There's a long, snaking line at the farmers' market. Waiting amidst the melting shoppers, I'm juggling too many ripe tomatoes, feeling like a last minute Cirque du Soleil understudy forced to go on. Twisting, shifting tomatoes from right to left, (yet fearful of losing my place in line), I gingerly tuck one tomato in the crook of my neck and embrace the remaining heirlooms, cautiously hugging them against my white t-shirt. In short, I should have snagged a basket. The woman next to me is pawing through a collection of garlic scapes, turning them over and over, asking no one in particular, "What should I do with these?" I long to respond, "Stop touching them, for starters" but bite my tongue. Inching my way to the front of the line, I debate whether picking up a few ears of corn means sacrificing the tomatoes.
"Next?" Is my access to the produce scale. Not-so-gently setting the tomatoes down, I turn around and grab half a dozen ears (six for $5.00 is agreeable; more so when you stop to think about the farmer who is tending the cornfield in this heat) and two of the garlic scapes because they're within reach, and I love them. The corn refuses to lie still so I slip the garlic scapes over my wrist. "Whose tomatoes are these?" the cashier asks the crowd. Sheepishly I plunk down the corn and hold up my garlic scape bracelets. "Yes, yes," I confirm, "and these," pointing to the corn, "and these" displaying my garlic scape jewelry. "Do you want to buy a dozen eggs?" the cashier asks innocently. I can't even imagine navigating the tomatoes and the corn in the tiny canvas bag clutched in my sweaty palm. Adding a dozen eggs to the mix? Perish the thought.
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There are plenty of superlative chocolate chip cookie recipes for the baking. But perhaps the best chocolate chip cookie is simply the one you conjure in your food memory. Polka-dotted with semisweet chips from the classic yellow bag or studded with chunks of almost-too-bitter bittersweet artisanal chocolate. Your cookie of choice might be made by Freihofer’s or available nationwide in the blue resealable Nabisco bag. It’s possible you align yourself with the Entenmann’s box on top of the fridge in your grandmother’s kitchen. Maybe there’s a neighborhood bakery that sells a crispy-chewy version by the quarter pound, tucking them into a waxy bag before handing it over the counter. Some folks have not so fond all-nighter memories associated with a certain dough boy and cylinders of slice ‘n bake.
Whether you swear by walnuts in the mix or opt for nut free, chocolate chip cookies are often the first cookies many of us learn to bake from scratch. Today’s kitchens are well equipped with cookie scoops and parchment paper, but plenty of us learned to maneuver teaspoons of dough onto buttered cookie sheets, carefully removing them from the oven while clutching a potholder. (Odds are the potholder was something woven during an arts and crafts class.) I think we can all agree that the most challenging parts of the process were a) not eating the raw cookie dough and b) waiting for the cookies to cool before diving in. The happy accident of adding semi-sweet chocolate bar pieces to a classic butter drop cookie is Ruth Graves Wakefield’s doing. For many of us who turn to the brown sugar/butter cookie for solace and sustenance, it is often our undoing, but worth every bite. It takes a certain type of person to contemplate baking when the “real feel” temps outside are hovering in the triple digits. I’m that person, turning the oven to 400 degrees with one hand and replenishing my iced coffee with the other. No stranger to heat and humidity playing on repeat, I remind myself of the alternative; we could be in the midst of a polar vortex.
