake immediately: Chip, her husband, nearly spilled his scotch on the shag carpet. “Blue? Sorry dear, but I think you’ve had one too many. Blue cheese you say?”

Betty cleared her throat quietly, “Yes, well, ah…”

“Well it is blue isn’t it?” Chip’s voice got louder as his eyes zeroed in on Lorraine’s masterpiece. “Lorraine, what are you thinking? What is this stuff?”

“It’s French, Chip.” Betty spoke almost silently, a whisper or a cough, one couldn’t tell.

Chip eyed his wife suspiciously. “French? You mean the French’s company?” Betty neither shook nor nodded. “Well, they’ve always made the best mustard, there’s no doubt about that. Cut me a slice Lorraine.”

Lorraine looked nervously at Betty: the cheese was definitely not made by French’s.

“Hey, Bob. Get over here! Lorraine’s got a new product made by French’s. Something about blue cheese?”

The herd of men and women quickly released themselves from the living room tableau; they found their way to the coffee table and gathered for a slice. The men smiled pompously as Lorraine cut 12 perfect slices. The women were not sure whether to laugh or shake their heads: this could be disastrous.

After handing out each slice, Lorraine violated the first rule of hospitality and bit into hers before anyone else. She needed to know what her guests were in for.

The bulbs of her tongue immediately flashed and beamed; salty, creamy, pungent flavour hit each and every corner of her mouth, enlivening and invigorating long comatose regions of taste. She had to sit down.

Lorraine sat slowly onto Chip’s chair and finished her tart in peace. She did not look up. She did not look to the side. She did not care to care about the tart’s reception. Each crispy, creamy bite was savoured, devoured. She had forgotten what it was to taste.

When the last crumb had disappeared from her plate, Lorraine came out of her reverie. She discovered that some had loved it (Betty), some had hated it (Chip: “I can’t believe French’s would make such a thing!); but most important, the party went on, slightly disturbed.

Blue Cheese Tart with Fig, Rosemary and Caramelized Onion

I came up with this recipe this past summer when I was in need of a starter. I often make pate brisee dough and freeze it: I like to have it on hand for whenever I might need it. You could either make the dough fresh and use it (more time consuming) or thaw it slightly from frozen (you still want it to be VERY cold when rolling out). The topping for this tart is my invention but I think the strong, salty cheese works wonderfully with the sweetness of the fig and onion and the freshness of the rosemary. This tart is always a hit and best served with a bottle of good red wine.

Pate Brisee:

This recipe makes two crusts so you can freeze one (or both) for another time.

2 ½ cups all-purpose, unbleached flour

1 tsp salt

1 tsp sugar

1 cup (2 sticks) VERY COLD unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Note: After cutting my chilled butter I like to put it in a bowl and pop it in the freezer for 5-10 minutes to ensure it stays very cold

¼ - ½ cup cold ice water

I like to make pie or pastry dough with a pastry cutter but you can use a food processer if you prefer.

In a large bowl, combine flour, salt, sugar and whisk to combine. Add butter and work into flour mixture with your pastry cutter until mixture resembles coarse meal or butter is cut into pea size. Add ¼ cup of water and work into dough. You want the dough to hold together without being wet and sticky. Add more water if necessary.

Turn out onto floured work surface and form into disk. Wrap and in plastic and chill for at least 1 hour.

Roll out dough on floured surface until it is 10 inches in diameter. Crimp edges as desired and life onto a parchment lined baking sheet. Chill for an additional 30 minutes.

Tart Topping:

2 Tbs butter

3 small onions, finely sliced

1 jar of good fig chutney

1 Tbs rosemary, finely chopped

¼ cup crumbled gorgonzola

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat oven to 375.

Caramelize onions in butter. Allow to cool slightly.

Spread fig chutney on crust. You may not need to use the whole jar – this is a very rich tart so spread the chutney on lightly.

Sprinkle onions evenly on top of fig spread.

Crumble gorgonzola evenly.

Season with salt and pepper

Bake in preheated oven until crust is golden (35-40 minutes).

Sprinkle with chopped rosemary and serve.

Wooden Souls; Pumpkin-Carrot Layer Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

2011-09-21T12:08:00.000-04:00

I am worn in but not out.

I bear witness; to fights and disputes, anger and passion, to uproarious laughter and quiet chuckles (unheard by anyone but me), to mean jokes, clean jokes, unintelligent jokes and wit, to irony, to crying for the good and crying for the bad, to new people (with new hands, new manners) and old people (how familiar the side of her palm is, resting lightly while it cuts meat).

I bear the brunt of both disasters and masterpieces (I am polite and always remain neutral); I uphold the long-perfected and the chance successes and those many mistakes that prevent wholeness and goodness and “mmm”s from around.

I observe the change of seasons, my self a window onto weather and time; I entertain the extravagances of December and the hot, hot bowls (warming, steamy) of late winter; I welcome miniature vegetables (mere babies) that have only just emerged, have only just sprung, colourful and delicate and fork tender (the knives lay forgotten); I support the berries and burgers and cold beers that drip for summer; but fall, I relish (my favourite season); my favourite burden to bear; pumpkins, parsnips, pears and apples; cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg and cardamom (I can smell you all! the smells of autumn are strong enough for my lack of nose). And oh, what is this? The sum of falling leaves and brisk, crisp wind and the clearest of sun that still holds the power to shine on me in slants; what is this that she serves? I feel the most delicate crumbs flung atop me (that spice, I can smell it!). I embrace the smears of glossy white frosting her knife leaves when she sets it down (she coats me in creamy sweetness). Autumn is served.

Pumpkin-Carrot Layer Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

adapted from Ben Starr

I saw Ben Starr make this cake on Master Chef and immediately wanted to recreate it (luckily he posted the recipe on his website). It is so delicious and smooth and one of the best cakes I’ve ever made. Just the frosting itself is something to have in your repertoire. Neither the carrot nor the pumpkin dominates this cake; they work really well together and give it a balanced flavour and moistness. Ben Starr puts candied hazelnuts on his (and highly recommends it) but I kept it simple this time and left them out. This cake is full of spice and flavour; it truly is the epitome of autumn.

(I only made 2/3 of this recipe because I only wanted a two-layer cake; the recipe below is for 3 9-inch layers)

for the cake:

2 sticks unsalted butter, softened

1 ½ cups sugar

½ cup brown sugar

3 large egg yolks

1 ¼ cups pumpkin puree (either canned or make your own; I pureed cooked butternut squash)

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups grated carrots

2 ½ cups all purpose flour

4 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

2 Tbs ground cinnamon

1 Tbs ginger

1 Tbs ground cardamom

¼ tsp each nutmeg, allspice, cloves

1 tsp salt

6 egg whites

for the frosting:

12 oz. (1 1/2 packages) cream cheese

1 stick butter, softened

1-2 pounds confectioner’s sugar (you can add as much or little as you like, depending how sweet you like your frosting)

1 tsp vanilla

Whip butter until light and creamy in texture. Add sugar and cream together until fluffy (about 3-5 minutes). Add egg yolks and mix on medium speed for an additional 3 minutes. Add pumpkin puree and vanilla and blend on medium speed for another 3 minutes.

Once you have a thick, airy batter (light in colour), fold in grated carrots.

In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, nutmeg, allspice, cloves and salt. Sift VERY thoroughly with a whisk. Add dry ingredients into wet and mix on slowest speed until combined.

In a separate bowl (or in a very clean mixer bowl – ensure you do not leave any traces of fat), beat egg whites until stiff peaks form. Start out on a high speed. When whites begin to change colour (from foamy yellow to white), lower the speed to medium low. Stop immediately when you have reached stiff peaks.

Stir 1/3 of egg whites into batter to lighten it and then carefully fold in remaining egg whites.

Divide batter equally into three prepared 9-inch cake pans (butter your pan, use a parchment paper insert and butter insert as well, flour liberally and shake off any access). Bake in a preheated 325 degree oven for 30 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. Allow to cool 15 minutes in your pans and then carefully invert onto wire racks to cool completely.

for frosting:

Cream butter and cream cheese together (high speed) until light and fluffy. In stages, slowly add confectioner’s sugar, tasting as you go along for sweetness. When desired flavour is reached, add vanilla to blend. (I put my frosting in the fridge before frosting my cake to ensure it wasn’t too thin).

Frost cake liberally. Slice and enjoy. (Leftovers should be kept in the fridge).

Chocolate Chipsters; Browned Butter and Toasted Coconut Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-09-12T10:13:00.000-04:00

Too cool for cool; they wear sunglasses, clunky boots (worn and torn and newly bought), blazers and army jackets, rumpled shirts with crooked collars; their buttons are buttoned, right to the top; their dresses are long and swingy and floral and pretty; every shade of pastel; every faded hue; combed-over hair; yellow ribboned pony tails; little boys and little girls (in size ten shoes) walk the streets like they own them.

And maybe they do; a grid of anti-business business; vintage shops, record stores; cafés and restos unnamed and anonymous; “I’ll meet you down there.” “Where?” “That place on the corner. It has a blue door.” They lounge about, cigarettes flopping, moleskines open, fancy coffees steaming; they act to be and we watch with skepticism. Do they believe it? We certainly don’t.

Their fancy cookies try harder than them; that café on the corner; a dick of a waiter; “I’ll have a cookie, please.” Eye roll. “What varietal?” Pause; the obvious; “Chocolate Chip”; a knowing sneer; an unknowing (unknown) customer; all part of the performance that makes this place a place; chocolate chip cookies are not just chocolate chip cookies in this part of town.

Browned Butter and Toasted Coconut Chocolate Chip Cookies

adapted from Joy the Baker

Despite their over-the-top conception, these cookies are delicious. The extras (browned butter, toasted coconut) are subtle enough that they don’t detract from the simplistic beauty of a classic chocolate chip cookie yet they make these cookies just that much better. Make them. Eat them. Maybe put ice cream between two of them.

(makes 2 dozen)

1 cup (or 2 sticks) unsalted butter; browned to about ¾ cup

1 cup granulated sugar

¾ cup brown sugar

1 Tbs pure vanilla extract

2 ½ cups all-purpose (unbleached) flour

¾ tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

1 large egg

1 large egg yolk

¼ cup toasted unsweetened coconut (I might add more next time; I like coconut)

1 cup dark chocolate (either chopped or in chip form)

Preheat oven to 350

Toast coconut in a pan for 5 minutes or until evenly golden brown.

