Getting My Ducks in a Row

Well, my spices, actually.

It only took four months, but I finally managed to turn the binful of spicy chaos that followed my last binge at Penzey’s into something orderly, useful, and even a little bit elegant.

After much research, deliberation, and boggling at what people have the nerve to charge for spice storage solutions, what I ended up doing was shifting the whole lot out of the myriad zip bags and little jars into wide-mouthed magnetic tins with laser-printed labels. The tins were then put in orderly, alphabetized rows on a dry erase board, mounted vertically on my kitchen wall. After just one rainy afternoon’s worth of work, everything is now right at my fingertips and ready to be used at will. Every time I flip the light switch, which is right beside my fantastic new spice rack, I am filled anew with a smug sense of accomplishment.

It would have gone faster if I’d bought tins with magnets already on them, like the handful I already had, but I seriously balked at paying three bucks a pop. Instead, I bought three dozen non-magnetic ones for seventy cents apiece, plus two rolls of magnetic tape. A little more work and delay, yes, but when you consider that magnetic spice rack kits with 20 tins are currently going for $120 and up, it was totally worth it.

To celebrate the fact that all my spices are now out where they can be easily used, I improvised a dish of cauliflower, potatoes and peas that called for eight of my freshly-filled, readily-accessible tins to come off the rack. I’m not claiming it’s authentically Indian, but it does combine whole and ground spices common to Indian cuisine and stew and went smashingly with the batch of naan my pride-flushed ego also prompted me to bake. I especially love the crunch of the tiny brown mustard seeds and the lemony zing of the whole coriander.

As impressive as I think my new rack is, I will tease you just a bit by saying this is an intermediate step. I have even bigger plans for spice storage, but it’s going to take considerably more work than this did. You’ll just have to wait and see what I mean.

Cauliflower, Potatoes and Peas with Whole Spices
Serves 4-6

1 head of cauliflower, cut into small florets
3 Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and diced
3 tablespoons canola oil
1 1/2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
3/4 teaspoons coriander seeds
1/8 teaspoon fenugreek seeds
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon Rogan Josh seasoning
1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes in juice
2 cups vegetable stock
1 cup frozen peas
Salt to taste

Parboil the potatoes in lightly salted water until just starting to soften. Drain.

In a large pot, heat the mustard seeds, coriander seeds and fenugreek in the oil over medium-high heat just until the mustard seeds start popping. Standing back to avoid the sputtering, stir in the tomatoes and the remaining spices, and cook until the liquid has mostly evaporated. Add the stock, cauliflower and potatoes, cover the pot, and simmer until the vegetables are tender. Stir in the peas and continue cooking just until they have warmed through.

Serve over basmati rice, or in shallow bowls with naan.

Notes:

You can vary the whole spices and the vegetables depending on what you have. For example, if I’d had whole cumin seeds, I would have used a teaspoon of them and lowered the ground cumin by the same amount. Similarly, if I’d been out of potatoes, I would have used a can of chickpeas instead.

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A Pampas-Worthy Vegetarian Empanada

Unlike flan, empanadas were most definitely a major part of my upbringing. Of course they were beef, and at least when my grandmother visited, they were sometimes fried instead of baked.

As is always the case with a food so elemental, empanadas were something of a flash point, because everyone had strong opinions about what should be in them. Grandma and Dad both liked a bit of sweetness in theirs, either in the form of raisins or, in Grandma’s case, a sprinkling of sugar over the filling as she took each bite. This was anathema to Mom, me, and my brother. The grown-ups all liked green olives, but my brother and I hated them, and although I liked hard-boiled eggs, baby brother has loathed them since he was pre-verbal and still does. To navigate this minefield of preferences, we ended up defaulting to the simplest possible filling of lightly seasoned ground beef with no additions whatsoever.

Later, of course, I completely voided this carefully-achieved detente by becoming a vegetarian.

While there are certainly vegetarian-friendly empanada varieties that boast their own long-established authenticity — my favorites being creamy corn or spinach and cheese — I still periodically have attacks of nostalgia serious enough to have conducted a couple of experiments with meat substitutes. The trouble is that soy- or wheat-based faux beefs never really do the job, and at this point I’m steering away from the super-processed stuff anyway.

Empanadas remained a head-scratcher until recently, while I was making my shepherd’s pie, when it occurred to me that I’d already cracked the ground-beef substitution problem. The pie’s lentil filling was pretty much everything I was looking for: substantial, protein-rich, just saucy enough to be moist but not so liquid that it would run right out of a pastry pocket. Encouraged, I made a smaller pie and reserved half the filling for use later in the week, when I had time to make pastry. I was quite happy with the little pockets, both freshly-baked and warm, and cold the next day for lunch.

While I’m sure several generations of my ancestors are still spinning in disapproval at my giving up the almighty cow, lentils would have been a familiar food, especially during the meatless days of the Catholic calendar. Unorthodox it may be, but I still think they would have understood and even liked this empanada as much as I do.

I will add that, as usual, I’m not unequivocally satisfied with the pastry recipe. While it does produce a moderately crispy-flaky, firm but not muscular crust that securely contains the filling and holds up well to refrigeration, it’s also rather bratty to work with, both as you’re mixing it and as you’re stretching and filling. It must be really cold in order to stick together and hold a nice edge, and requires a good long chilling or freezing step before going in the oven. That is more aggravation than I need for a simple snack.

Now that I have the filling down, I may go back to this dough from Saveur, which I make with butter instead of lard. It’s not as flaky and it does leave your fingers a bit greasier, but it’s also way less troublesome and much friendlier to shape. It also responds excellently to my flattening method of choice:

I like to use a tortilla press for filled pastry not just because I lazily avoid the rolling pin as much as the piping bag, but also because it completely eliminates the issue of scraps. Re-rolled dough made from scraps will never come out as tender as first-rolled, and I hate throwing the scraps out. With a press, you get perfect, uniform circles without bothering with cookie cutters and with absolutely no waste.