As eternal as the oven-burn scars embellishing my arms, summer kitchen memories never fade completely. Heat advisories in a commercial kitchen are redundant. When your job entails open flames, double-stack convection ovens, or the dreaded over-sized Sunday brunch griddle, you’re already playing with fire. And as individuals working in food service know, any number of unforeseen crises will enhance the quality of your workday (or night shift). With little notice, you might find yourself frantically emptying the contents of the walk-in to an already full single-door fridge, because the compressor finally surrenders. It could be something as stressful as a 3-tiered buttercream cake, listing precariously to the side, needing transport to a quaint barn venue without A/C. Expensive perishables will spoil, tempers will flare and someone will call out sick or simply melt into a puddle while working the line. These are all reasons to be kind and patient the next time you slip into a pleasantly cooled eatery and order an icy glass of heat distraction. Early morning or late at night is obviously the best time for summer baking. As fond as I am of ice-box desserts, fresh fruit offerings are ridiculously tempting right now. Fruit wrapped in pie dough requires an oven, but doesn’t need much in the way of peeling or slicing. Peaches and nectarines need a quick surgical pit removal but little more. Fill the crevice with a hint of brown sugar or honey, a touch of spice (or not), and factor in some time for the assembled dumpling to chill before baking. One recipe for a 9” double crust pie yields enough dough to wrap six peaches, each about 3” in diameter. (While the oven is on, you can sneak in a pan of vegetables that will happily roast on the top shelf at the same high heat required of the dumplings.) Summer is notoriously hot, much in the same inconvenient way that winter is bitterly cold. Enjoy wearing those white shoes now because in a flash we’ll be scraping ice from windshields, our nostrils will burn from the onslaught of pumpkin spice and we’ll be pining for peaches. July affords bakers an embarrassment of fresh fruit riches. Consider capturing the over abundance of jewel-like berries available from the weekly farmers’ market in a classic tart.
I plead guilty to amassing more tart pans than my kitchen drawer can comfortably accommodate. Plenty of options await the cookie-like French tart dough, pâte sucrée. Rounds, rectangles, squares, 4-inch and 2¼-inch options, some with removable bottoms, others without. Having personally experienced the fruit tart mania of the 1980s and ‘90s from the vantage point of a restaurant kitchen, memories of turning out massive quantities of the classic pastry never really fades. High stress/high volume tart creation is far less pleasurable than crafting them on a smaller scale, simply for the joy it brings. However, for anyone keen on playing with their food, there is no better summer kitchen craft project. And thankfully, we are no longer tethered to kiwi fruit as an integral part of the mix. Summer berries are fragile and require minimal fuss; little more than stem/insect removal and a light misting with cool water. Allow the fruit a chance to (paper) towel dry before placing them atop your favorite tart filling. There are many choices in the offing, but my leaning is towards a classic pastry cream, "crème patisserie" found in any number of cookbooks. Turn to Julia or Jacques or Pierre for guidance and use the very best vanilla. And though a slick of apricot glaze is traditional, when the berries are positively gorgeous, they need little more than careful placement atop the tart before you simply step away and grab a cake fork. Testing yogurt makers probably isn’t for everyone, but my mother, Rommy, would have been first in line for such an assignment. Oddly enough, Rommy never liked milk by the glass, but she was smitten with yogurt by the spoonful.
My earliest yogurt recollection is linked to our local A&P supermarket circa 1960- something. At that time, waxy paper containers of Dannon yogurt sold for 29 cents a piece. Strawberry was our flavor of choice, though blueberry and Dutch apple also found their way into the shopping cart. I didn’t consider yogurt a health food, but more of a fun food. Not quite as rewarding as unrolling a Yodel or unearthing the peanut butter filling in a Funny Bone, yogurt was however, interactive. Stirring the fruit on the bottom tinted the stark white yogurt a pleasing shade of berry pink or blue or peachy orange. Ultimately my yogurt preference changed, leaning towards straight-up flavors; vanilla, lemon, and coffee. In the early 70s my mother purchased a Salton yogurt maker. The trim, sunny yellow appliance quietly incubated 5 cups of yogurt with little fuss. Conveniently packaged with a thermometer-spoon, beyond heating the milk and adding a few spoonfuls of starter, the process was pretty easy to embrace. The flavor, however, was not nearly as pleasing. Teetering on abrasively tart, my sister and I preferred store bought to homemade. Despite my mother’s best intentions, the fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt retained its prominent place in the fridge while the milk glass Salton jars were the last pick. It’s interesting to note that Dannon yogurt containers were not solely used for yogurt. For many years, a certain delicatessen on the lower east side of Manhattan turned to the waxy cartons, utilizing them as take-out mustard containers. Which meant odds were slim (but still possible) that if you weren’t paying close attention in the wee hours of the morning, a brown bag lunch nightmare might become a reality. Just ask my sister who has yet to completely recover from peeling back the lid of what she thought was fruit-on-the-bottom Dannon only to discover Katz’s deli mustard staring back. Panna Cotta played on repeat during my Philly restaurant days. Easy enough to make yet somewhat needy, the delicate gelatin-based custard was flecked with vanilla beans and lemon zest. Individual portions required transfer from ramekins to ginormous dessert plates where they were splashed with fruit sauce á la Jackson Pollock. It was the un-molding that was always dicey, requiring a warm, (but not too warm), kitchen towel, an offset spatula, and a little luck. Ok- more than a little.