Melt and brown butter over medium heat; butter will crackle and foam and then become fragrant and amber. Remove from heat and pour into a separate bowl to prevent over cooking.

Sift flour, salt and baking soda in medium bowl.

Measure sugars into electric mixer bowl fitted with paddle attachment. Once butter is cooled to warm (not hot), combine butter and sugar (will be grainy when combined).

Add egg and egg yolk and mix to blend. Add vanilla and mix.

Turn mixer to low speed and add flour mixture until just combined. Remove bowl from mixer stand and fold in chocolate and coconut.

Drop in heaping tablespoons onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.

Bake for 10 minutes; cool on pan for 5; remove and allow to cool completely on wire rack.

Burrowed

2011-08-22T20:32:00.000-04:00

I hide in the shadows; they are here, there; stamping, moving; their noise is unbearable, but I have come to bear it. I can feel my whiskers vibrating; they, those climb into their covered shelter and rumble noisily away. The fumes they leave in their wake hurt and burn my tiny nostrils.

I wait a few extra moments; must make sure that they are gone; and hesitantly come out from under my crate.

Instantly, my nostrils relax; their fumes may be strong, but the thousands of scents that perfume the air here are stronger. Duck, slow cooked and caramelized in its own fat. Earthy greens deserved of the name; so dark, so lush, just picked. Butter and sugar and lemon; here, the crumbs of desserts past are much too present to ignore. But where to start first? The remnants of the Borough Market are impressively overwhelming.

“There he goes,” I hear my brothers say. “He thinks he is human.” They rummage through the garbage behind me and I ignore their taunts.

I scurry a familiar path; a little bit of duck, first, so salty and fatty and today, still warm!; the fragrant bits of kale that find themselves scattered on the cobble; tiny pieces of rice, slow cooked from a paella, so delicious still, after all of these hours; and of course, dessert; my brothers do not like it; sweet is not a usual taste of our kind; but for me, it is the ultimate. I know where to go; the best of the best. When the market is open it overflows with cakes and cookies and biscuits and pastries; chocolate, raspberry, vanilla and lemon; cinnamon, coffee, toffee and walnut. I try to plug my nose as I get closer to the stand; I like to be surprised.

What has she made for me today? I find half of a brownie; perfection, baked; gooey and fudgy with thick, fat walnut halves. And then, what’s this? Someone has dropped a slice of coffee cheesecake. What a shame for them; what a find for me! It is creamy and bright and bitter. And last, that lemon I’ve smelt from the beginning: the crumbs of a lemon, cranberry muffin. I savour this sweet slowly but surely.

What a wonderful day at the market.

On a recent trip to London, the Borough Market was the highlight. It is a veritable amusement park for food lovers; literally overwhelming. I can only imagine what it would be like for a rodent with a wonderful palette. The market stalls bend and wind beneath train tracks; people walk around drinking champagne from plastic flutes; the smells and sights are much too much; every type of food and drink you could ever want is here, waiting. I found it hard to choose what to buy for my lunch but I think, in the end, I chose wisely. Please see below my recommendations and please, GO, if you can.

I started out at Shell Seekers where you can get the most amazing fresh scallops; pan seared and absolutely huge and served with a lovely ground pork, roasted bell pepper and citrus slaw. This is a nice starter for your market feast.

Next, in an attempt to go rustic, I had a delicious free-range chicken wrap from Wyndham House Poultry. The-most-moist-and-inherently-flavourful-chicken-I-have-ever-tasted. Go. Have a wrap: It comes with “salsa, mayo, rocket, sweet chili.”

Last, for dessert, we went to the best of the best: Ion Pattisserie. Just like in the narrative above, you can find any dessert you crave. Go. Go. Go. Have the Puzzle Cake.

Honorable mentions: We brought home fresh pasta to cook for dinner and it was some of the best I’ve had from a home kitchen: La Tua Pasta is definitely worth a visit. Get the pumpkin ravioli and toss in olive oil; top with parmesan.

For more information about the Borough Market, visit: http://www.boroughmarket.org.uk/

A Convenient Truth; Raspberry-Buttermilk Cake

2011-08-18T13:43:00.000-04:00

In the window, her silhouette is familiar; martini glass held aloft with one hand; a cigarette smolders in the other; a small waist, nipped and tucked; a flared skirt and a lack of appetite; big hair, curled and turned out, on display for her lonely (un)living room. She takes a sip and then a drag before turning in response to the buzz of her kitchen timer.

She sets down her martini and skillfully opens the oven door with one oven-mitted hand; she pulls from within a perfectly golden butter cake; raised, even, monotonous. She places it on the cooling rack and takes a container out of the cupboard: Raspberry Frosting. The woman on the label reminds her of herself and it scares her; she frosts the cake (already cool; made of air, made of nothing) just the same.

The bright pink frosting spreads too well and she is quickly bored by the ease with which her knife spreads sugary cement on a golden plane.

She puts down her cigarette and plugs her nose; it is horrible, that smell, and all too familiar. Raspberry Frosting, a favourite of the family; yet it reeks, always, of raspberries on steroids. Raspberries gone wrong; raspberries corrupted; all brightness darkened, all acidity dampened; pure sugar and the taste of pink; this is what raspberries taste like in 1954.

Finished frosting, she places the picturesque cake into the fridge (out of eyesight, out of nosesight; she wants some semblance of an appetite come dinnertime). She walks slowly back to the window, a new martini, as if magic, appears in her hand; another cigarette, newly lit, falls back and forth in motion with her mouth. Yes, that is what raspberries taste like now; but what did they taste like then?

Punchy. Powerful. Rich and sweet and sour. She eats one at a time, picking them off the bush behind her house with tiny fingers. “You have to wash those!” her mother’s voice calls. She giggles and picks off another; shoves it in her mouth; pop, bright, sweet, sweet juice. “You have to save those! We are making a cake, remember?” Her mother’s voice sings like a song and she knows the wait will be worth it. Three handfuls she picks, carrying them carefully in a bowl back to the house and into the kitchen.

Warm. Fluffy. Buttery and lemony. Graffitied with hazy red-pink splotches. “I like the way they melt,” she smiles, examining her forkful. “Some berries stay whole and others don’t but they still look pretty, don’t they?” Her mother smiles at her and watches as she curiously and respectfully eats the food she has helped to prepare.

Back and forth; she drags and drinks; when was the last time her children helped to prepare anything? When was the last time she herself had prepared something that didn’t die in a box, didn’t come pre-mixed? Back and forth; she sighs and sips; the tongues of today are numb to the beauties of before.

Raspberry Buttermilk Cake

adapted from Smitten Kitchen

This cake is the real deal: nothing packaged, pre-mixed or artificial. The flavour comes from the light, tangy batter and the natural punch of fresh summer raspberries. It is fluffy and delicious and goes well with slightly sweetened whipped cream: you should make it.

For one 9-inch cake:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder 

1/2 teaspoon baking soda 

1/4 teaspoon salt 

1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened 

2/3 cup plus 1 1/2 tablespoons (22 grams) sugar, divided 

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

1 large egg 

1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk 

1 cup fresh raspberries

Preheat oven to 400 and place rack in the middle of oven. Butter a 9-inch cake pan.

Whisk flour, baking power, baking soda and salt together and set aside. Beat butter and 2/3 cup of sugar in a larger bowl at medium-high speed until light and fluffy. Beat in vanilla and lemon zest. Add egg and beat well.

Mix in flour mixture in three batches at low speed, alternating with buttermilk (you should begin and end with flour). Mix until just combined (don’t overwork the batter). Spoon batter into prepared ban and use a spatula to smooth out the top. Scatter raspberries on top evenly (some facing up, some facing down for visual interest) and sprinkle with remaining sugar.

Bake until cake is beautifully golden and a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean (around 20 minutes but watch carefully as this cake can easily overbake).

Cool in pan 15 minutes and turn out onto a rack and cool for an additional 10 minutes before serving.

A Pie Apart; Coconut Cream Pie

2011-07-19T08:57:00.001-04:00

Eerily, it rustled. She watched the waves of white weave in and out like a snake; much too perfect for the common curtain. She fingered its folds and felt a shiver run the length of her spine; weightlessness, she held. She examined the tag. Egyptian cotton. Egyptian cotton curtains. Who had heard of such a thing? Who would buy such a thing? Fear struck; Egyptian cotton curtains; well what are the sheets made of? She looked down at her tanned, dirty toes; polish chipped, beach residue clinging for dear life; what had she rested those feet in?

She blinked widely, wildly, and opened; to nautical stripes and beach sticks and stones, and panels of whiteness; so white; she had never seen anything so white; and how was the sun streaming in like that; as if in a painting? Perfection swirled and she felt her stomach’s mimicry. A wave of unnatural panic swept through and closed her lids to a bright sun and glaring bedroom.

Kitchen. Coffee.

She tiptoed (less contact with cleanliness) into an empty kitchen. Monsters of efficiency bared their teeth and gleamed in the morning hour. Stainless steel; shiny giants. Where was the coffee maker? Her tongue, her lips, her face felt dry. She scanned the room. How could one find anything when everything was so perfectly placed?

A note. On the table. She rushed to it; here will be the answer; where is the coffee?; but no; something else.

Stationary; he had his own stationary. Writing; much too neat; had she ever written that neatly?

Gone to buy some ingredients for a brunch for two. See menu below. Back soon!

Salmon en croute with mixed organic greens

New potato salad with chives and ricotta

Handmade cherry pie

Her straight mouth fell; her panic turned to disgust; cherry pie? Cherry pie.

She hated cherry pie.

She hated that he knew how to make cherry pie.

The epitome of every kitchen cliché; sickly sweet and unnaturally red; she imagined it bubbling in the oven, filling the house with that overwhelming smell of long-cooked fruit and a man that simply tried too hard, knew too much; was too much of what she secretly felt she should have been. He was truly her opposite and it scared her. It was a shame too; she was beginning to really take to him.

Something would have to be done.

Like a hurricane, she moved; like a tornado she spun; that morning, a storm hit the crafted quiet of his seaside summer home. She left flour on the counter, spilled custard on the stove, whipped cream until it hit the ceiling and left his nautical floor mats all askew. She would not submit to his over-the-top version of hospitality. Cherry Pie she hated; Coconut Cream Pie it would be. She ignored her silent, modern audience and instead used her hands to prepare her handmade dessert (how novel!)

