Sharing/Not Sharing dessert with @mschweppe15 since 1983. (Technically since 1981 but that was in Siam and Neverland- what a time that was.) On this date so many years ago, we had a party with 80 of our dearest in Rommy and Jerry’s backyard. The rental company didn’t bring enough chairs so my brother drove over shortly before the ceremony to retrieve them. @merryliza had car trouble. No one noticed (or wanted to tell me) that my bouquet had an errant rose which in most photos looks like it is growing out of my neck. Rommy snipped handfuls of hydrangeas from our neighbor’s yard to fill in the casual centerpieces. The chocolate ruffle cake was the star of the event, made and transported from Connecticut by the sweetest @betsypalmer. I had one bridesmaid, @bkgray66 who wore a little off-the-shoulder Laura Ashley number. @steinberglorims recalls that Rommy nixed my idea of wearing red shoes. I wore my mother’s wedding dress (reconfigured), a ring of flowers in my hair, and yeah, I did my own hair and make-up. Mr. Brynner sent a telegram and my other celebrity boss, a cigar smoking composer/producer, much to our surprise, attended. Which goes to show- if you invite them, they just might show up. It was a holiday weekend so we had brunch in the backyard the next morning; a glorious party.
So many of the guests are no longer with us, a not-so-subtle reminder that time has winged feet. You have the patience of a million saints, @mschweppe15. Glad you can do the math, because I can’t; ’83-’21 feels like forever and just yesterday. Like the illuminated Timex you wear, (so you can see the time in a dark theatre and know if we’re going to miss our train), we keep on ticking.
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Faced with a small avalanche of apples, I had to choose between eating them out of hand, dunking them in a vat of caramel, or turning them into a pie shell. I chose the latter, spurred on by a recent purchase from Toronto’s St. Lawrence market. An addition to my rather extensive bakeware collection wasn’t critical. But I desperately coveted a small yet mighty springform, one with a latch that clamped shut with gusto. One that laughed in the face of water baths, cradled soufflé cakes, and housed the occasional pie. My collection of springforms were showing their age, having traveled endless miles along the Oreo cheesecake highways of the ‘80s and the Martha wedding cake extravaganzas of the 90s. The pans, ranging in size from 4” to 12” had celebrated far too many Cupids and Passovers to count. So I’m retiring some of the formerly durable, currently unhinged tins. Most of them served me well until they didn’t, at which point they taught me how to extinguish smoke and scrub an oven. Springforms and pie date back to savory across-the-pond versions, when deep-dish pies were both a means of preserving and entertainment. I’m not suggesting you rustle up four and twenty birdies for a pie, but consider apples as a contender. Make sure the springform is plenty deep. And you have some time on your flour-dusted hands.
In all honesty, a Yom Kippur fast is challenging, but not nearly as torturous as a week spent in Passover flour-free purgatory. Erev Yom Kippur, or Yom Kippur eve, calls for a meal that will sustain you as you reflect and repent amidst the steady rumble of a growling stomach. This year sundown arrived leisurely at 7:03 pm (7:02 in Astoria, Queens) and completing a fast feels the same every year; triumphant. My mother always fasted on this holiday, stemming from equal parts religious belief and tenacity. It was also the Yin to my father’s Yang, a fellow brought up in a strictly observant Jewish household who as an adult, ate breakfast and lunch on Yom Kippur.
Finding it impossible to replicate the idyllic Rosh Hashanah celebrated in Toronto last week, I veered off course, opting for a less traditional meal. Inspired by Sephardic and Indian Jewish cultures, plus a generous helping of Provincial Indian cuisine, time spent poring through recipes reminds us not only of our differences, but of our similarities. And regardless of what you serve, every good cook knows that it’s not what is on the table that matters, it’s more about the people seated around it. It's not until you venture out into the world and tiptoe across a border that you realize how isolating the past two years have been. The sensory overload that hovers from being in another country is both exhilarating and daunting. Sitting at a table elbow-to-elbow with the people you've missed most is somewhat surreal.
