One of my favorite things about living in Southern California is the amazing produce we get year round, and the staggering variety available.  Every Sunday, I buy most (if not all) of my produce for the week at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market.

Shopping at farmers’ markets has made me realize the diversity of the produce I buy; while a few heirloom veggies are currently enjoying a vogue, it’s not often that varieties are labeled at the supermarket.  I love knowing that I prefer fuerte avocados to bacons, for example, or being able to buy several kinds of mint on any given market day.  But one of the most interesting things is running across produce that, as a New England transplant, I’ve never seen or tried before. 

One fall morning a few years ago, I saw a vendor selling fresh olives.  I knew that olives had to be cured to be eaten, and though I had seen fresh olives growing on trees, it had never occurred to me that I could cure my own olives.  I knew I had to try it. 

As soon as I got home from the market, I called my dad.  “Have you ever cured olives?” I asked “Of course!” he laughed.  I didn’t consider how commonplace an activity it must have been for him growing up in Greece.  He recited from memory some beautifully simple instructions, so rustic compared to the published recipes I typically cook from.  I doubt any family member has ever written down this method; rather, it’s the kind of technique one learns from a mother or grandmother whose movements and measurements are sure and automatic.  I’m happy to be recording and sharing my dad’s “recipe,” and as I continue to refine my technique each time I make them, I love remembering how plainly he passed the knowledge on to me.

Brine-cured olives

- Part 1 -
5 or more lbs fresh olives (I’ve used both Mission and Manzanilla olives)
box of kosher salt
bottled water (at least one gallon to start)
extra virgin olive oil
large jar or jars for curing

- Part 2 -
extra virgin olive oil
rosemary
lemons (Meyers can be used, but are not necessary)
small jars for “canning”

Wash olives well, then drain in a colander. 

Working in batches, place a few olives at a time on a cutting board.  (I like to put a dish towel around it to prevent them from rolling.)

With the flat side of a meat tenderizer give each a good whack until it splits open. 

My dad says he put the olives on a rock and smashed them with another, smaller rock; that’s an option as well.  Alternately, slice each one lengthwise with a paring knife. 

Transfer sliced or split olives to a large jar or jars.

Dissolve one cup (“two fistfuls” per my dad’s instructions) of kosher salt in water, mixing until as much salt is dissolved as possible. 

Pour off the salt water into the olive jar, leaving undissolved salt behind.  Keep adding water and stirring, then pouring water into the olive jar until all the salt has been dissolved and added to the olives.  Top up jar with enough fresh water to cover olives and give it a shake or stir.

Add a thin layer of oil to the surface of the water and olives, and seal the jar.

Leave the jar out at cool room temperature, and wait a week.

After week one, drain and rinse olives.  Some sludge may accumulate on the surface— this is not a problem, just rinse the olives well.  Wash the jar, then return the olives to it.  Again dissolve the salt water as above, this time using only half as much salt (1/2 c).  Add oil, and seal the jar for another week.

Repeat this procedure for four weeks.  At the end of the four weeks, taste the olives.  If they are still bitter, use half as much salt as the previous week and let them sit another week.  If they are salty, let them sit a week in water only.  If they taste great, move on!  The olives can take anywhere from four to eight weeks, so be patient.

When the olives taste good (not too bitter, not too salty), drain and rinse them a final time. 

Slice one or two lemons crosswise into thin slices, and line each of the small jars with a few. 

Cut rosemary sprigs to the height of each jar.  Add olives to the jars a few at a time, snuggling a few sprigs of rosemary in-between. 

Press gently on the olives, packing them in tightly, then pour olive oil slowly over olives and seal jars.  Let olives rest in the refrigerator at least one week. 

Olives should be stored in the refrigerator (where they will keep at least one year), but the oil will solidify, so bring them to room temperature before enjoying them.

In honor of my mom, and Thanksgiving

Lately I’ve been thinking about this movie, my first 16mm film, and then, serendipitously, a friend mentioned wanting to see it again.  I shot this film on Thanksgiving morning 2002, and since Thanksgiving is once again approaching it seemed an appropriate moment to post it.

I’ve written (lovingly, I hope?) about my mom and her mania regarding pies in earlier posts, but the truth is I would never have started making pies if I hadn’t so much admired the ones she made.  I still like how this film captures her methods and her spirit; I made it then and I post it today as a tribute to her. 

This year I am looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with my mom and my husband’s parents— neither of us have been home for the holiday since we’ve lived in California (7 years for him, 6 for me).  As might be expected, we are already discussing the pies we might bake.  Maybe if I’m lucky I will get to enjoy a lemon chiffon.

Last year (2009), I participated in the first KCRW Good Food Pie Contest.  While it was fun, there were a few weird things about that event, not the least of which was that it took place in a mall.  Competing with over one hundred fifty pies, my humble Caramel Pumpkin, even with its high fluted all-butter crust, lacked the glitz and glamor of those flashy meringue-topped concoctions of which I’ve honestly never been a fan. 