It looked out of place when it was finished; imperfect, slightly jiggly, cream to one side and the toasted coconut slightly burnt. But it was done, complete. She had made a pie and would not have to eat cherry; would not have to swallow painful perfection. He would have to eat coconut; would have to swallow her in all of her eccentricity. She smiled and sat down, deflated but proud.

He entered, bags swinging, smile big, already showered and impeccably dressed. She pushed a near-dread lock of hair out of her face and tucked her knees into her nightgown. “I made a pie,” she managed.

“I see that!” He looked surprised.

“Well, should we have some?”

“Now?” He looked even more surprised.

“Yes.” She spoke strongly. She knew this would be a test as she eyed his skeptical gaze eyeing her mismatched pie. She imagined coconut cream dripping onto his pressed, plaid shirt. Could he handle it?

“Well… okay.” He set down his bags and sat across from her at the table. She watched as he expertly cut himself a slice and the cream pooled around his knife.

“It’s not set.” He looked up at her and she shrugged in response.

More like a pudding than a pie, he served himself a “slice.”

He took a bite and swallowed and smiled. She waited.

“Delicious!” He took another; swallow; smile. Another; swallow; smile. “Absolutely delicious!” He finished quickly, smiled big, bigger than ever, and cut himself another

She smiled too as they sat in his kitchen; once too neat, now lived in; perfect. Pass.

Coconut Cream Pie

Adapted from Martha Stewart

½ recipe Pate Brisee

Unbleached, all-purpose flour for dusting

1 large whole egg beaten, plus 4 large egg yolks beaten

3 cups canned unsweetened coconut milk

¾ cup granulated sugar

5 tablespoons cornstarch

¼ teaspoon salt

1 cup heavy cream

¼ cup confectioner’s sugar

Toasted shredded, unsweetened coconut for garnish

Preheat oven to 375.

Lightly flour your work surface and roll out prepared dough into a 12 inch round, ¼ inch thick. Fit dough into a 9 inch pie plate and trim the overhang, leaving ½ inch to hang beyond pie plate. Fold overhang under so it extends only slightly beyond the edge of the plate. Crimp as desired and prick dough all over with a fork. Brush beaten egg on rim of dough. Chill for 30 minutes or until firm.

Line chilled pie dough with a round of parchment paper, allowing for 1 inch of overhang. Fill bottom of parchment with pie weights or dried beans and bake for 15-20 minutes (or until edges turn golden). Remove parchment and pie weights. Bake for an additional 15 -20 minutes (or until pie is crust is golden all over). Place pie shell on a wire rack and cool completely.

Reduce oven temperature to 325.

Spread coconut on a baking tray and bake, tossing occasionally, until golden and toasted.

Prepare an ice bath and set aside. In a bowl, whisk egg yolks and set aside.

In a saucepan, whisk together coconut milk, granulated sugar, cornstarch and salt. Bring to a simmer (do not boil), and cook, whisking constantly for 3-4 minutes.

Whisk ¼ of hot milk mixture into egg yolks to temper. Whisk in remaining milk mixture. Strain into a clean saucepan. Cook over medium-high heat, whisking constantly, until mixture is thickened and bubbles appear in centre (3-4 minutes).

Transfer to a medium bowl and cover with plastic wrap, pressing wrap directly onto custard surface to prevent a skin from forming. Place in ice bath and chill completely (35-40 minutes).

Fill your cooled pie crust with coconut custard and spread evenly.

Whip cream and confectioner’s sugar until soft peaks form. Spread whipped cream on top of custard.

Chill in refrigerator for 3 hours and sprinkle pie with toasted coconut before serving.

Put Down That Bitter Thing; a Lemon Tart

2011-05-23T09:02:00.000-04:00

She had bought a lemon tart;

It was all they had left at the boulangerie on the corner and she had needed to buy something; couldn’t return home empty handed; what would she eat for lunch?; “this is all we have left!”.

The shelves of the tiny shop, usually brimming with sweets and savouries; different sizes, different shapes; stood and sat empty and quiet. Two lemon tarts remained and she had had to purchase one; now that she was here; now that she had walked all this way.

The baker, usually chatty, usually friendly and smiley and warm, passed her the tart (no package) and took her money with a face of stone and hands so cold. She had actually winced when the woman’s hand brushed her own; icy and sharp and unnatural.

She had bought a lemon tart; though she had always hated lemon desserts.

She cut a slice, carefully, now. The smell of citrus (sharper, still, than the hand, than the tone) hit her nose; young, she was; a white dress; a sunny day; she was a young girl in a white dress; taken away from play for a slice of lemon dessert; she had been chasing someone, something; a boy from the neighbourhood; down that dirt road that seemed to stretch for years; she could smell the dirt; it smelt better than the lemon; she remembered the way the grass, short and than long (above her knees), tickled her legs and hiked up her skirt, staining it slowly but consistently with a bright green tinge; stained by play and nature and summer; the white of the dress floated eerily on top of a sea of swaying green and she imagined she was a princess; she looked more like a ghost; and then, there, the call; her name!; they called; her name!; “dessert!”; she looked sadly at the back of the boy’s head as he escaped behind a tree; hiding; waiting to be found; she wouldn’t find him; no one would find him; she would sit at a long table in the short grass and look up at people much older than herself; a bright slice of yellow sat before her; “Yellow, like the sun. Sunny, sunny yellow!” she said, imagining she could taste the sun when she ate this dessert; could taste warmth and comfort and the beauty of the sun in a single bite; but then, the sharpness, the tartness, the sour sour lemon hit her mouth; and then the sweetness; the sickly sweetness; it was all too much for her young tongue; “You must eat it,” they said, “You must finish your dessert”; and she had; and she had felt sick for hours after; she had become sick, horribly sick, in the long grass; and no one saw her sickness. She had always hated lemon desserts.

A bright slice of yellow sat before her. She twirled a fork in her hand and cut off a small bite; held it in the air, examining the colour. The promise of yellow and sunlight and summer; she had thought, then. And now: what? She examined the yellow and shoved it her mouth. Tart, bright, sweet, it hit her tongue but she did not recoil from within. It mellowed on her aged palate and she liked the brightness it produced. She took another bite; the smoothness of the curd coated her mouth and she imagined finding the boy she had left behind; had left hiding; “have some tart,” she would say, and he wouldn’t like it either; they would both be sick together and laugh together about the things adults liked; they would lay on their backs allowing their sore stomachs a rest; they would lay together.

She liked the tart, she would finish the tart, she would even contemplate going back and buying the second.

He zested lemons, many lemons. He zested and squeezed a pile of lemons. He didn’t and couldn’t stop zesting until the painful moment he caught his finger on the grater and nearly bled into the bowl. Running his hand under cold water, he smiled to himself. It must be her favourite dessert. He had seen her carrying it (no package) and knew instantly what his mouth craved; her, yes; but also the dessert she held so carefully in two hands. It was painfully bright and stood out like a small sun amidst a dark world. She was light and she carried light within her hands. He had to make that light for himself.

He went to the store and bought all the lemons they had.

He had never made a lemon tart before; why would he?; for who would he make one? Now he knew; for her, for himself. He zested lemons, many lemons, and spent an afternoon making lemon tarts. He carefully rolled out the dough and felt his hands caked with flour; dry and crumbly; smooth and soft; he didn’t know where the dough ended, where his skin began; the motion of rolling and patting reminded him of older hands; “add a little more flour” a voice said warmly, “just a little, honey, not too much;” younger hands; he sprinkled flour and made it snow softly on the dough; “And now we roll. Will you pass me my rolling pin? We must get the dough to a perfect thickness. Everything must be perfect for your parents’ party;” rolling and patting; old and wrinkled hands; wiping themselves on an apron; an apron she never took off; “why don’t you ever take it off?” he had asked once; a warm smile; “and now we lay the dough across the pie pan;” he, with an open mouth, watched her skilled maneuvering; she picked up the dough fearlessly (he worried it might rip); she fit it perfectly in the pie dish (he worried there might be too little, too much); she smiled at him; a warm warm smile; her hands worked like magic, crimping and primping the edge of the dough; he watched with wonder; “When can we eat it?” He could taste the buttery, crumbly pastry in his tiny month; a sad look; a sad warm look; “Oh, this isn’t for us, honey. This is for your parents. I’m sorry, honey, this isn’t for us;” he began to cry; he felt the warmth and wet coat his face, but he did not make a sound; “I’ll make you a dessert of your own,” she had said, but he had run off before he could hear her; tight shoes; tightly tied and finely shined; tight shoes he wished he could take off; flights of stairs, many, many dark flights of stairs; scary people, not smiling, not happy, glared at him from dark walls; paralyzed and stuck to walls; if he wasn’t so scared he would feel sorry for the people; framed and sad and frozen in time; he only liked one; only one of the paintings; only two of the people; a young boy and an old woman sat together on a park bench; he couldn’t see their faces so they didn’t look sad; he imagined her apron; his shoes and shorts; her arm was around his shoulders; warmth; happiness.

He zested and squeezed and rolled and patted and the whole building smelt of tart, bright, sweet lemon and buttery, crumbly, golden dough. Six suns shone for no one from his dirty kitchen counter.

a Lemon Tart

adapted from Martha Stewart

You will need for the crust:

1 ¼ cups all-purpose unbleached flour, plus extra for your fingers and measuring cup

½ cup very cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1/3 cup sugar

¼ tsp. salt

You will need for the lemon curd:

4 large organic eggs plus 4 large organic egg yolks (buy organic for an extra beautiful life and extra beautiful lemon colour)

1 1/3 cups sugar

2/3 cup fresh lemon juice (from about 4 lemons)

Salt

To make the crust:

In a food processor, pulse flour, butter, sugar, salt until moist crumbs form (if your mixture does not seem moist, I recommend adding a tablespoon or so of water).

Transfer dough to a round 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Flour fingers and press the dough evenly into the bottom and up the sides of the pan. Flour a dry measuring cup and use it to press edge of dough firmly against the side of the pan, pushing down with opposite thumb to level the top of the dough’s crust with the pan’s rim.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Freeze until firm (15 minutes) and carefully prick all over with a fork. Bake until golden, pressing down with a spoon if it puffs up (around 25 minutes but check OFTEN). Cool completely.

To make the lemon curd:

Whisk together eggs, egg yolks, sugar, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a small saucepan off heat. When mixture is smooth, add butter.