Since it’s difficult to adequately explain in writing how empanada dough is crimped to form the traditional rope-like edge, check out this video for an easy-to-understand how-to. If the technique still eludes you, just seal them well with the tines of a fork.

Empanadas de Lentejas (Lentil Empanadas)
(Pastry adapted from Cook’s Illustrated’s The Best International Recipe)
Makes 32 snack-sized empanadas

For the pastry:

3 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) very cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
10 tablespoons ice water

For the filling:

1/2 cup brown lentils
1 small bay leaf
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 small onion, finely diced
1/2 cup finely diced celery
1/2 cup finely diced carrot
1 cup diced cremini mushrooms
1/4 cup tomato sauce
1 large handful fresh parsley
Salt, pepper, and splashes of soy sauce to taste

For assembly:

2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped (optional)
1 large egg, beaten with a tablespoon of water

Combine the flour, sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse until well combined. Add the butter cubes and pulse again until the mixture resembles cornmeal. Dump out into a large bowl and add 1/4 cup of water at a time, working it into the flour mixture with a spatula just until no dry flour remains. Divide the dough into two equal pieces, flatten each into a disk, and wrap each tightly in plastic wrap. Refrigerate at least 2 hours to relax and hydrate the dough.

In a small pot, boil the lentils with the bay leaf in just enough liquid to keep them covered until just tender, adding more boiling water if necessary. Do not drain the lentils.

Saute the onion, celery, carrots and mushrooms in the olive oil in a skillet over medium heat until the vegetables just begin to brown . Add the tomato sauce, the lentils with their liquid, and the parsley, torn roughly by hand. Simmer until the liquid has mostly evaporated, then season with salt, pepper, and soy. Cover and refrigerate until cold.

When everything is well chilled, take one pastry disk out of the fridge and divide into 16 equal pieces. Shape each piece into a ball, then cover again. Line a tortilla press with a strip of parchment, folded in half, or a quart-sized zip-top bag slit open along both sides. Set a ball of dough between the halves of the parchment or plastic, and press gently to a thin, uniform circle.

Hold the circle of dough in your palm and fill with around two tablespoons of lentils, leaving an inch clear around the edge. If desired, top with a teaspoon of hard boiled egg. Fold the dough over the filling to form a half-moon, pinch the edges firmly together to completely seal in the filling, and crimp as indicated above. Repeat for remaining balls of dough.

Set the empanadas on a parchment-lined baking sheet and return to the refrigerator to firm up again, at least 15 minutes. Repeat the process with the second disk of pastry on a second baking sheet.

Preheat the oven to 425.

Brush the cold filled pockets with the egg wash and bake, one sheet at a time, until nicely browned, 20-22 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature. Refrigerated leftovers will keep well for two or three days.

Notes:

If you prefer, the filled empanadas can also be frozen for baking later.

There are peas in the filling in the pictures above by virtue of it being half a batch I made for a shepherd’s pie, but as they’re not usually found in beef empanadas, I left them out of the recipe. If you like them, you can put them back in. If you’d like something green that actually is traditional in empanadas, try mixing some chopped green olives into the filling once it has cooled down.

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Flantastico!

Flan may be the default dessert throughout Latin America, but I didn’t actually grow up eating it because my mother did not make it. Don’t get me wrong; Mom is a champion baker and made plenty of other desserts, including some ridiculously complicated ones I had the temerity to demand for certain birthdays. As she explained over Christmas dinner preparation this year, though, flan was her mother’s territory and therefore ground she feared to tread.

Since Grandma only visited once a year and never once made flan that I can recall, I didn’t have much interaction with flan until my teens, when we moved to Mexico. As it could be had in any restaurant there, I enthusiastically embraced its wobbly, burnt-caramel ubiquity as both a comfort food and a special indulgence. Ever since then, even if I suspect from the quality of the rest of the meal that it won’t be particularly good, I’ve had a hard time passing flan up when I see it on a restaurant’s menu.

Although some might consider them basically the same thing, I don’t feel the same way about creme brulee. I’ve always found creme brulee to be too rich, too pasty, too bland and boring under that crackly sugar. I regularly find that all that butterfat just throws the ratios out of whack and drowns out the vanilla bean or lavender or yuzu or whatever flavoring-du-jour the pastry chef tried to infuse into it. Flan, on the other hand, is the perfect balance of eggy and creamy. Even a meh flan is enjoyable.

This flan, the home version of the best flan I’ve ever had, is not remotely meh. I ate it twice while completing an internship in Washington DC over the summer; the first time at Jose Andres’s flagship restaurant, Jaleo, and the second time at the cafe of the National Gallery of Art, which he took over in conjunction with two exhibits of Spanish art. The Jaleo version was dolled up with foams and garnishes while the Cafe España one was served perfectly plain, but both times the custard was smooth, creamy, golden perfection accented by a smoky-topaz caramel so dark it was seriously flirting with danger. It was the complete opposite of all those profoundly disappointing brulees, and what every half-assed Mexican restaurant flan aspires to be.

In passionate love, I demanded that the waiter find me one of the last remaining printed recipe brochures (available here if you also want a fabulous gazpacho recipe and a chicken empanada I obviously can’t vouch for, but which is probably great). I then bided my time until the next big family gathering, and insisted on making this in addition to our non-negotiable Christmas dessert, a chocolate buche de noel we’ve had as long as we’ve been north of the equator. While I can’t claim to have executed it as flawlessly as Jose, I daresay I did Mama Andres, whose recipe it is, credit.  I also think Grandma would have approved.