My panna cotta recipe calls for 2.5" x 9" sheets of gelatin, vast quantities of heavy cream and yields way too many servings for a home kitchen. There are many variations on the cold Italian custard which simply translated means "cooked cream," and it lends itself much like a blank canvas to fresh berries, fruit compotes, drizzles of caramel, or liqueur. Since it requires only a brief simmer on the stovetop, panna cotta is the perfect warm weather dessert. Just make sure you allow a minimum of three hours for it to set up, preferably more, so when you un-mold it (if you choose to go that route) the custard will stand on its own with just enough jiggle. Despite the fact that Rhubarb prefers working solo, this week's recipe is more of a group project, pairing the opinionated pie plant with tart cherries and almond frangipane. The rich dough benefits from an overnight snooze in the fridge; ditto the frangipane. Prep the fruit in the morning and roll the dough into your shape of choice. Circles, rectangles, and squares are equally agreeable; I opted for squares (gathering the four corners together creates fruit filled parcels). Take the time to let the filled pastries chill for 30 minutes (or more) before baking to help them keep their shape. If you have a gift for planning ahead, (a concept I am woefully unfamiliar with), the pastries can be assembled in advance and frozen for later baking. Best to freeze them on a parchment lined baking sheet before transferring them to well-sealed plastic bags. Just before baking, brush the frozen turnovers with egg wash, cut a few steam vents in the pastry and bake until deeply golden. A sprinkling of almonds is optional, but recommended.
Rhubarb has a long, storied history- originally utilized for herbal and medicinal purposes. Botanically speaking, the pink and green stalks are considered a vegetable, and didn't appear in American seed catalogs until 1839. When sugar became less of a luxury item and more affordable (here and abroad), sweetened rhubarb began to steal the spotlight in spring-centric desserts. And because strawberry season aligned with rhubarb in many parts of the country, the two were paired together. Early recipes for rhubarb pie could be a little vague. In 1878, rhubarb was mentioned in Jenny June's American Cookery Book with the note, "This Is one of the greatest spring luxuries though the quantity of sugar required to be used with It renders It rather expensive. Sugar may be put In as long as your conscience will let you, and a handful afterwards." Interesting to note, In 1947, the United States gave rhubarb the legal designation as a 'fruit' to avoid the high tariffs Imposed on Imported vegetables. (It was cheaper at the time to bring fruit Into the country.) Today, rhubarb adds a hit of brightness to sweet and savory dishes, but lends Its distinctive pucker to the double crusted dessert we can't get enough of. You'll probably see a little (or a lot) of rhubarb drama play out tomorrow at your local Farmers' Market as the individuaI just ahead of you snags the last stalks from your favorite purveyor. Just a thought- the world can be a greedy place; consider leaving a little for the person waiting patiently behind you. Chances are pretty good you'll be able to get your hands on one or two containers of the season's first gem-like strawberries. Even if you're a rhubarb pie purist, sweet strawberries will temper rhubarb's brazen flavor which means you can take it easy on the sugar. (There's nothing quite so disappointing as an overly sweetened fruit pie, imho.) For a 9" pie, The Joy of Cooking recommends equal parts early season rhubarb and strawberries (5 cups total) teamed with 1 cup sugar, 1/4 cup minute tapioca, orange zest, pinch of salt. Bake at 425 degrees F for 30 minutes then reduce heat to 350 degrees F, and bake until bubbly about, 35 minutes more. Cool completely. Enjoy. Sweetened condensed milk often gets a bum rap for being a canned pantry item, best relegated to hankerings involving key lime pie or dulce de leche. Credited to culinary wizard Gail Borden, the shelf stable milk was introduced in the U.S. in 1856. After much tinkering with sterilized milk, Borden created a canned dairy product with a shelf life far longer than that of, say, a Twinkie. A result of vacuum pressure, heat and plenty of sugar, condensed milk boasts a chemical profile that doesn't curdle when paired with acid, making it a natural foundation for citrus based, custard-y desserts.