Place pan over medium heat. Stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, cook the mixture until lemon curd is thickened to the consistency of a loose pudding (8-10 minutes). At this point you will be able to draw a line down the back of your spoon with your finger; the curd mixture will be thick and glossy.

Pour the curd through a fine-mesh sieve into your cooled crust (it must be completely cool). Cool your tart to room temperature and then refrigerate until filling is firm (2-3 hours).

Plucked; Coq au Vin

2011-05-12T10:14:00.000-04:00

He could not believe it; himself; what he was making. He could not believe it as he stood outside in the weirdly warm air down Rue Mouffetard, ordering a chicken, a whole chicken s'il vous plait, looking up at the dark sky; clouds hanging but not moving in all of their blackness; wishing for rain, calling for rain. A large, too large, chicken was passed to him over the counter. Bloody and scaly; a few feathers clung for dear life. Rain. Please. Rain would be perfect; he carried the chicken with two hands like a baby; Gwyneth never left home when it rained.

But it didn’t rain and he found himself hours later slaving (literally, slaving) over a hot hot hot stove. He had had to run out twice for herbs he had forgotten: thyme, parsley. Three trips out in one day; he almost smiled to himself; that never happened. He chopped mushrooms perfectly, peeled the smallest of pearl onions with tender and loving hands, sizzled bacon in a pan until it spat in his face.

He could not believe it as he sweat and stirred the bubbling pot, the rich smells of red wine and simmering chicken fat drenching his apartment in repose, painting the window panes with heavy steam, covering up the covered up world outside.

He could not believe it when he changed his shirt; he changed his shirt. And it wasn’t for Gwyneth, he knew, it couldn’t be for Gwyneth. It must have been for himself.

He could not believe it when he had finished a whole bottle of wine. Before she even arrived, before the evening was even supposed to begin. He knew she was coming and he was nervous; he was sweaty; he had changed, and his shirt smelt new. If not for himself, than who for?

Gwyneth arrived late, of course; so very late that the chicken had gone cold and had to be heated up again. So very late and so very beautiful. Painfully beautiful. Her hair a complete mess, her clothes hanging off of her thin, small, meek body. Her bright blue eyes dazzled his own foggy gaze. But was that beauty that he saw?

He couldn’t remember speaking. He couldn’t remember her speaking. She waltzed in, bag swinging, lips moving, but what did she say? He couldn’t believe it. Gwyneth was back.

They had sat and had a glass. She flung hers about, spilling droplets of liquid blood here and there (his new, clean shirt). She must have been talking about something. He hated that he couldn’t remember. He hated that he had to remember, her.

The stovetop was bubbling again, puffing and smoking.

“It’s not anything rich, is it? You know I hate that.” He ignored her. “I can’t take rich. Especially at this time of night.” He stirred and stirred, turned thick pieces of chicken over and under, browning and drenching the members in rich red sauce.

He could hear her pouring more wine. She would be drunk soon; such a little thing. He hated himself. He couldn’t believe himself: Why was Gwyneth back?

He remembered her hands; reaching around his middle. He remembered his own; switching off the stove; he knew what was coming; didn’t want to burn what he had worked so hard for.

The wine bottle was knocked over, regrettably, sadly; he would have liked it later, now, as he sat alone at his table, cutting apart chicken that didn’t need to be cut (it was so tender). The flavour of Bourgogne’s best (cooked so long) coated his mouth and he really would have liked something to wash it down with. His apartment, a disaster; a war zone; lamps askew, sheets knotted and thrown; evidence of a battle so long in the making; he couldn’t care to care. He ate his dinner and enjoyed the warm, hearty comfort it provided; heartier, thicker, richer than Gwyneth. More true, more beautiful, more pleasing than Gwyneth. If only she hadn’t spilt that wine though, the meal would be perfect.

He savagely tore off a piece of bread and sopped up the last of the sauce that was so so good.

Recipe for Coq au Vin adapted from Williams-Sonoma

Between the Lines; Flaky Buttermilk Biscuits

2011-05-01T09:18:00.000-04:00

The house was empty and quiet: the first it had been in days. The forecast said rain; most definitely rain; but the sun shone like no tomorrow. Streaming in through the kitchen windows, she basked in the warmth while she measured flour and butter. Only she made sound and what a pleasure it was; to hear her thoughts loud and clear, to make only a slight dent in the enclosed silence. The guests were out; walking, visiting, whatever. She couldn’t remember nor care to remember. The mingled frenzy of the night before seemed to disappear as they did. Distant and vague, snapshots of laughter and raised voice could only echo in the afterwards of their departure. It was nice to have a full house, yes, for the holidays, but it was nice to have an empty one, too. The sun found expression in shining slats and she watched a neighbour hang white sheets on a clothesline.

She folded her dough up and over and over again. Flecked with large flakes of butter, she cut perfect rounds for perfect biscuits. Into the oven, and out came the smell: rich and light and mellow and yellow. The whole house smelt of melting butter and cooking dough. They rose and settled into puffed up folds, flaky and delicious.

As she made brunch for many, she savoured a biscuit all by her lonesome and felt the spring sun hit her face.

Flaky Buttermilk Biscuits

Adapted from Fine Cooking

1 and ¾ cup unbleached, all purpose flour (plus more for dusting and forming the dough)

1 Tbs. granulated sugar

2 and ¼ tsp. baking powder

¼ tsp. baking soda

¾ tsp. kosher salt

8 Tbs. very cold unsalted butter, cut into small chickpea sized pieces (cut JUST before use and try not to melt butter with your hands)

¾ cup very cold buttermilk

Heat oven to 500°F and place a rack in the middle of the oven. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large mixing bowl to combine. Toss small pieces of butter with flour mixture, coating each piece in flour. With your fingers, separate the butter pieces (they tend to stick together) and make sure the pieces are evenly distributed in the flour mixture.

Add the cold buttermilk. Stir with a large wooden spoon until the buttermilk is incorporated and the flour is absorbed: the dough should form a coarse lump (1 minute).

Dust a work surface with flour and dump the dough onto the floured surface, cleaning out the bowl with a spatula. Dust the top of the dough and your hands with flour, and press the dough into a 3/4-inch-thick rectangle. Sprinkle a small amount of flour on top of the dough. Fold the dough over on itself in three sections, as if folding a letter (also called a tri-fold). With a bench knife or metal spatula, lift the dough off the counter and dust under it with flour to prevent sticking. Dust the top with flour and press the dough out again into a 3/4-inch-thick rectangle and repeat the tri-fold. Repeat this procedure one more time (you will do this three times in all).

After the third tri-fold procedure, dust under and on top of the dough. Roll the dough into ½ inch thick oval. Dip a 2 inch round biscuit cutter in flour and cut your biscuits with a straight-down cut and a straight-up lift for a clean finish. Place your biscuits on your prepared baking sheet ½ inch apart. Roll out any remaining dough and continue to cut biscuits until it is all used up.

Put baking sheet in the oven and reduce temperature to 450°F. Bake for 8 minutes and rotate the sheet. Bake for an additional 4-6 minutes, or until biscuits are golden on the top and bottom. Some butter may melt and seep out of the biscuits while baking but this is not a problem and will only contribute to their buttery-ness. Remove pan from oven and allow to cool for at least 3 minutes (if serving hot) or up to 20 (if serving warm).

She who Makes You Shudd(h)er; Chilled Leek Soup with Lemon-Dill Yogurt

2011-04-11T21:16:00.000-04:00

The soup was chilled; the conversation was cold. She remembered this soup. Dinners past. Judith’s favourite, and at one time, her own. She remembered hot, hot, hot summer evenings, the windows thrown open, the smell of stagnant air barely breathing. She, with a good book, only half listening to Judith’s ramblings. She, with a glass of rose, hmming and ahhing at Judith’s poignant remarks while Judith chopped leeks furiously. Mountains of leeks. She could remember their smell, like a refined onion. Rich ribbons of varied green. Dill, too, she remembered. Too much dill in fact (Judith always went overboard). Now, she too wished she could go overboard. Be thrown overboard; escape the chilled soup and cold conversation. Escape Judith. Her hands were cold.

Despite the awkwardness, she enjoyed her first spoonful. It was autumn; it was biting and dark and uninviting and one would not normally want chilled soup; but, yes, she enjoyed that first spoonful. Dipped it in the yogurt topping, felt the tang of lemon rind and dill brighten her tongue. Judith looked at her expectantly.

“Mmm, very good, Judith.” She hated that. How she had to say—immediately—how it tasted. How she liked it. Despite Judith’s overly confident, overly large persona, Judith had always needed constant reassurance. She took another spoonful.

“You’re very quiet,” Judith threatened. “Why?”

“It’s just,” her spoon swirled the light, bright green, “it’s been a while, Judith. I’m not sure what to make of this.”

“There’s nothing to make of this.” Judith’s tone of control; like a mother, she glared. “We are two old friends sharing a meal.” Judith was firm; Judith was certain. “I thought you might like to know about my life. How my life has been. Don’t you ever wonder about me?”

She took another spoonful. Pause.

“Yes. Yes, Judith, I wonder.” Was she lying? Did she actually wonder? Maybe Judith was happily forgotten.

She smiled. “Remember when you used to make this in the summer? Those hot evenings you couldn’t stand. Sweaty, sweaty Judith. I think your sweat literally made it into the soup.” Was she being unkind?

Judith persevered. “Yes, I remembered how much you loved it. That’s why I brought it tonight.”

“Well, it’s very good.”

Silence. A pause. She couldn't help continuing. “One thing, though. You forgot the salmon.” She didn’t look up. She swirled and swirled, her spoon, her soup. “You know. The lovely smoked salmon we used to have with this. It went perfectly. You forgot.” Pause. She had come out on top. “It’s really not the same without it. You know how I love smoked salmon.”

The candles flickered across their steady faces.

She scowled in her bed. Covers pulled tight; the cold seeping in through old doorframes and window creases. You know how I love smoked salmon. You forgot how I loved it most of all. It’s really not the same without it. How had it gone from that to this? She pulled the covers tighter in shame.

9:00 am and so, so dark. She would have thought the blinds were drawn (they had forgotten to draw them), but it was the dark, dark sky that did it. She heard the toilet flush and flashed her eyes closed. Sleeping; she would look like she was sleeping.