If you’re at all a flanatic like me, you absolutely must try this. Apart from the bit involving molten sugar, which is always a little intimidating given the high burn potential, it’s a fabulously easy recipe. If the burnt sugar bit really freaks you out, you can and must make this anyway. It won’t be exactly the same, but you could just spoon some dulce de leche or store-bought caramel sauce in the bottom of the ramekins before pouring the custard over. You could also try jam, as Alton Brown suggests.

Flan al estilo de la madre de Jose Andres
(Adapted from Jose Andres, Tapas: A Taste of Spain in America)
Serves 4-6

For the caramel:

1 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup warm water

For the custard:

1/2 cup half-and-half
1/2 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 strip lemon zest
1 cinnamon stick
3 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Cook the cup of sugar for the caramel in a small saucepan over medium-low heat until it melts and begins to brown. Continue cooking until the sugar becomes dark brown, stirring constantly to avoid burning. Remove the pan from heat and carefully add the warm water, standing well back to avoid the sputtering. Return pan to the heat and continue cooking about 5 minutes, until dark and thick, like grade-B maple syrup.

Divide the caramel between four large or six small ramekins, swirling to coat the bottoms and halfway up the sides. Be extremely careful not to let the sugar touch your skin, because caramel will stick like napalm and cause scary third-degree damage in a very short time. (If you’re worried and/or clumsy like me, keep a bowl of ice water next to you and plunge any exposed bits in immediately to stop the burning.)

Line the bottom of a high-sided 9×13 baking pan with a clean kitchen towel and set the coated ramekins in the pan.

Preheat oven to 275 F.

Combine the half-and-half, heavy cream, lemon zest, cinnamon stick and 3/4 cup sugar in a medium-size saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, removing the pan from the heat just as contents reach a boil. (You could also do this in a liquid measuring cup in the microwave.)

In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs and yolks. Pour a bit of the hot cream gently into the eggs to temper them, whisking vigorously, then whisk in the rest of the cream. Strain the mixture into a large liquid measuring cup, stirring in the vanilla extract. Fill the caramel-lined ramekins with the custard.

Set the pan with the filled ramekins onto the middle rack of the oven. Carefully fill the pan with enough hot water to reach halfway up the sides of the ramekins, making sure not to drip any water into the custards.

Bake for 50-60 minutes, until the flans look set but the middles are still a bit jiggly. Remove from the oven and lift the flans out of the water bath to cool to room temperature. Wrap with plastic wrap and refrigerate until completely cold.

To serve, run a knife along the edges of the flans to loosen them. Place a dessert plate upside-down over the top of a ramekin, and invert. Shake gently but firmly until the flan drops onto the plate, and lift the ramekin up to let the caramel drizzle down onto the custard. Repeat with the remaining flans.

Notes:

The recipe as originally written was for six servings, but you should use quite small ramekins or custard cups if you want any height in your flan at that quantity. Dividing the custard six ways among regular-sized ramekins will result in rather flat, but still lovely, flans. If you want taller, more substantial ones, make just four flans. You could also make a single, bigger flan, but in my experience, it is much harder to tell when a bigger one is done, and it’s also harder to unmold without cracking the flan or spilling caramel sauce on your work surface or yourself.

His Lordship’s brother, who graciously hosted us as he does every Christmas, does not have ramekins, so I made these in small oven-safe soup bowls. It worked well, as you can see.

You can make a coconut variation by substituting coconut milk for some or all of the dairy and leaving out the cinnamon and lemon. I did this on Wednesday to use up the two leftover yolks from my birthday souffle, because that’s just the kind of crazy I am.

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Cake and Happenstance

It’s not just His Lordship who doesn’t get cake for his birthday. Since His Lordship isn’t much for baking, unless we go out to dinner somewhere with a creditable pastry chef, I don’t get one on my birthday either. The fact of the matter is that Chez Disdain is a birthday cake-free zone.

That isn’t to say that you should pity me, because while His Lordship doesn’t bake cake, he does, in fact bake on occasion. And what he bakes on those occasions is this:

That is a chocolate souffle, and it’s part of a long-standing tradition which began with his deciding to surprise me back when we were in grad school. Being no fool, I’ve insisted on repeat performances every year since. At this point I can’t imagine celebrating my birthday any other way.

But. As much as I adore the souffles and would never give them up, every few years, I kind of miss cake. Since this year’s birthday not only fell on a weekday but the one on which His Lordship would be out all evening at an orchestra rehearsal, I decided to use the time alone to make my own damn cake. Specifically, almond cupcakes topped with a frosting of the quick Meyer lemon jam folded into creme fraiche.

The cupcakes were a quick and painless mix job, came out beautifully tender and cloud-light, and provided a nice neutral base for the brightly lemony cream. They would have had more almond flavor if I’d had almond extract and time to toast almonds instead of using pre-ground almond flour, but they were still quite birthday-worthy, and made me more than content enough to wait all the way to this weekend to get my souffle.

Almond Cupcakes with Meyer Lemon Creme Fraiche
(Adapted from Almond Cake in Rose Levy Berenbaum’s The Cake Bible and Lemon Jam from Sally Schneider’s The Improvisational Cook)
Makes 12 cupcakes

For cake:
1 large egg
1/3 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon Amaretto liqueur
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
13 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon sifted cake flour
5 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon ground almonds
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

For lemon cream:
1 recipe Quick Meyer Lemon Jam
8 ounces cold creme fraiche

Preheat the oven to 350 F and line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners.