I think I make a pretty good pie, so I was disappointed that I didn’t place, but I developed a stragegy for this year: I would make a visually dramatic pie, I would make a pie with an exotic crust, I would pull out all the stops to get this pie noticed.…or so I thought.  My planning began over the summer, before the pie contest was even announced; unfortunately, I started a new job that week and had to work all weekend, forcing my withdrawal from the pie contest at the last minute.  I’m OK with it, and had made a practice pie, so I’m sharing some pictures and the recipe for the pie I would have made, if I hadn’t spent Labor Day weekend assistant editing an infomercial for, ironically, a convection oven.

Key Lime Pie

Super easy to make, this pie still tastes pretty sophisticated, as the crunchy spiciness of the ginger snap crust contrasts the cool lime custard.

Trader Joe’s triple ginger snaps (or whatever they call them) work great for the crust, but this time I wanted to step everything up so I made my own (and used the leftovers to make ice cream sandwiches).  From a recipe originally published in Gourmet, these gingersnaps have been a perennial staple of my holiday “Cookies and Cocktails” party.  I find them spicy and delicious, but one of my Chinese friends thinks they’re weird because they are made with five-spice powder, which is traditionally used to season meat.  So, just a heads up.

- crust -

1 to 1 1/2 c ginger snap crumbs (from homemade or store bought cookies)
4 to 6 tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature

Combine, adding more butter or crumbs to make a workable mixture, and press as thin a layer as possible into a 9” pie plate, or, for added drama, a springform pan. 

Bake in preheated 350 oven for 10-12 minutes, until a shade darker, then let crust cool while assembling filling.   Leave oven on.

(If using a springform pan, place it on a baking sheet so butter doesn’t melt and smoke on the oven floor— I learned this the hard way.)

- filling -
4 large egg yolks at room temperature
1/2 c key lime juice (10-20 “key” or “Mexican” limes depending on size and juiciness)
2 tsp lime zest
1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk

Beat yolks until light, then add juice, zest, and condensed milk.  Mix well and pour into crust.

Bake 15-20 minutes (again, on baking sheet for springform pan) or until slit poked in custard does not reseal— custard will set more as it cools.

If using a springform pan, cool completely before CAREFULLY un-molding.  Et voila!

For the contest I wanted my pie to be more visually striking than just a 9” round expanse of custard, so I tried out some decorating techniques.  I pressed some raspberry jam through a sieve to remove the seeds, mixed some creme fraiche with a little water to get a thinner consistency, then drizzled each in patterns over the pie in an attempt to figure out what shapes worked best.  It wasn’t exactly what I was envisioning, but I actually liked the abstract look of it— not too fussy, but still kind of pretty. 

In the end, I was happy with the look and flavor of the pie, even if I wasn’t able to compete in this year’s contest.  But I’m not gonna lie, I really want to know what Zoe Nathan would have thought.

… we all scream-a for ice cream-a!

Despite my recent posts about pies, the truth is that the confection I have been experimenting with most lately is ice cream.  For my birthday (in February) my amazing and wonderful mother-in-law gave me an ice cream maker attachment for my KitchenAid mixer, and this summer I have been giving it a real workout! 

For the 4th of July, I wanted to make a sorbet as a palate cleanser to go with the grilled oysters I was bringing to a BBQ.  My aforementioned mama- in-law had sent a few ice cream recipe books, and The Idiot’s Guide to Ice Cream had some surprising flavors; I decided to go with cucumber.

I think I blew the mind of the farmer’s market vendor I bought the English cucumbers from by telling him my purpose— that was kind of fun.  The recipe is basically pureed cucumbers, water, lemon juice, and simple syrup; in place of the water, I used green tea, and I infused the simple syrup with mint.  It was a little sweeter than I expected, but had a wonderfully refreshing flavor, and I was surprised at how green it turned out.

I love trying exotic ice cream flavors, but the one I grew up eating is coffee, so I really wanted to find a coffee ice cream recipe I liked.  The Gourmet Cookbook includes a recipe for espresso gelato which is super simple and very light as it only contains milk, instant espresso powder, and corn starch.  I decided to make it a second time as an excuse to use up some leftover whole milk, and added some chopped bittersweet chocolate (54%) and swirled in some fruit-juice sweetened Hot Fudge.  It was fantastic!

At some point I got it into my head to make Peach ice cream.  I’m not sure how it happened, as I don’t think I’ve ever even had peach ice cream.  For this recipe, I turned to A Passion for Ice Cream, also a gift from my 2nd mom.  I think I messed up here, though, by not chopping the peaches finely enough, an error I didn’t realize until after I cooked them and mixed them into the custard.  I thought it would then be OK to use the immersion blender to puree the mix, but I think it “whipped” the cream too much, because the ice cream had a weirdly fluffy texture, especially before it really froze and as it was melting.  I also expected the ice cream to be tangier, more like a fresh peach with some cream poured over it.  I think this recipe deserves a redo, but in an effort to salvage the batch, I ate it with amaretti and fresh sliced peaches.  Poor me.