Judith clumsily dressed and noisily scratched a note. Judith was much too loud for a stealthy departure (who wouldn’t wake up with Judith in the house?), yet she kept her eyes closed tight. She heard Judith stomping in the street below; heeled boots on cobblestone. She hoped, desperately, that Judith might trip.

I miss you, was all it said. She crumpled it and threw it in the wastebasket.

Chilled Leek Soup with Lemon-Dill Yogurt

Adapted from Bon Appetit (April 2011)

Serves 6

For the Soup:

2 tbs. olive oil

6 ½ cups thinly sliced leeks (the white and light green of about 5 leeks)

1 large russet potato, peeled and chopped into ½ inch cubes

4 cups (plus additional, as needed) low-sodium organic chicken (or vegetable) broth

3 tbs. coarsely chopped fresh dill (divided)

Sea Salt and Pepper, to taste

For the Yogurt Topping:

¼ cup plain non-fat yogurt

1 tbs grated lemon peel (yellow part only)

Small fresh dill sprigs for garnish

Heat olive oil in large, heavy pot over medium heat. Add leeks and cook until soft but not brown (5-6 minutes). Add potato and stir to coat. Add chicken stock and turn heat to high. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and simmer for 15 minutes (or until vegetables are very soft). Allow soup to cool slightly.

Working in multiple batches, puree soup in blender with 2 tbs. dill. Ensure soup is very smooth. Pour soup into large bowl, season with sea salt and pepper, and cover. Chill for 5 hours.

Before serving: Combine yogurt, remaining dill and lemon peel. Top each bowl of soup with a dollop of yogurt and sprinkle dill sprigs. Serve with smoked salmon, harsh mustard and crusty bread.

The Last Lunch; Spring Leek and Bacon Risotto with Rhubarb Crisp

2011-04-05T20:42:00.055-04:00

He was new; he was nervous. He threw open the windows to encourage the deep breaths he so needed to take. The sun was shining; bright and crisp; the late morning; the last morning. The air smelt wet. He sought solace in a moment of fresh life; spring was here; the lives of many were blooming and opening before his very eyes, truly they were; but he felt the coming of an ending. His first ending.

He left the window open and put on his apron. Tied it tightly, carefully, slowly, taking his time to prepare himself with purpose. He unloaded his ingredients gingerly: there would not be time to run out and get extra. Time; it ticked. He eyed the clock on the blank white wall and felt the crest of his chest fall in response. Time; he must get at it.

He baked first. Wanted to have the dessert warm and crisp (but not too hot) for serving. He let the oats, the flour, the grainy sugar and soft butter fall and lump between his fingers. Coated hands made topping snow on spring’s new bounty: bright and fresh rhubarb. She was lucky; two weeks earlier, this dessert could not, would not have happened.

Risotto next. It had to be timed perfectly. Broth and minutes reduced, absorbed; his nerves responded in angst: he nearly doubled the wine, almost forgot the fresh oregano, couldn’t find his parmesan for minutes on end. When it was finally finished, finally ready for serving, he did not breathe a sigh of relief. Did not, could not because now it was time. He swallowed; must he be the deliverer? Why such a request? He fixed his chef’s hat, wondered if he should wear it. He wiped sweat off his brow, his neck, his hands; they shook and held each other.

Plates plated. Silverware set. He wheeled the tray down a long, sterile corridor. They rattled, he rattled; he was rattled by it all.

21.03.10. The room was not numbered; was only ever given a temporary number depending on who, what, when was inside.

He knocked and the door opened almost immediately. “You’re late.” The voice was raspy and old. She looked younger than she sounded.

“I-I know. I’m s-sorry.” He was stammering. He never stammered. “I have what you asked.” He wheeled the tray in front of her; in front of the lone woman on a lone chair; such a lonely last place.

He turned to go and stopped. “I must say. Your choice. It’s perfect.”

She looked up.

“For today, for the season, for spring, I mean.”

She smiled. “I wanted it to reflect what I would say goodbye to.”

He turned and left and walked back down the hallway. He imagined her mouthfuls; slow at first, the risotto must be savoured; the creamy rice would coat her mouth and massage her tongue in warmth; she’d feel the freshness, too, maybe be enlivened by the fragrant herbs, the mellow wine; faster, then, at the end, scooping up the last bits of farm fresh yolk (you could taste the life of its mother) and tender leek and salty bacon fat that would coat the bottom of the bowl. He wondered if she would notice the parmesan cheese (so expensive; the most expensive; and he had added double), the garnish of cracked pepper. He wondered if she would wish there was more.

And then dessert. Dessert. Could there be a more perfect dessert? Rhubarb crisp with vanilla ice cream. He hoped she liked it; hoped it was warm (but not too hot). The rhubarb sweet enough; but with a bite that reminded you this was a tart vegetable at heart. The ice cream would be partially melted but creamy and comforting, no doubt, he hoped.

An hour later, he cleared away the dishes. Two, he found himself finishing the remaining risotto; a spoon in a pot; he dug down deep to scrape up the last bits of rice; it was cold now and hard, but it was delicious and beautiful and sad and worthy. Three, and he packed up his things. The sun was lower now, more sleepy. He smiled at the day that was so perfect a goodbye, a hello. When would he be back?

Someone knocked on the kitchen's steel door.

"We got another one for you." A drawling voice; he looked up; an unfriendly man in unfriendly boots. "Two weeks time. Just transferred in. For the time being at least." The man chuckled. "Says he wants chicken and grits. Can you do that?"

"Yeah. I can do that."

Spring Leek and Bacon Risotto with Poached Egg

Adapted from Bon Appetit (April 2011)

4 large free-range eggs
5 cups low-salt chicken broth
1 tbs. olive oil
6 slices thick-cut bacon cut crosswise into small half-inch pieces
2 large leeks (white and light green parts only), thinly sliced (adding up to 2 cups)
1 ½ cups arborio rice
¾ cup dry white wine
3 tbs. finely chopped fresh oregano (plus a few whole leaves for garnish) *note: the original recipe called for parsley but I found beautiful oregano at the market I wanted to try and it was delicious in this dish
1 tbs. butter
3 tbs. grated Parmesan cheese (plus more for garnish)
Sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste
Poach eggs first:
Bring a medium skillet of water to a light simmer over medium-low heat. Add eggs one at a time and cook for 3-4 minutes until egg is cooked but yolk is still runny. Use slotted spoon to add eggs to ice bath.

For Risotto:
Bring broth to a simmer over medium heat in a medium sauce pan. Lower heat and keep warm for later usage.

Heat olive oil in large skillet and cook until crisp. Transfer and drain on paper towel. Cook leeks in bacon fat until soft and glistening (but not brown). Reserve 2 tablespoons of leek in a small bowl for garnish. Add rice to pan and coat in fat, stirring constantly for 1-2 minutes. Add wine to rice and stir until absorbed. Add ½ cup of broth to rice and stir until absorbed. Continue adding broth in ½ cup amounts until the rice is tender and creamy but has an al-dente bite. This should 22-24 minutes in total. Add bacon, butter, cheese, oregano and stir. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Meanwhile, heat poached eggs in medium skillet of simmering water just until heated through, 1 to 2 minutes.

Divide risotto among 4 bowls and top each with a poached egg. Garnish with cheese shavings, leeks and oregano leaves. Sprinkle egg with sea salt and cracked black pepper.

Rhubarb Crisp

4 cups rhubarb, chopped crosswise into 1 inch pieces
½ cup fresh orange juice
½ cup organic sugar
½ teaspoon cinnamon

¾ cup unbleached, all purpose flour
¾ cup rolled oats
¾ unsweetened coconut
¾ brown sugar
½ cup butter, room temperature and cut into small pieces

Vanilla ice cream for serving

Preheat oven to 350.
Butter a 9 inch round baking dish. Combine rhubarb, orange juice, cinnamon and sugar and add to baking dish. In a separate bowl, mix together flour, oats, coconut and brown sugar. Break apart butter into even small pieces and incorporate into topping mixture (the butter can be lumpy and varied in size but it is good to make sure no piece is too big). Sprinkle rhubarb with topping evenly and cook in preheated oven for 35-40 minutes (until crust is golden and rhubarb is bubbling). Allow to cool, slightly, and serve with vanilla ice cream.

The Good Squares; Cocoa Brownies with Browned Butter and Walnuts

2011-03-04T15:04:00.000-05:00

He smelt before he spotted; high above his reaching arm, piled and cooling and scenting the air. Fudge. Fudgy chocolate. Fudgy, sticky, yummy chocolate. He had smelt this before. He had had these before. He remembered a perfect square, dark and big (much bigger than any treat he was normally allowed, much bigger than his hand; he held it carefully with two). He remembered licking crumbs between his fingers, hard to clean off but so worth the effort. He remembered something crunchy, a why-is-this-here? something crunchy; did he like it? he grew to like it amidst all that chocolate; a mouthful of mmm, soft and chewy chocolate, and slightly warm too, and good, good, good. He thought these were good. “These are GOOD!” he had told her, smiling above him. She had asked if he wanted a fork. She should have known better. Fudgy chocolate. Sticky and yummy. And good. The good squares. If only he could reach.

These brownies are rich and not-too-sweet. Enhanced by browned butter and unsweetened cocoa powder they are luxurious on the palate and perfectly textured: gooey, but sturdy with a nice crumb. The top crackles crisp and even (no icing or frosting necessary) and the addition of walnuts is a must (I don’t usually like nuts in my brownies but these marry well with the nuttiness of the browned butter and add a subtle crunchy differentiation to the rich taste of chocolate). Sophisticated enough for adults and “yummy” enough for a younger crowd.