Canada returns to normalcy at a slower, more guarded pace than we do in the states. There's a learning curve to mask wearing; sometimes I forget to put one on, most times I forget to remove it. Waiting in line is not uncommon for highly coveted ice cream or coffee or baked goods. Many businesses limit customer capacity to a mere two at a time; this feels somewhat strange but certainly gives you a huge appreciation for the folks working in retail. The level of politeness and patience I've encountered from shopkeepers (as well as the occasional shopper) constantly surprises me. With the return to school, streets are somewhat busy but not quite in full swing. Crossing guards take their jobs very seriously, warning pedestrians to step back, avoiding on-coming bicycles and mostly empty streetcars. Spending time in open spaces punctuates summer's transition into fall; the last hurrah of roses in one garden, the earliest Cinderella pumpkins in another. Having a faithful pup in tow is a gentle reminder to pay attention to the smallest of things underfoot, overhead, and in the distance. I suspect travel will remain a luxury, not a necessity, for quite some time. Which means the little things, such as stepping up to the front of the line at one of your favorite ice cream haunts, is truly the sprinkle mix on top of the créme glacée that is Toronto. In late fall of 2011, I began my stint @the able baker, decorating holiday cookies. At that time, the bakery had only been open a few short months. It was a single storefront away from the retail hubbub. The post office had not yet relocated and the soundtrack of the bakery was Etta James on repeat. Pie was baked on the weekends, one or two flavors, max. Ten years later, as I step away from the bakery, I am filled with enormous gratitude. The Able Baker provided not only a launch pad for creativity, but an opportunity to establish lasting friendships. Thank you, @juliepauly, Thomas, Ella, and Declan for all the butter, coffee, camaraderie, and the sheeter. And warm appreciation to @andreablock who is sunshine in a bandana. Additionally, thanks to the dozens, no, hundreds by now, of folks in the kitchen and front of house, and all of the enthusiastic pie peeps who frequented the bakery on a regular basis. Along the way, I consumed way too much, (but never enough) @arturososteria and should have listened to @aliciawalter about those compression socks. Special shout out to to those who start their day at half past dark o'clock; not only bakers, but farmers and delivery truck drivers. The food industry teaches us to never underestimate the importance of those slinging suds at the 3-compartment sink, repairing the espresso machine, plowing the snowy roads so you can get to work, clear the grease trap, or fix the a/c in August. Heartfelt appreciation to @mschweppe15, @beerswithbrahms, @maggieschweppe, @aliharveyyy, and @bkgray66 for always listening. There's much to keep me busy; words to write, roads to run, and without a doubt, plenty of pie. Always pie. Julia Child’s birthday was August 15th. I grew up watching episodes of The French Chef on a black-and-white tv with Jessie and my mother, in the kitchen on Bay 25th Street when we lived in Far Rockaway. I’ve mentioned before that the probable reason for snagging the nomination and win for French Club President my senior year of high school was not for my brilliant command of the French language. It was simply because under Jessie’s tutelage, armed with Julia’s recipe, I filled an enormous glass bowl with mousse au chocolat and toted it to a French Club dinner. The mousse was the highlight of the event, clinching my win the following year.
In 2016, the late Molly O’Neill orchestrated a trip to La Pitchoune (‘La Peetch’) in Provence for a group of strangers with a passion for words, wine, and travel. Cooking in Julia’s kitchen was as formidable as one can imagine. This year, to celebrate Julia’s birthday, I returned to a recipe from a now retired PBS program co-hosted by Julia and Jacques (Pepin). In this particular episode, there is plenty of bantering between the two as they create a sandwich inspired by the south of France. Culminating with a clink of beer glasses and generous wedges of an over-stuffed Pan Bagnat, Julia claims that the sandwich isn’t any good “unless the olive oil comes down and falls off your elbow” when you’re eating it. True. You can certainly enjoy a stemmed glass of wine alongside your sandwich, but a cold beer is pretty good, too; something my mother, not much of a drinker, would have enjoyed. Happy Birthday, Julia. Fresh apricots, though visually stunning, can sometimes be a little lackluster when eaten out of hand. Whether too tart or too mealy, or simply shy on flavor, patience is a stone fruit virtue. There’s a small window in summer, sometime between July and August, when both apricots and nectarines align at the farmers’ market. Drizzling the two with honey before roasting them in the oven creates a vibrant, jam-like fruit topping that holds its shape. You can serve it as is, but its destiny should be simple pound cake.