History tells us, however, that in 1804, French chef Nicolas Appert built a canning factory which eventually (in 1827), began processing condensed milk. The product lacked sweetness, which explains its lackluster audience. Despite obtaining a patent for a canned milk product with added sugar, Appert never put the sweetened milk into production. This gave Borden the lofty title of "Sweetened Condensed Milk Inventor." Much of Mr. Borden's fortune was in large part due to a steady supply of orders for the sweetened milk from the U.S. government during the Civil War. Calorie rich, safe to consume, and portable, sweetened condensed milk was an ideal grab-and-go for Union Army soldiers. After the war, Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk found a place on the pantry shelves of American kitchens and ultimately, into graham cracker pie crusts. The key ingredient in Florida's official state pie was ideally suited to the Florida Keys, a location where refrigeration and availability to fresh milk was uncommon prior to the 1930s. According to the Miami Herald, one of the first local recipes for Key Lime Pie was printed in 1949. Though synonymous with the Sunshine State, Florida wasn't the only locale smitten with the pairing of citrus and sweetened condensed milk. Magic Lemon Cream Pie is credited to Borden's New York Condensed Milk Co., dating back to 1931. Advertising campaigns and recipe contests sponsored by the company opened the oven door to the product's growing popularity. Today, whether you opt for lemons or key limes, or any number of citrus-y fruits, the 14 oz. can of sweetened condensed milk is an integral part of the operation. Swapping out some of the lime juice for pureed and strained mango delivers a pie slightly less tart than its lemon or lime cousins, but one that is easy to assemble and even easier to eat. The Book of Esther is the story of a woman who essentially risked her life in order to save the exiled Jewish people from Purim's evil villain, Haman. The gist of the text is that the vulnerable, particularly those living in exile, can be triumphant without relinquishing their heritage. A most timely story, indeed.
Purim is celebrated every year on the 14th of Adar, but this year, the baking community has decided to kick things off a touch early. Hamantaschen, the tri-cornered, quintessential Purim cookie symbolizes Haman's pocket, or his hat, or his ear. It all depends on whom you ask. As for the type of Hamantaschen you prefer, much has to do with the cookie you remember from your childhood. The triangle cookies our grandmothers and great grandmothers painstakingly rolled, filled, and folded were made from yeast-risen doughs. Kuchen dough provided an agreeable backdrop for poppy seeds, nuts, and dried fruits. The cookies were truly better suited to a morning nosh with coffee as they were far less sweet than the cookie-like Hamantaschen we consume today, bolstered by sugar and baking powder. I gussied up the comfortably bland dough with lekvar (prune and apricot) plus a batch of lemon curd, because it seems to me that we could use a little sunshine. Honestly, the yeast dough is a little more work, a little knead-y. But Purim is a holiday about giving, "mishloach manot" - giving the gift of food; a "mitzvah," a good deed. The smallest gestures can have enormous impact, even when they begin with something as simple as a cookie. |
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