Cocoa Brownies with Browned Butter and Walnuts

adapted from Bon Appetit

Non-stick vegetable oil spray

1 ¼ sticks of unsalted butter, cut into 1 inch pieces (around 10 tablespoons)

1 ¼ cups sugar

¾ cup unsweetened, natural cocoa powder

1 tsp. vanilla extract

¼ tsp. salt

2 large eggs, chilled

1/3 cup plus 1 Tbs. all-purpose (unbleached) flour

1 cup of roughly chopped walnut pieces

Preheat oven to 325°F. Line 8x8x2 inch baking pan with foil, pressing foil down securely and leaving a 2inch overhang on either side. Spray foil with vegetable oil. Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium heat until butter begins to brown: be careful. You do not want your butter to burn. Watch for brown bits to form in the bottom of the pan and for butter to become fragrant and amber in colour (this should take about 5-7 minutes). Remove pan from heat and immediately stir in butter, sugar, cocoa powder, vanilla, 2 teaspoons of water and ¼ teaspoon of salt. Stir to combine and let cool for 5 minutes. Add eggs to mixture one at a time (it will still be hot), beating well after each addition. When mixture is thick and shiny, add flour and stir to blend (beat vigorously 50 strokes). Stir in nuts and transfer to prepared pan. Back brownies until inserted toothpick comes out with a few sticky crumbs (it should not be completely covered in batter OR completely clean), about 25 minutes (but check at 20). Cool pan on rack and use foil overhang to lift out and transfer cooled brownies to cutting board. Enjoy as is or with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Brugge: City of Beer, City of Refuge

2011-02-23T09:55:00.000-05:00

By train, they travelled on Easter Sunday. They bought chocolate for the journey, had a layover in Paris, drank rose wine at the gare du nord and waited anxiously for the unknown. Why were they going to Brugge? they asked themselves, laughing. She had said it was beautiful. He had said it was worth seeing. I remember someone describing the deliciousness of the frites.

Belgium (chocolate) for Easter seemed awfully appropriate.

The train screeched to its slow stop and the sun turned red. They walked out of the station into a newly darkened evening. They had a map, printed, crumpled, but they were unsure how to hold it. Where was north? Where was east? They wandered along curved and vacant streets, hoping one might lead to some sort of centre. The night was quiet.

They stopped every now and then, struck by the beauty that was alone and ignored by the evening’s empty. The buildings of Brugge fell into view, emerged from the shadows, as if they had just appeared. It was clear they had been around for a while.

Unable to find their hotel, they found themselves at a bar instead. 400 beers, it boasted. Cambrinus, lord of beer; the name it claimed. Full to the brim, they managed to squeeze themselves (and their backpacks) into the boisterous confines. “For two,” she signaled. They were lucky to get a spot.

The waiter approached with tome in hand. “The menu.” He walked away before they could question. 400 beers, it was true. Listed by type, described by taste. They spent 15 minutes simply reading descriptions. “Hint of coffee and caramel. My kind of beer.” “Aged in whiskey barrels. My kind of beer.” They managed to decide and enjoyed their first taste of Belgian delicacy. It washed down their frites and mayonnaise: salty, hot, burned the tongue, but delicious was an understatement. She didn’t normally like mayonnaise. This was mayonnaise of its own breed. Thick, creamy, but oh so light: she could taste the effort that whisked it into being.

They shared tomato soup with meatballs: “Meatballs in tomato soup?” It was warm and satisfying, the meatballs small, spiced and tender. They ordered more beers, always a different one: they shared and enjoyed double the variety.

If asked, they would recommend Celis White: the most delicious wheat beer that ever was. Any and all of the dark and complex Trappistes: brewed carefully by Trappiste monks (only seven breweries in the world). And of course, any of the multicoloured Leffe (but especially the Trippel): cheap, delicious, can be bought in the grocery stores and in the bars.

They would recommend, too, a trip to the market. Held in the centre square, it is a feast for the senses: crisped and juicy pieces of chicken roasting and turning on stacked and glistening spits, mounds and displays of stinky, creamy, salty cheese, bouquets of flowers that open up to sunny market mornings, chocolate in every variety: creamed, salted, mixed with nuts and unknown delicacies, molded into shapes to please children and adults. It melted on the tongue as they sat on a bench and ate far too much for the morning. Oh, and waffles. Waffles, waffles, Waffles.

Try the waffles, they did. Perfectly crisped outer, soft and pillowy inner. Drenched in your topping of choice. She had caramel, he chocolate.

“Now what’s that?” A voice, loud, obnoxious, southern. It wore a cowboy hat, it had a gold tooth. “Chocolata is it? Okay!”

They laughed at the line of tourists following their footsteps.

Bierbrasserie Cambrinus is truly a must (we went back every and all of the five nights we were in Brugge) and is located at 19 Philipstockstratt

Brugge Markt is located in the centre of the city at the Market Square: Open Wednesday from 7 am – 1 pm

Chocolate shops are on every corner, but I recommend The Chocolate Line located at 19 Simon Stevinplein: an incredible variety and the most delicious smelling building in the world (the smells even waft out into the street)

Also, if you're looking for a cheap meal, try Brasserie Medard for 3 euro spaghetti that is absolutely delicious: located at 18 Sint-Amandsstraat (make sure to make a reservation, though, as it fills up quickly!)

Unseasonably Dressed; Apple, Smoked Almond and Blue Cheese Salad with Orange-Shallot Vinaigrette

2011-02-21T09:19:00.001-05:00

Grey piled atop white. No, grey piled atop brown. White coated in the worst of winter shades. A landscape etched with skeletons of past life: limbs wave bitterly at the season that made them brittle. They want to snap and fall to a grounded death but frozen, they are forced upright. This snow has hung around too long.

The cold, too, had outstayed its welcome. Stretched deep and long: through, across the hardened ground, hanging heavy in the air. It bit and chewed at the living; drained life out of the moving. It refused to leave, instead settling in, getting too comfortable for anyone’s liking.

She could feel it in her bones. Every time her body found itself near a window. Every time she awoke to a house heating up. The cold found its way beyond the skin, beyond the flesh, reaching and shaking her thin and delicate framework. She shook just at the thought. Winter without a foreseeable end. Winter, too long. She wanted out.

She made a salad. Sick of soup, she dreamed of summer. She was ravenous for something that didn’t work to warm her up. Something that exuded warmth of its own accord. She made a salad and dreamed of summer.

Vibrant greens: bright and neon to her long dulled eyes. Slices of apple: sweetness reminiscent of the fruit of warmer months. Smoked almonds: she recalled crunchy snacks on the deck with gin and tonics in the hot afternoon. Blue cheese: the end of an evening too warm to make dessert. She tossed her wistful memories with a light and tangy dressing the colour of late summer sun. She poured herself a glass of white wine (chilled, she could stand it for this) and settled in for a salad of months to come.

"Opening Night" Salad (Greenhouse Lettuce, Apple, Blue Cheese, Smoked Almonds and Orange Shallot Vinaigrette)

adapted from "Fresh and Local" by Craig Flinn

Serves four.

Salad:

1 head greenhouse lettuce, cleaned and dried (I used Boston Bibb)

1 Gala apple, cut into thin slices

1/3 cup crumbled blue cheese

1/3 cup smoked almonds

Orange Shallot Vinaigrette:

note - this is a halved (and slightly altered) version of the original recipe (makes about 11/4 cups of dressing)

2 cups fresh orange juice

zest of 1 orange

1/4 minced shallots

1 clove garlic, minced

1 tsp Dijon mustard

1/8 cup of white wine vinegar

1 tsp honey

salt and pepper to taste

3/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil

For Vinaigrette: combine orange juice, zest, shallots and garlic in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce liquid to 1/2 cup. Remove from heat and cool completely. Add mustard, vinegar, honey, salt and pepper. Slowly add olive oil in a steady stream and whisk continuously. Can be stored in a refrigerator for up to 3 weeks.

For Salad: Combine ingredients and add 4 tablespoons of dressing to toss. Add more or less dressing depending on your preference.

Quilted; Tourtière, Glittered Cookies and Gingerbread Apple Upside-down Cake

2010-12-27T10:52:00.018-05:00

Christmas Eve; a patchwork of traditions. Regarding food, especially. The Tourtière (for him, for so many years) is squeezed in for lunch. Its dough rolled by just waking hands (reaching, flour covered, for big gulps of coffee), it must be started in the first hours of the morning. The kitchen smells of spiced meat much too early for most. They turn up their noses as they enter in pajamas. They peel clementines in hope of perfuming the heavy air. It is delicious though; when it finally comes out of the oven, hours later, crackling on top and seeping on bottom. They eat it too hot and burn their mouths on steaming meat, but enjoy it all the same. They taste the hours of preparation put in by one of their own; they smell the history (the hands of others, the forks and knives of other sets of cutlery) baked into the crust itself. They polish it off and move on to the next.

She, the youngest, wants to begin her own tradition. “Glitter balls!” She smiles enthusiastically and the rest nod back. She spends her afternoon rolling shortbread dough into perfectly sized and measured ¾ inch spheres. She dons each in coloured sanding sugar; a series of tiny green Christmas bulbs, too tasty for the tree. She spreads creamy ginger frosting between each, joining two together to make delicate sandwiches. The family picks away at them, allowing each cookie to melt in their mouths; a break, a moment of quiet, to distract from the busy and bustling dinner preparation.

She, the oldest, makes her famous cake. A cake she’s eaten all seventy-seven of her Christmases. Apples are cut thinly, her hands shake only slightly; wedges layered in circles and topped with batter. The heavily spiced gingerbread cake wafts as it bakes and reaches the far corners of the house. She flips it, expertly, upside down, and the family is awed by her fearlessness.

Tourtière Pie

Adapted from “Fresh & Local: Straight from Canadian farms to your table” by Craig Flinn

Tourtière Pie is a traditional French-Canadian (Acadian or Quebecois) meat pie. This particular recipe comes from the Montreal area of Quebec.

1 small onion, minced

½ tsp ground clove

½ tsp ground allspice

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1 tsp summer savory

1 tsp salt

1 tsp pepper

2 tsp rendered bacon fat

1 lb organic beef

1 lb organic pork

½ cup beef stock

1 medium waxy potato (I used Yukon-Gold), unpeeled and grated

1 lb flaky pie dough (recipe below)

1 egg yolk, beaten

1 tsp rock salt

Preheat oven to 350.

In a medium, steep-sided pot, sauté onions, spices and salt and pepper in bacon fat until translucent. Stir in ground beef and pork, grated potato and beef stock. Continue to stir as you heat and cook the mixture (15 minutes over medium heat until the meat is fully cooked).

Allow filling to cool in the pot while you roll out pie dough (into two 12 inch rounds).

Add cooled filling to bottom pie shell. Cover with second piece of pie dough and trim the edges with a knife. Make a vent hole in the centre (1/2 inch). Brush pie with beaten egg yolk and top with rock salt. Bake in oven for 45 minutes or until crust is deep brown in colour.