In a liquid measuring cup, combine the egg, 2 tablespoons sour cream, the Amaretto, and the vanilla.

In the bowl of a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, mix the flour, almonds, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt on low speed briefly to blend. Add the butter and remaining sour cream and mix on low until the dry ingredients are moistened. Increase the speed to medium and beat for 90 seconds, then scrape down the sides. Add the egg mixture in three additions, blending for 20 seconds between additions and scraping down as needed.

Using an ice cream scoop, divide the batter evenly between the twelve lined cups. Bake for approximately 20 minutes, until the tops are firm and golden and a tester comes out clean.

While the cupcakes are baking, fold the jam into the creme fraiche until completely combined. Cover tightly and refrigerate until ready to use.

When the cupcakes have cooled sufficiently, top with the creme fraiche and, if desired, a twist of candied Meyer lemon.

Notes:

The lemon creme fraiche will still be pretty fluid when freshly made, and will firm up to a softly spreadable frosting if refrigerated for a few hours. You could serve the barely-cooled cupcake atop a pool of the sauce-like cream, or cool them completely and top them with the chilled cream. Your call.

You can double the quantities for the cake and bake for 35-40 minutes in a buttered and floured 9-inch cake pan for a full-sized cake instead.

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A Slightly Different Take on Holiday Goodies

Every year, I participate in a Secret Santa exchange. Every year before this one, I have sent my giftee whichever cookies are in that year’s repertoire, but this year there was a hitch: I drew a giftee who can’t have sweets.

What to do? Simple enough: switch to crackers. I hadn’t made them before because I’ve always considered crackers to be a quick convenience, to be bought for having with cheese or butter and jam when a full meal isn’t called for. With cookie energy that needed repurposing, though, I went scavenging through my cookbooks for non-sugary equivalents that would demonstrate the same degree of care and cheer that I’d like to think my holiday cookies show. Knowing that the recipient likes cheese, I concentrated my search on cheese crackers, and got exceptionally lucky on the very first go.

Now, I will grant you that these cheddar crackers, spiked with chipotle and given extra depth with some whole wheat flour, don’t look all that exciting. The first one or two may not even seem very exciting. Tasty, crispy, and finally a little bit zippy, yes, but exciting? Except…

Except that you will rapidly find yourself compulsively popping one after another until half the batch is gone, because the heat is seductively cumulative and the crunch is thoroughly addictive. If you’re looking for snacks to go along with your New Year’s Eve cocktails, you can’t go wrong with this grown-up version of the goldfish crackers children devour with similarly insatiable greed.

I’m delighted the challenge could be met so easily. I think these crackers are every bit as special as a holiday cookie, and I’m pleased to report that my Secret Santa giftee thought so too!

Spicy Cheddar Crackers
(Adapted from Cheddar Cheese Crackers in Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads)
Makes around four dozen teeny nibbles

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup white whole wheat flour
1/4 teaspoon salt, plus extra for sprinkling
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon chipotle chile powder
1 1/2 ounces very sharp Cheddar cheese, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons boiling water
1/2 teaspoon molasses
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Additional room-temperature water as needed

Whisk together all the dry ingredients until the chipotle is evenly distributed, then place in the bowl of a food processor. Add the cheese cubes and pulse until finely ground.

Stir the boiling water, molasses and butter together in a glass measuring cup until the butter has melted. With the processor running, pour the mixture through the feed tube. If the dough doesn’t come together, add more water, a tablespoon at a time. Once the dough forms a ball, process for an additional 20 seconds to knead. Tip the ball onto a sheet of plastic wrap, form into a flat disk, and refrigerate at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 400F and line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Divide dough into four equal pieces. Leaving the other three wrapped while you work, shape the first piece into a cylinder and then flatten it out on a work surface. Roll out to a rectangle 14-18 inches long and around 6 inches wide, and 1/16 inch thick. Fold into thirds, turn a quarter-turn, and roll back out to a rectangle 1/16 inch thick. Transfer to one-half of one of the prepared baking sheets, and repeat the process with a second piece of dough, setting it on the sheet beside the first.

Dock each sheet of dough thoroughly with a fork, then use a pizza cutter or sharp knife to trim any scraggly edges in order to get a neat rectangle. Cut each sheet lengthwise into quarters, then divide each crosswise into an even number of small inch-long squares or rectangles. Sprinkle with the additional salt.

Bake until well browned and crisp, 10-12 minutes depending on the thickness of the dough. Place the sheet on a rack and cool completely. Repeat with the final two pieces of dough.

The crackers will theoretically stay fresh for weeks in an airtight container, but I really wouldn’t plan on them lasting out a single week.

Notes:

It occurred to me as I was rolling out the third of the four pieces that this dough is more than resilient enough to stand up to the pasta machine, which would make the rolling out much, much faster.

Should you be so inspired, you could find tiny little fish-shaped cookie cutters and make your very own goldfish for grown-ups.

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Easter Pie for Christmas

In keeping with my not-quite-there-yet attitude toward the holidays this year, there is one food that I’ve been craving since my little outburst of decorating two weekends ago. As it happens, it’s a holiday food, yes — but the wrong holiday.

This savory pie filled with spinach, ricotta and parmesan and seasoned with nutmeg is not traditionally a Christmas food. It’s an Easter food, which is why the Italian name for it, Torta Pasqualina, means “Easter Pie”. When I was growing up, we did have it for Easter, but I loved it so much that my mother could be persuaded to make it at other times of the year, and now that I’m a grown-up, I can make it for myself at Christmastime if I want to.