A while back, before my sister and her crew relocated from the Emerald City to Toronto, jaunts to Seattle were a yearly treat. Attired in my very best stretchy waistband pants, @bkgray66 and I combed the city in search of stellar baked goods. Though the selection was far too vast to cram into a few days, believe me, we tried. In retrospect, other than Tom Douglas’ coconut cream pie, some of my favorite sweets were generous slices of pound cake paired with a quintessential Seattle coffee. Two standouts come to mind; one was from The Fat Hen Café in Ballard, and the other was from Macrina Bakery in downtown Seattle. Far from flashy, comfortably rustic, the cakes were flavored with plenty of citrus and pleasantly crunchy from a blend of flours. My day job doesn’t diminish my appetite for sweets, but there are days when I have a hankering for a slice of something other than pie. I’ve baked many versions of those Seattle-inspired cakes, sometimes in a loaf pan, sometimes in a small springform. And when apricots and nectarines sing in unison, despite the heat, it’s well worth turning on the oven. Bake the pound cake on low and the stone fruit on high. After it cools, drape the fruit over a generous slice of cake, add a little whipped cream, and pretend you're on vacation. The peach pincher next to me at the Farmers’ Market is oblivious to my raised eyebrow. The meticulously arranged pyramids of blush pink freestones can’t speak for themselves, so I speak for them. “You know,” I begin tentatively, the words falling out of my mouth headed towards the woman assaulting the peaches, “every time you squeeze a peach, it leaves a bruise.” I have chosen my target poorly; the woman is not merely sensitive but defensive. “I’m not squeezing them,” she replies, mildly outraged. “I just want the ripe ones.” Gravitating from corrugated carton to corrugated carton, pinching and sniffing and gruffly handling the fragile stone fruit, I swear I can see the peaches grimacing in anticipation. Scooping up a quart of freestones and balancing them on top of four ears of corn, I casually mention to the peach assailant, “If they’re not ripe right now, you can leave them on the counter for a day or two...” My suggestion is met with icy silence; I abandon my peach evangelist mission reminding myself that Farmers’ Market-ing can be a tough sport.
Despite the fact that my weather app is indicating unhealthy air quality, I return from my produce pilgrimage and immediately turn on the oven. The peaches are agreeably ripe and incredibly fragrant. Baking a peach pie doesn’t require any special skills, but it does require the baker to make choices. Peeling the peaches and par-baking the crust isn’t mandatory, but I think it’s well worth the effort. Pulverized Minute tapioca, or cornstarch, or tapioca starch are all fine thickeners, and just as I prefer to shy on the thickener rather than add too much, the same holds true for the sweetener. Waiting patiently for the peaches to ripen on their own timetable may not suit everyone, but the fragrance of peaches escaping through a criss-cross lattice is one of the true gifts of summer. I’ve been known to refer to July 4th as #thanksgivingjunior and I’m not budging on this sentiment. An awful lot of fruit surrounded by pie crust exited the bakery in the last few doughs, I mean days. This 4th of July in particular, brings with it a sort of manic urgency for gathering. Pie-ing for the people can be stressful and despite my long-sleeved work shirt, I always manage one distinctive burn, right where the rolled up sleeve and the oven mitt leave a gap. It’s a good reminder, that holiday oven burn, not to take things for granted. For instance, sharing some time and some pie with your favorite people.
Wishing you a pie-filled 4th, surrounded by your dearest. I’ll be nibbling away at the cheesecake in the photos. Sure, it doesn’t look like pie, but it’s basically a custardy filling wrapped in crust with a generous amount of stone fruit. The particulars for this cheesecake are scrawled on an index card tuced into my grandmother’s well-worn recipe file. The official title is, “Rosetta’s Cheesecake- Good for a Party.” It is good for a party, even if it’s simply a party of two. Happy 4th. For anyone smitten with sour cherries, chasing them from farm stands to farmers’ markets, the chase comes with the understanding that fresh sour cherries require a commitment. The crimson stone fruit with a cult following and an all-too-brief season sparkles like gemstones in the sun. Secured in your market tote and transferred to your kitchen counter, their exquisite flavor comes with a price; sour cherries certainly don’t pit themselves.
I’ve heard about (but never participated in) what is known as a cherry pitting party. My understanding is that enthusiastic bakers take a seat around a perfectly restored farmhouse table, sip tall glasses of icy Rosé, share pie stories, while effortlessly removing stems and pits. (I imagine an awful lot of white linen and red/white gingham featured in those gatherings.) My cherry pitting reality is a little more jarring, with a soundtrack taken directly from Law and Order SVU, and a countertop as pristine as a crime scene. The more I try to contain the indelible cherries, the more they ricochet from cherry pitter to just shy of the Pyrex mixing bowl. Sitting never occurs to me because I believe standing and pitting demonstrates a “let’s get this done” attitude. This could potentially accelerate the task, ushering the cherries into the pie shell with greater speed and efficiency. As a rule, I like the traditional look and the craftiness of a woven lattice-topped cherry pie. Recently however, I’ve been tossing generous handfuls of brown sugar/cornmeal/almond crumb over the cherries. One of the tastiest recipes comes from @petraparedez and if you’re not too exhausted after pitting all those cherries, making a big batch of crumb makes sense; the excess stores easily in a Ziploc in the freezer. And when cherry season is over, and it will be sooner than later, you can contact my pals @hyline orchardfarmmarket in Door County, Wisconsin and they’ll ship them to you, nicely pitted and rarin’ to go. |
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