Flaky Pie Dough

Also adapted from “Fresh & Local” by Craig Flinn

2 ½ cups unbleached white flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp sea salt

1 cup frozen unsalted butter

½ to ¾ cup iced water

1 egg yolk

1 tsp white vinegar

Whisk flour, baking powder and salt in a large bowl. Remove butter from the freezer and grate directly into flour mixture using the large size of a box grater.

In a separate small bowl, mix iced water, yolk and vinegar. Add to butter and flour mixture and JUST bring together. Divide into two disks and wrap each tightly in plastic. Chill for at least 90 minutes (overnight is best).

Glitter Balls

Adapted from Martha Stewart

Makes 2 Dozen

For Dough:

1 cup (2 sticks) softened, unsalted butter
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar, sifted
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
2 cups plus 2 Tbs all-purpose, unbleached flour

Green sanding sugar

For Creamy Ginger Frosting:

4 Tbs unsalted butter, softened

2 tsp finely grated peeled fresh ginger

1 cup confectioners' sugar, sifted
1 Tbs honey

Beat all frosting ingredients with a hand mixer on medium-high speed until smooth.

Preheat oven to 350.

Beat butter, confectioners' sugar, and salt with an electric mixer on medium-high speed until pale and fluffy (about 3 – 4 minutes). Add and beat in vanilla. Reduce speed to low. Add flour and mix just until combined. Shape into 3/4-inch balls. Place sanding sugar in shallow bowls. Roll each ball in sanding sugar, and place on parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing 1 inch apart.

Bake until edges are lightly golden, 15 to 18 minutes. Make sure to rotate baking sheets half way through baking time. Let cookies cool completely on a wire rack. Spread 2 cookies with just enough frosting to allow them to stick together.

Gingerbread Apple Upside-down Cake
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

Topping :

4 Tbs butter, plus extra for greasing pan 
1/2 cup dark brown sugar 
Pinch of salt 
4 apples (I used Gala) peeled, cored and cut into 1/4-inch wedges

Batter :
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, room temperature 
1/2 cup sugar 
1 large egg 
1/3 cup dark molasses 
1/3 cup honey
 1cup buttermilk 
2 1/4 cups flour 
1 tsp baking soda 
1/2 tsp salt 
1 tsp ground ginger 
1 tsp cinnamon

Softly whipped cream

For the topping:

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Grease a 10-inch cake pan. Melt butter in a small saucepan over medium heat and add brown sugar. Simmer, stirring frequently, for four minutes. Remove from heat and swirl in salt. Pour into the bottom of your cake pan. Make circles of overlapping apple slices on top of the caramel. Chop up any remaining slices and place them in the gaps.

For the batter: Blend 1/2 cup butter and the sugar on medium-low speed with a mixer. Increase speed to high and cream until light and fluffy.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the egg, molasses, honey and buttermilk. In another bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, salt, ginger and cinnamon. Alternately add flour and buttermilk mixtures to butter mixture, incorporating fully after each addition.

Pour the batter into the pan. Bake at least 45 to 50 minutes, until a wooden tester inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool on a rack for 10 to 15 minutes. Carefully, but fearlessly, turn out onto a platter or cake plate.

Serve warmed with a large dollop of whipped cream.

Les Halles; Noël Dijonaise

2010-12-01T20:21:00.003-05:00

“Crème de Cassis!”

“Pain d’épices!”

“Champignons! Chanterelles!”

The calls of vendors collide in mid air; clouds of hot breath push forward in earnest. The air outside is cold, calling for snow, but the air inside theses walls (Gustave’s) is even colder. Bundled bodies bustle up and down aisles, baskets in hand, baskets on wheels: they shop with a purpose. “Bonjour Madame.” “Bonjour Monsieur.” Each takes a moment to wave and smile before stuffing vegetables and meats (turkeys with head and feet; with eyes and beak) into bags, over arms. The goods and wares are row on row, displayed (for this time of year) with a flourish: mustard jarred and tied in ribbon, stacks of spice bread like loaves of brick (the wall diminishes with each reaching, gloved hand). The conflicting smells of fish and strong cheese, crusty bread and fresh herbs mingle, but do not dissatisfy the nose. The baskets become fuller as the visits draw on. One must not stay too long; dinner is waiting to be cooked and honoured in the shelter of warm homes.

Les Halles, the covered market in Dijon, France was designed by Gustave Eiffel. The market boasts a bounty of delicious food including local delicacies such as Dijon mustard, Pain d’épices and Crème de Cassis. Make sure to buy a bottle of Crème de Cassis to make your own Kir (invented in Dijon and named after the Mayor Kir): 1/2 ounce crème de cassis, topped with chilled white wine (or champagne for Kir Royale).

Also, make sure to visit the amazing fresh pasta stand where you can buy salmon ravioli and handmade, fresh herb gnocci and receive cooking directions from the lovely pasta makers. If you visit in the spring, chanterelles are 1 euro by the bag!

Les Halles is open Tuesday, Friday and Saturday mornings from 9-1

Nostalgia's Cake; Double Chocolate Layer Cake

2010-11-19T08:36:00.004-05:00

It was a reunion of sorts for the guests at the party. A time to show off how much one had aged, to display casually the success another had achieved. All were dressed to the nines and arrived by nine.

“And what have you been doing?”

“What has it been… eight years?”

“I heard you were in Belize. How was that?”

“I heard you won that prize. What was it again? Oh yes, very prestigious…”

The talk was small and the smiles lacked authenticity. The monotony of social obligation rang stingingly about the room. Hands grabbed for drinks more often than not and the uncomfortable costumes of the evening prevented any sort of relaxation.

Helen arrived last, as always. As always the women rolled their eyes upon her entrance; as always the men followed her with their own. She looked ravishing tonight (as always). A vision in red, dark hair flowing down her back. She swept across the room bestowing smiles (real smiles) upon the onlookers. Each could not help but nod, wide-eyed in return.

“And what’s that you have Helen?” The ungracious host of the party.

The room looked towards them for lack of anything else.

“Oh, just a little something sweet. I’m sorry I’m a tad tardy this evening but I had to wait for the cake to cool before I could frost it. You know how it is… Anyway, here I am! Great to see you all!” Helen looked about the room earnestly. The room stank of boredom and perspiration.

“Well, I’m just going to go freshen up. But please, help yourself to the cake!” Helen swept away as quickly as she arrived. The straight-backed guests with tilted heads looked curiously at the misshapen tower of chocolate. It was heavily, messily frosted: two layers of thick chocolate cake smothered with dark chocolate coating.

“It looks like there are candle holes in this cake,” one guest prodded the frosting with a long finger.

“Maybe she thought it was someone’s birthday,” another piped up to scattered laughter.

“Well, it smells heavenly.”

One by one the guests cut themselves a piece of Helen’s cake. One by one, chocolate smeared mouths smiled and nodded.

“It’s really quite good.”

“Reminds me of birthday cakes I had as a boy.”

“I remember those cakes!”

One by one the guests went back for seconds.

As the evening drew on, smiles became a little brighter, the conversation a little more nostalgic. They left shaking hands, promising to do this again “more often.”

They left hoping Helen’s cake would also be in attendance.

Double Chocolate Layer Cake

adapted from Gourmet

Note: The recipe for frosting is halved from the original.

Cake Layers:

3 ounces fine-quality semisweet chocolate

1 1/2 cups hot brewed coffee

3 cups sugar

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch process)

2 teaspoons baking soda

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 1/4 teaspoons salt

3 large eggs

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1 1/2 cups well-shaken buttermilk

3/4 teaspoon vanilla

Ganache Frosting:

1/2 pound fine-quality semisweet chocolate such as Callebaut

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon light corn syrup

1/4 stick unsalted butter

For cake layers:

Preheat oven to 300°F. Grease two 10 by 2 inch round cake pans and line the bottoms with rounds of wax paper (grease paper).

Finely chop chocolate and add to a bowl with hot coffee. Stirring occasionally, let mixture stand until chocolate is melted and liquid is smooth.

In a large bowl, sift together sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder and salt. In another large bowl, beat eggs until thickened slightly (about 3 minutes) with an electric mixer. Add oil, buttermilk, vanilla and melted chocolate to eggs, slowly beating until mixture is combined. Add sugar mixture and beat on medium speed until just combined.

Divide batter between two pans and bake in the middle of oven until a tester inserted in center comes out clean (about 1 hour).

Cool layers completely in pans on racks Run a knife around the edge of each pan and invert layers onto racks. Remove wax paper carefully.

For frosting: Finely chop chocolate. In a saucepan, bring cream, sugar and corn syrup to boil over medium-low heart, whisking to dissolve sugar. Remove pan from heat and add chocolate, whisking until chocolate is melted. Add cut up butter pieces to frosting and whisk until smooth. Cool frosting completely, stirring occasionally, before spreading between cake layers, over top and sides.

On Monday We; Brandied Spice Pumpkin Pie

2010-10-18T07:58:00.000-04:00

Slightly smoky, the air is burnt to a crisp. Wind, it winds, itself around this day of old sun; the sun of autumn is wise to the bright newness of spring. The fallen, they crunch beneath hiking boots; a thanksgiving tradition; and the breaths taken are deep and long. Back inside, the nipped fingertips of walkers warm up around glasses just poured. The red of wine stains lips and conversation as the afternoon lazily finds its close. They nibble and bite at cheese and pear, crackers slightly stale. Yesterday was a feast; today is a fast. Except for; the exception. The two thirds left of dessert from last night. Must we split it? Finish it off? Yes, me must. You whip the cream, I will get the brandy. Thick slices of pie placed humbly on old plates. Handmade crust (you can see her fingertips in the dough) beholds the creamiest of pumpkin, brandy, ginger, and black peppercorn. It’s the lightest I’ve ever had, you say nodding. I know, I nod back, mouth full. They devour their slices too soon and pour more wine to fill the void.