The catch is that it had been so long since I’d watched Mom make it that I pretty much forgot how, and would you believe that scouring through every single Italian cookbook I have, including the supposed bible of Italian cooking, did not turn up a recipe quite like what I was looking for? Oh, there were plenty of pies made with ricotta and greens, but either the dough was wrong (puff pastry? I don’t think so. Sweet pastafrolla? Even worse!) or the filling wasn’t right (prosciutto is definitely out and chard is nice but not what I was looking for here).

In the end, I had to do a lot of remixing, combining of elements, and filling in my own blanks to come up with a recipe closer to what I remembered. It’s not quite 100% there, and I will probably have to consult with Mom to figure out where the ratios were a little off, but it’s really darn close.

If you’ve never had this pie, imagine something a little like Greek spanikopita, except milder and eggier and denser. At least for me, it’s an incredibly comforting flavor, plus it’s green! Green is Christmassy, right? It’s also better cold than fresh out of the oven and will keep for days in the fridge, which makes it an excellent option if you want to make it ahead and devote most of your holiday cooking energy to fussy rolled-out cookies or wassail or what have you.

Torta Pasqualina, or Italian Spinach and Ricotta Pie
Serves 8-10

For pastry:
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 tablespoons sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) salted butter, cut into 32 pieces
4 tablespoons non-hydrogenated vegetable shortening
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon water

For filling:
2 12-ounce bags frozen spinach
1 16-ounce container part-skim ricotta cheese
1 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano
2 teaspoons each salt and freshly ground pepper
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
4 large eggs, beaten

Place the butter and shortening in the freezer for 10-15 minutes to chill thoroughly.

Place dry ingredients in the food processor bowl and pulse several times to combine. Add the butter and shortening and pulse again until sandy, 12-15 times. Beat the water into the eggs and add to the processor, and process until the dough starts to form a ball around the blade. Divide the dough into two pieces, one comprising two-thirds of the dough. Form each piece into a flat disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerate at least 1 hour.

Defrost the spinach in the microwave, then squeeze bone-dry in a colander or a dish towel. Place in a large bowl and stir in the cheeses, salt, pepper and nutmeg. Taste the filling and correct the seasonings as necessary; it should be slightly over-seasoned since it will be eaten cold. Stir in the eggs. Set aside.

Set the rack at the lower-middle position and heat oven to 350F.

Roll the larger piece of dough into a circle large enough to line a 9-inch springform pan. Tuck the pastry into the pan, letting the excess hang over the sides. Spread the filling onto the pastry, leveling and smoothing the top. Roll out the second piece of dough and set over the filling. Trim the excess, tuck the edges under, and crimp. Cut an X in the center and pull back the corners to leave a vent for the filling as it cooks.

Bake the pie for 60-70 minutes, until the pastry is golden-brown and the filling that peeks through the opening in the crust looks dry and set. Cool completely before eating, and refrigerate any leftovers.

Notes:

I used salted butter because I’m hoarding the unsalted for holiday cookie baking, but if you only have unsalted around, add 1 teaspoon salt to the dry ingredients.

Using lower-fat ricotta is not only fine but even preferable here, since the full-fat kind can make this unpleasantly rich in combination with the eggy pastry.

Many versions of this pie crack additional whole eggs into the filling, which bake to a hard-boiled consistency and make for a pretty presentation when the pie is cut open. If you want to try this, use a big soup spoon to create 4-5 evenly-spaced deep indentations in the filling once you’ve spread it inside the pastry, and carefully crack an egg into each well. Cover the pie with the second layer of pastry and proceed as instructed.

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It’s Not a Bug; It’s a Feature

Don’t you, like me, hate that moment when, in making pancakes or waffles, you mix the melted butter into the other liquid dairy products and the butter immediately seizes up? Yes, the resulting clumpy mess still works in the recipe, but it’s a dismaying sight.

What if I told you I had a recipe that not only makes that clumpy mess a good thing, but also lets you have light, crumbly, yummy biscuits with such little effort that you can add them to any working-day dinner? Or, given what is coming upon us in a matter of days, so that you can instantly have bread for your Thanksgiving table if you were so tied up with turkey wrangling that you didn’t realize until twenty minutes before eating that you forgot the rolls?

I will not say these are the best buttermilk biscuits ever, because that honor so clearly goes to Shirley Corriher’s Touch of Grace Biscuits from Cookwise that we might as well not waste time debating it. If you’ve never tried them, go out right now, do whatever you have to do to find southern self-rising flour, and make these biscuits, because they will blow your mind. (Incidentally, the first time I had them was from Shirley’s very own hand, since we happened upon her giving a cooking demonstration in Reading Terminal Market years ago when the cookbook first came out. You may envy me if you choose. I wouldn’t blame you.)

These are not as good, because they couldn’t possibly be. They do have, however, an amazingly high excellence-to-effort ratio. They come together in minutes, give you crisp edges and fluffy interiors perfect for absorbing extra butter, and you can play around to your heart’s content with adding herbs or grated cheese, or even a little extra sugar and lemon zest for a lightning-quick shortcake base.

The fact that deliberately causing clumping makes you feel like a teeny bit like a mad scientist is nothing to sneeze at either.

Buttermilk Drop Biscuits
(Adapted from America’s Test Kitchen’s Best Drop Biscuits)
Makes 1 dozen

1 cup each unbleached all-purpose and “white” whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon sugar
3/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup cold buttermilk

Adjust the oven rack to the middle position, and heat the oven to 475F.

Whisk the flours, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and salt in large bowl.

Melt the butter and allow to cool for 5 minutes. Add in the buttermilk, stirring until the butter seizes into small clumps.

Add the buttermilk mixture to the dry ingredients and stir with a rubber spatula until just incorporated. Using an ice cream scoop or a greased 1/4-cup measuring cup, scoop the batter and drop onto the baking sheet, spacing 1 1/2 inches apart.

Bake 12-14 minutes, until golden brown and crisp on top. Transfer to wire rack and let cool 5 minutes before serving.

Notes:

The reason that clumpy butter is a good thing is that melting and resolidifying butter into little bits accomplishes the same thing cutting cold butter into flour under the traditional method does: dispersing solid fat throughout the dough creates a fluffy end product. This gets you to the same place with much less work and mess.

ATK says you can use clabbered milk if you don’t have buttermilk on hand. To make it, add 1 tablespoon lemon juice to 1 cup of milk and let it stand until it curdles, around 10 minutes.

If you really are making these for Thanksgiving, I would use 2 cups total of all-purpose flour for a holiday-appropriate, lighter biscuit instead of the half-and-half mix I prefer for a more workaday dinner or post-Thanksgiving I-should-dial-it-back recovery brunch.

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Pie Squared

When I said earlier that there’s a lot of “it’s that time of year again” in my life during the autumn months, I should have included in the list the annual pie-making ritual that is His Lordship’s birthday.

I usually spend the weeks before his birthday with my ears open for any new options, and this year I happened upon the episode of America’s Test Kitchen on apple desserts. The Skillet Apple Pie not only looked perfect but also provided a ready-made gift idea: a 12-inch oven-safe skillet, which we did not have. (I know! Kitchen equipment I don’t own! Inconceivable!)

The idea here is that the filling is pre-cooked on the stove, then covered with just a top layer of dough and baked for a much shorter-than-usual length of time. The sheer brilliance of this is that it sidesteps the double-hassle of rolling, fitting and crimping, and avoids the largely inevitable risk of a soggy and/or tough bottom crust. You also don’t have to worry about finding an oven temperature that will soften the fruit, set the liquids, bake the dough, and avoid burning or overbaking any of the components. Since the filling is already mostly cooked, you’re free to flash-bake the crust at a temperature so high that the layers of dough “EEK!” away from each other and create beautifully crispy strata.

I did have to make some important changes to the procedures to accommodate the special needs of non-hydrogenated shortening, but even so, this was as effortless as pie could ever possibly be. The outcome was, if I may say so, even better than the birthday pie I deemed perfect a couple of years ago. This one may not be quite as refined as that standard double-crust apple pie, but it has its own kind of beauty, and by every measure it was a smashing success. The apple filling was sweet and juicy, neither gummy with too much thickener nor runny with too little. The pastry was utterly perfect: flaky, tender, shatteringly crisp. His Lordship positively adored it, both the day it was baked and the next morning for breakfast.

I love the ease, speed and deliciousness of this recipe so much that the birthday apple version was followed two weeks later by a pear and cranberry version (see the notes in the recipe below). Pretty much anything that would work as a cobbler or crisp will work here, so I’ve been dreaming up zillions of other filling possibilities ever since. I just found a new source for quinces and may have some left over for pie experimentation even after making jam, and I’m also eager to try cherry and peach when summer comes back around.  Don’t be surprised if pie makes repeat appearances in the next several seasons!

Best-Ever Birthday Apple Pie
(Adapted from America’s Test Kitchen’s Skillet Apple Pie)
Serves 6-8

For crust:
1 cup (5 ounces) all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons non-hydrogenated shortening
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
3–4 tablespoons ice water

For filling:
2 1/2 pounds of various kinds of apples (about 6; see notes)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup apple cider
1/3 cup maple syrup
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

To bake:
1 egg white, lightly beaten
2 teaspoons granulated sugar

Cut the butter into 1/4 inch pieces and place into a small bowl with the shortening. Cover and refrigerate until the fats are very cold and firm, at least 20 minutes.

Place the flour, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse several times to combine. Add the cold fat and pulse again 10 times, until the mixture resembles crumbs. Err on the side of leaving visible pea-sized bits of butter.

Dump the flour and butter mixture into a medium bowl. Sprinkle 3 tablespoons of ice water over it and fold with a rubber spatula, pressing down gently. If the dough isn’t sticking together, add the extra tablespoon of water and fold again. Transfer the still-crumbly dough onto a large sheet of plastic wrap and press out into a small disk. Wrap tightly and refrigerate at least 1 hour, and preferably overnight.

Fill a large bowl with cold water, and squeeze in some lemon juice. Peel and core the apples, and cut them into 1/2-inch-thick slices. Place the peeled slices in the acidulated water to keep them from browning while you’re working on the rest.

Heat the butter in a 12-inch oven-safe skillet over medium-high heat. Lift the apples out of the water and toss into the pan. Stir infrequently until they’re starting to caramelize but not cooked all the way through, about 5-7 minutes, then turn off the heat. Whisk together the cider, maple syrup, lemon juice, cornstarch and cinnamon and pour over the apples, stirring gently to coat. Set aside to cool while you’re rolling out the pastry.

Adjust the oven rack to the upper-middle position and preheat to 500F. While the oven is heating, roll out the dough to an 11-inch circle between layers of plastic wrap or parchment paper. Transfer the dough to a large cookie sheet, still encased in the plastic or parchment, and place in the freezer for the last few minutes of the preheating to re-chill the shortening.

When the oven is hot, peel the top layer of plastic or parchment off the pastry, flip the dough gently onto the apple filling in the skillet, and peel off the second layer. Fold under or trim off any edges that are hanging over the sides, brush the top with the egg white, and sprinkle evenly with the sugar. With a sharp knife or pizza cutter, cut the dough into six quadrants (once down the middle, and twice across). Bake until the crust is a deep golden brown, 20-25 minutes.

Let cool 15 minutes before serving warm with vanilla ice cream.