Brandied Spice Pumpkin Pie with Ginger Cream

adapted from Fine Cooking

Crust:

½ tsp. salt

1 ½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour

10 Tbs. cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1 inch pieces

Filling:

15-oz. can of pumpkin puree

2 large eggs

1 large egg yolk

1 cup heavy cream

2 Tbs. brandy

¾ cup lightly packed light brown sugar

1 ½ tsp. ground ginger

1/1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

½ tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. ground nutmeg

1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

Cream:

1 cup heavy cream

2 Tbs. light brown sugar

1 tsp. ground ginger

1 tsp. brandy

For Crust:

Stir salt into 1/3 cup very cold water in a small bowl until dissolved. Put flour into food processor and scatter pieces of butter on top. Pulse until the mixture forms large crumbs (about 8 pulses). Add cold water and salt: pulse until dough begins to come together (about 7 pulses). Shape dough into a 1 inch thick disk, wrap in plastic and chill for 30 minutes (or up to overnight)

On a lightly floured surface, roll out chilled dough into a circle that is 16 inches in diameter and 1/8 inch in thickness. Place dough on 9 inch ceramic or glass pie plate and carefully press dough into bottom and sides. Fold overhang under and crimp as desired. Wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Blind Bake Crust:

Preheat oven to 400°F and place rack in middle of oven. Line pie dough with parchment paper and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake for 16-20 minutes until sides have just set and look dry. Remove weights and parchment: bake for an additional 5 minutes, or until the edges are golden and the bottom is dry. Let crust cool completely.

For Filling:

Preheat oven to 325°F

In a large bowl, whisk the pumpkin, eggs, egg yolk, cream, and brandy. In a small bowl, mix the brown sugar, ginger, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, and pepper. Whisk the sugar mixture into the pumpkin mixture.

Pour the filling into the cooled piecrust. Bake for about 1 hour, or until the pie is set around the outside but still slightly wet and jiggly in the center. The pie will continue to set as it cools. Let the pie cool completely on a wire rack and then refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving.

For the Cream:

Just before serving, whip cream with an electric mixture until it forms soft peaks. Add the sugar, ginger and brandy and whip until it forms medium-firm peaks. Dollop on top of individual pie servings.

The Boss; Butternut Squash, Sage and Garlic Lasagna

2010-10-02T08:36:00.000-04:00

After midnight; the four men were ravenous. Fiore, in the kitchen.

“Fiore, where is our food?” It echoed musically from the other room.

“It’s-a coming!” She would not be rushed.

Her hands shook a little as she sprinkled the tiniest touch of brown sugar; falling, it graced the top of thick melted parmesan in soft clumps.

“I can’t be hurried. You know that!” She added to herself, to the others.

This is-a going-to-be-differ-ent… She smiled through her after-thought.

While the four men noisily sloshed and slammed down glasses, scraped chairs in hunger and impatience in the darkness of the side room, Fiore remained calm and bright. She seemed to dance about her kitchen. Open went the oven door; in went the lasagna (for another minute or so of cooking). Off went the oven mitts, the age-old apron. She scattered hungry plates about the counter and tapped her foot with arms crossed. Fiore felt alive, felt the breadth of her territory.

A scratchy woman’s voice sang and wound its way around doorframes; the radio in the next room. Fiore rejoiced at its distraction. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. Maybe they would like it if they did notice. Tap-tap; her foot moved incessantly. They did not like change.

Open again went the oven door; she shut it closed with her plump hip.

Her spatula like a weapon, she sliced and scooped thick pieces of hot lasagna and placed each carefully on a plate.

The scratchy woman’s voice cut off by the turn of a knob: “Fiore! We’ve been working all day. Where is our food?”

She shook her head, placing the last offering in the centre of the last plate. “It’s-a coming!”

The sweet smell of squash and sage, garlic, butter and cream flirted with her nose, made her mouth open slightly. She sensed the odor seeping through the cracks of the doorframe. This would not smell like her usual.

She garnished each with a little salad (the men needed their greens) and carried the plates skillfully, balanced and perched on each arm.

Open went the door, pushed by her round bottom, and on to the table went the plates. A swift, sweeping movement of presentation and prowess.

“Enjoy, my boys!” She smiled her largest smile.

But the men did not see her smile, did not respond in smiles of mutual magnitude. Too hungry were they to look up from the plates placed before them.

Silence.

“Fiore.” Man one: a clear of throat. “Please-a tell me what is this?”

She did not miss a beat. “Lasagna! You’re favourite!” Please, please, eat-it-up!” Fiore turned her back on the befuddled men.

In the refuge of the kitchen, Fiore leaned beautifully against its counter, listened carefully for reaction.

“What is this? What is Fiore playing at?”

“This is-a not lasagna! Fiore could use a lesson from my mother!”

“Why is it orange? Where is the meat, the meat that I love so much?”

Silence. The forth man was silent, except for an almost inaudible chewing. “You know, boys?” Pause. The deepest voice of the bunch: “It’s-a really not that bad. Reminds me of Thanksgiving.”

Fiore laughed a silent laugh.

Forks, knives, scrapes, the sound of happy mouths. The turning of a knob, the scratchy singing of a woman far away.

“So boys, tomorrow, we deal with Edmondo.”

Fiore smiled. She had known they would like it. She scooped a taste of lasagna from the pan and hungrily savoured it off the spoon.

Photo by Ian Gibb

Roasted Butternut Squash, Sage and Garlic Lasagna

adapated from Gourmet

3 pounds butternut squash, quartered, seeded, peeled, and cut into 1/2-inch dice (about 9 1/2 cups)

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 cups milk

8-10 fresh sage leaves

2 tablespoon minced garlic

1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter

4 tablespoons all-purpose flour

nine 7- by 3 1/2-inch sheets dry no-boil lasagne pasta

1 ½ cups freshly grated parmesan

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

salt and pepper to taste

Serves 6 as a main course (or 4 hungry Italian men).

Preheat oven to 450 °F.

Toss squash pieces in a bowl with vegetable oil and make sure squash is well coated. Spread onto baking sheets (you will need at least two) in a single layer. Roast for 10 minutes and then season with salt. Turn squash over and roast for an additional 15 minutes or until very tender and golden. Once out of the oven, allow squash to cool slightly and then mash or blend squash into a semi-smooth puree.

While squash is in the oven, bring milk and sage leaves to a simmer in a large saucepan. Heat milk mixture over low heat for 10 minutes, stirring often. Remove from heat and pour milk mixture into large measuring cup.

In a large saucepan melt butter and cook garlic over low heat. When garlic is fragrant and soft, whisk in flour and cook roux for 3 minutes. Remove pan from heat and whisk in milk mixture. Return to low heat and simmer sauce for 10 minutes until it begins to thicken. Add squash and salt and pepper to taste and whisk mixture together. This sauce can be made three days ahead if you cover and chill in the fridge.

Reduce oven temperature to 350°F and butter a 13 x 9 x 2 baking dish.

Pour one cup of sauce into bottom (this amount of sauce will not cover the whole surface) and cover with 3 lasagna sheets, separated and not touching each other. Spread half of remaining sauce over top and sprinkle with a generous amount of parmesan. Cover with 3 lasagna sheets and repeat. The top layer should be pasta covered with parmesan cheese.

Cover dish with foil, tenting slightly so as to not touch the top layer. Bake on middle rack for 30 minutes. Remove foil and sprinkle lightly with brown sugar. Bake for an additional 10 minutes (you want the top to be golden and bubbling). Allow lasagna to sit for 5 minutes before serving. Serve with organic greens dressed in extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

A lack of late

2010-10-02T08:26:00.000-04:00

The lack of new stories, recipes of late is due to the busyness of September (the moving out, moving in, coming and going, beginning of classes). But, it is also because I was saving any hovering stories, recipes for a new contributor to help me do them justice. My photographer friend Ian Gibb has graciously offered to take the photography aspect of Carousel off my hands whenever he can. Photography is not my strong suit, though it is most definitely his, so please check back to see his beautiful work and also check out his website for further amazing photography: http://iangibbphotography.com

Blackberry Humour; Peach and Blackberry Crisp

2010-08-24T21:35:00.000-04:00

Not one of them spoke.

Each sat around the table, set for five, and ate their dinner in silence.

Not one of them looked up.

Each too afraid at the response such a glance would provoke.

Their downtrodden faces and unenthusiastic chewing made the air feel cold and thick. Clinking (forks and knives on china) cut apart the room in deafening echoes. The chair backs were high, leather and severe; their posture, hunched over. The lights were dim and their spirits were dimmer, casting darkness on already shadowed faces. They stared at plates that did not stare back.

Not very much was eaten of the apparent "comfort food," cooked by a neighbour and reheated without thought. They chased it at a snail's pace around their plates and wished for some semblance of appetite. They needed to eat. Everyone said so. Eating was normalcy; not eating, at a time like this, felt normal.

After minutes that seemed hours, finally, a voice, hollow, suggested they clear the plates. For the first time, only five.

"And what about this?" Another voice. "What about this dessert?"

Not one of them nodded or shook a head in response. The voice became two hands carrying a dish to the table.

Big spoonfuls met small plates, met passing hands and picked up forks.

Each looked down at the homemade offering, unsure of what it was, a crisp or crumble of some sort. They prodded it hesitantly.

"Well, he liked dessert." A voice, strong, cut sharper, more distinctly than the clinking.

Each nodded in agreement.

Not one of them spoke.

Each took a large mouthful of crisp and felt the sweetness of peaches marry the tart blackberries of late summer upon their tongues and inside their cheeks. The crunch of pecans and moist, baked oats felt a comfort in their too dry mouths. Cinnamon brought back sense to their dull noses. Colour reappeared in the room in the form of a sloppy yellowed orange and wine-red mash-up.

Not one of them looked up.

Each closed their eyes and smiled, chewing slowly, quietly.

Peach and Blackberry Crisp

adapted from Gourmet

for filling:

5-6 medium peaches, pitted, peeled and cut into wedges

2 cups of blackberries, rinsed

1 tablespoon flour

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1/4 cup organic sugar

for topping:

2/3 cup all-purpose, unbleached flour

3/4 cup firmly packed organic light brown sugar

1/2 cup old fashioned rolled oats

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

3/4 cup chopped and lightly toasted pecans

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Combine peaches and blackberries in a large bowl and toss gently with 1 tablespoon of flour, lemon juice, and 1/4 cup sugar until fruit is well coated. Combine remaining flour, brown sugar, oats, salt and cinnamon in a small bowl. Add the butter (I like to do this with my hands, breaking and tearing apart the butter into even smaller pieces and combining it with the flour mixture until it looks like coarse, irregular meal). Stir in pecan pieces.

Spread the fruit mixture into the bottom of a 13 by 9 inch baking dish and sprinkle the oat mixture evenly over top. Bake on the middle rack of your preheated oven for approximately 45 minutes (or until top is golden). Serve with whipped cream or a nice scoop of vanilla ice cream.