Notes:

ATK said to combine sweet and tart varieties, so I used equal amounts of Macoun, Empire, Jonagold and Cortland. Using apples with different characteristics gives you a more complex apple flavor and ensures that some apples will stay firm while others are almost applesauce-soft and add more body to the filling.

I use an apple corer/divider to segment the apples, which gives me eight wedges that can each be halved to get the perfect thickness.

Non-hydrogenated shortening can be found at health food stores and some bigger supermarkets. If you can’t find it and have to resort to regular shortening, you can skip the freezer step since it’s more forgiving of abuse.

If you don’t have an oven-safe skillet, the filling can be spooned into a shallow casserole or 9×13 Pyrex dish before being covered with the dough.

For the cranberry-pear variation, substitute pears for the apples and add one cup of cranberries plus 1/3 cup of sugar and the maple syrup once the pears have begun to soften up. Cook until the cranberries are just starting to pop, but be sure to turn off the heat while at least a few are still intact. Before you add the cider and thickener (I left out the cinnamon, but it’s your call), taste the filling and add a little bit more sugar if it’s still too tart. Proceed as usual with the recipe.

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Don’t Underestimate Your Audience

Not your garden-variety carrot cake

I must confess that this entry in the weekly baking series had me a little nervous, and I even considered lying by omission with respect to one of the key ingredients when I brought it into work on Monday. I mean, I’m a massive fan of the lowly parsnip and consider it utterly inoffensive, but I know people can have weird knee-jerk reactions when it comes to vegetables, especially in baked goods. I’ve known people to freak out over plain old zucchini bread.

But I obviously worried over absolutely nothing, because I can’t even adequately describe what a huge hit this was with the coworkers. The “parsnip” prominently displayed on the accompanying Post-It note doesn’t seem to have deterred anyone, and people were gushing and demanding the recipe for days after. And who could blame them, when these muffins are so fantastically spicy, chewy, sweet and moist that the cream cheese frosting I offered on the side really was viewed as superfluous?

So what possessed me to mix parsnips into a carrot cake recipe in the first place? It was a lucky impulse born of nostalgia and facilitated by the fact that, just as I do with cranberries, I hoard parsnips this time of year. They start showing up in supermarkets right before the holidays before disappearing rapidly again in January. Don’t ask me why, since I think they’re lovely even after Christmas has passed, but produce buyers can be short-sighted that way.

I had been intending to make carrot cake for the past month or so, since our anniversary. My prior love of carrot cake for its own sake was amplified when it unexpectedly became our wedding cake thanks to the very obliging host of the B&B His Lordship and I had eloped to. We hadn’t planned on having one and had in fact gone all-out at dinner, but were surprised and touched when we got back to our room and found the prettily decorated top tier of her friends’ anniversary cake, which the host had brought home for us from their party. It made a great breakfast the next morning, and ever since I’ve had a special craving for carrot cake this time of year.

While I was pulling the carrots out of the vegetable bin, I saw the parsnips and thought what the heck. Parsnips are practically the same as carrots anyway, and although they’re pretty rare, I had heard of parsnip cakes before. Just to play it safe, I went with a 50-50 ratio and added the resulting shred to my favorite carrot cake recipe, which is already fabulously easy and delectable.

Do you notice the parsnips? Well, not unless you really concentrate. They’re so pale that they disappear into their speckled surroundings once baked, and all you see are the sturdier carrots. If you focus, you can taste their distinctively spicy sweetness behind the cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, but the non-cognoscenti could just as easily assume that was a pinch of cardamom or ginger instead. If you’re really skittish about the parsnip thing, or want to try this in May when there’s nary a parsnip to be found, you can make it with all carrots instead, and I promise you’ll love them just as much.

If you do fancy an adventure or want to sneak some additional variety into your kids’ or your coworkers’ diets, though, try this out! It’s fun, and who says you shouldn’t play with your food?

Carrot-Parsnip Spice Muffins
(Adapted from Carrot Cake in America’s Test Kitchen’s The New Best Recipe)
Makes 2-3 dozen muffins

1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup “white” whole wheat flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 1/4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1 1/2 cups grated carrots (about 3 medium)
1 1/2 cups grated parsnips (about 3 medium)
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 1/2 cups canola or grapeseed oil

For the frosting (seriously optional):

8 ounces softened cream cheese
5 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
1 tablespoon sour cream
1/4 cup honey
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup confectioner’s sugar

Adjust the oven rack to the middle position and preheat oven to 350F. Line 2-3 muffin tins with paper liners.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt and spices.

Combine the sugars and eggs in a food processor fitted with the metal blade and process until the brown sugar has completely broken up and distributed throughout, about 30 seconds. With the machine running, add the oil through the feed tube in a steady stream, and continue processing until the mixture is light in color and resembles mayonnaise.

Add the liquid mixture to the dry ingredients and fold until the flour is mostly incorporated, then fold in the carrots and parsnips.

Fill the tins with the batter half to two-thirds full, depending on how many muffins you would like to end up with and how ample their tops. Bake until a skewer inserted into a muffin comes out clean, 25-28 minutes. Cool the muffins completely in their tins.

In a food processor, combine the cream cheese, butter, sour cream, honey and vanilla. Process until well combined, then add the powdered sugar and continue processing until smooth. If the frosting is not sweet enough, add a bit more honey and pulse again.

Ice the cooled muffins with the frosting, or serve the frosting alongside as a spread. Unfrosted muffins will keep at room temperature for a day, but frosted ones and any leftover frosting should be covered and refrigerated.

Notes:

If it seems as though I’m using a lot of this “white” whole wheat flour, which is made by King Arthur and a few other vendors, it’s because I really love the stuff. Not only is it a snap to swap out some of the white flour in a recipe and add some extra nutrition value without any textural harm at all, but the extra wheatiness really plays well in recipes with a lot of spice, like this one. If you don’t want to go that route, simply use 2 1/2 total cups of all-purpose flour instead.

I didn’t want any embellishments this time, but if you’re a fan of walnuts and/or raisins in your carrot cake (I like the former but can seriously leave the latter), you could stir in 1 to 1 1/2 cups of either or both along with the carrots and parsnips.  In that case, you will probably also have to add at least 5 more minutes to the baking time.

In the future, I may try making this entirely with parsnips. If it’s a success, I’ll definitely report back.

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We Now Return You to Your Regularly-Scheduled Programming

It’s that time of the year again, in more ways than one. Early fall seems to be my usual time for disappearing and/or reappearing here, since it’s my usual time for starting new things, like degree programs, jobs, household projects, not to mention finally making an honest man out of His Lordship. It’s also the time we get a sizable shipment of dried figs from my father-in-law, which I’ve previously documented.

This cake, which marks my renewal of the Sunday baking and blogging tradition, is apropos of all of that, since it was inspired by a dinner out last weekend to commemorate our anniversary, the start of my new career, and our return to the East Coast.

We resume our narrative at a big-deal local restaurant named after an eating implement, which originally witnessed the very-long-in-coming decision to de-sin our relationship. While the meal was enjoyable and the company was naturally delightful, one of our “small-plate” desserts (a trend about which I have very mixed feelings) was quite the let-down. In principle, it sounded like the perfect not-too-heavy ending: an individual olive oil cake with Marcona almonds, garnished with figs. In practice, the cake was dry, crumbly, and tasted of neither olive oil nor almonds. The only saving grace was that the figs in the accompanying garnish were fresh and very nicely presented.

With the first bite, I knew I could do it better, since I already had a great and easy olive oil cake in my repertoire. I had figs that, while not fresh, were so lovingly grown and processed that they were still brightly green and tender, which reminded me of a old-favorite recipe for figs and apricots reconstituted in a honey-lemon syrup. I didn’t have almonds, but since they had added nothing at all, I quickly dropped that element altogether.

My path clear, I proceeded to do it better the very next day, on the first try, in about an hour and with minimal kitchen messing-up. Unlike the original, this cake is moist and beautifully springy in crumb, and delicately perfumed in ways that really do hint at sun-dappled groves. The glistening green-and orange compote instantly clicked with the cake and added even more Mediterranean flair, not to mention perfect fall color.

Not a bad way to make a comeback, one-upping an award-winning institution. Sometime soon I’m going to try improving on the rather bland butternut risotto I had as an entree, after a faultless appetizer of wild mushrooms en croute and a Calvados sidecar that made me want to rush across the Ben Franklin to stock up on hassle-free apple brandy for future cocktail applications.

Olive Oil Cake with Honeyed Fig-Apricot Compote
(Adapted from Sally Schneider, The Improvisational Cook and The Moosewood Collective, Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant)
Serves 8

For the cake:

3/4 cup each “white” whole wheat flour and all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Scant 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 large eggs
Zest of one large lemon
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup each milk and yogurt (preferably Greek)
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Butter and flour a 9-inch cake pan, lined with parchment paper.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. In a glass measuring cup, thin the yogurt down with the milk, then whisk in the olive oil until emulsified. (I’ll warn you, it won’t look at all pretty.)

In a large bowl, beat the eggs, lemon zest and sugar by hand until frothy and and the sugar is starting to dissolve. Whisk in the flour mixture until mostly incorporated, then stir in the swampy-green yogurt and oil emulsion.

Scrape the batter into the cake pan and bake about 45 minutes, until the top springs back when gently pressed, or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake for five minutes in the pan, then invert, peel off the parchment, and cool completely on a rack.

For the compote:

3 cups boiling water
1/3 cup honey
2 cups dried figs, sliced into eighths
1 cup dried apricots, quartered
Juice of one lemon (the same one zested for the cake)

While the cake is baking and cooling, mix the honey and water in a medium saucepan. Add the fruit, bring to a boil, and simmer until the fruit is tender and the syrup has reduced and thickened, about 20-25 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice.

Once the cake has cooled, serve generous slices with the compote on the side.

While it’s best the day it’s baked, the cake will keep well for several days at room temperature, tightly wrapped in plastic. Any leftover compote can be spooned into a small container and schlepped to work the next day with a single serving of even more yogurt, turning your Monday morning into an entirely different experience.

Notes:

A good, but not great, olive oil is what you’re aiming for here. You want one that is fruity and flavorful, but don’t waste your $40-a-bottle, murky-green unfiltered Tuscan early-harvest on an application that will bake out most of its divinity. Save that one for salads, and grab the $5 a bottle California estate stuff from Trader Joe’s instead.

I use the “white” whole wheat flour both to add flavor and to make the cake marginally healthier — although with no butter and all that “good” fat, it’s already about as good-for-you as you can make a cake that’s still absolutely delicious. If you don’t have it on hand, go ahead and use a total of 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour instead.

You can use 1/2 cup of buttermilk instead of the yogurt and milk, although I don’t know about you, but I’m much more likely to have yogurt around during the last-minute, MUST HAVE CAKE NOW occasions when this recipe comes in particularly handy. Likewise, regular plain yogurt is fine instead of the Greek yogurt, but I usually stock the Greek kind, and there’s something particularly appropriate about using it in a cake based on olive oil.

Incidentally, the cake is equally wonderful in the summer with fresh berries or nectarines, preferably macerated with a tiny bit of sugar in orange juice or white wine.

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