As it often goes, my favorite ice cream concoction was the one I made on a whim.  While practicing my pie for the pie contest I didn’t attend after all (post on that to come), I made my own ginger snaps for the crust.  Realizing I had  way more cookies than I needed, I picked up some beautiful Meyer lemons at the farmers’ market, and made a lemon ice cream which I sandwiched between some of the leftover cookies.  This divine flavor combination reminds me of the retro-fabulous Haddon Hall Gingerbread my aunt sometimes makes at Christmas time, but in glorious ice cream form. 

We had some boys over the a few nights later, and I cut them in half to share with them as we watched our Mad Men marathon.  I think they were impressed when I told them that I had made the cookies and the ice cream in addition to sandwiching them together.  I was mostly impressed that I shared them in the first place!  These are definitely going to be made again, but not before I try out some other flavors!  Stay tuned!

Obviously, I am a pie lover.  I love pie for dessert, but I also think it’s pretty much the best breakfast food in the world.  With every season, I look forward to baking a different fruit pie with my farmer’s market bounty.  At the height of summer, when stone fruit is abundant and sweet as candy, I just can’t get enough, eating it with my yogurt in the morning, as a simple snack, on salads, in smoothies, and baked into cobblers. 

On those summer days when turning on the oven seems deranged (and making a pie crust equally masochistic), the less time spent in the kitchen the better.  Though I eschew store-bought pastry dough, Phyllo is something I un-apologetically get from the freezer section.  These turnovers still need to be baked, but with some care towards the handling of the phyllo they still yield a very satisfying “pie” without the demands of a traditional pastry crust. 

Light and crispy, they are delicious for dessert, breakfast, or both.  They do keep for a few days, but are best the first day when the phyllo is crispy.  To re-crisp on the second or third day, return to a 350 oven for 3-5 minutes.

Stone Fruit Phyllo Pies

6 medium nectarines (or peaches, apricots, etc), firm-ripe
3/4 to 1 c sugar
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 c sliced almonds
packaged phyllo, thawed overnight in the fridge
1/4 c (4 tbsp/ half a stick) butter, melted and cooled to room temp

- pastry brush
- cling wrap
- one large or two standard cookie sheets lined with parchment

Preheat oven to 375

Cut nectarines in half and remove pits, then slice 1/4 inch thick.  In a large bowl, toss nectarine slices with sugar (less if fruit is very sweet, more if tart), lemon juice, and cinnamon until coated.  Add sliced almonds and stir to combine. 

Place two strips of cling wrap (side by side) on a work surface, then carefully unwrap phyllo, unrolling onto cling wrap.  Cut the stack of phyllo in half length-wise with a large, sharp knife.  Immediately and completely cover phyllo with more cling wrap, then with a dampened kitchen towel or paper towel. 

(Phyllo dries out very quickly, becoming brittle and impossible to work with; covering it with both cling wrap and a damp towel is the best method I’ve found for keeping it pliable for long enough to work with.) 

Remove two to four strips of phyllo and then re-cover the stack.  Place a dollop of nectarines at the close edge of the strip.  Brush the strip of phyllo lightly with the melted butter.  If using four sheets, brush two, then top with two more, then fruit.

Fold the bottom right corner across and over the fruit, then continue folding in a triangular shape, like a flag. 

At the top, brush the folded pastry with butter and fold edges over.  Sprinkle with sugar and transfer to baking sheet.  Repeat with remaining fruit and pastry.

Bake pastry for 20 - 30 minutes, or until phyllo is lightly golden and crispy.  Transfer to cooling rack and enjoy warm or room temperature.

One of my favorite aspects of cooking is making foods that are ordinarily store-bought.  Most people have probably baked cookies or simmered up some marinara, but how many people make their own bread, jams, or condiments?  Accustomed to buying certain prepared items, we tend to forget they can be made from scratch, although lately I’m seeing a resurgence in doing just that.  Controlling the quality of ingredients, avoiding unnecessary packaging, and a desire to eat “real” food the way it “used to be” made set me on the road to my first batches of pickles this summer.

I have always been a pickle lover, but I have recently swooned over pickle plates at Momofuku Ssäm Bar in New York and Umami Burger here in Los Angeles that offered some pretty outlandish pickles: watermelon rind, heart of palm, carrot, apple, cauliflower, shitake, okra…a bounty of exotic and heirloom veggies brined in a variety of salty, sweet, and spicy combinations.  A far cry from the sad chartreuse spears I nonetheless enjoyed as a child, these pickles were art.  

My head reeling with the limitless pickle possibilities, my first effort was the pickled watermelon rind from the Momofuku cookbook.

I’ll humbly admit this was a near-failure.  I decided to make a double batch since a single batch only called for half a watermelon rind and, well, I had a whole watermelon, so why waste?  I’m not sure what my downfall was, but there were a few issues.  First, maybe I left too much of the pink flesh on.  When the pickles were cooked, it was kind of mushy.  Also, where the recipe indicated to add the fruit to the boiling pickling liquid and then boil for a minute, I wondered, do I let the mixture return to a boil and then time the minute?  I did, but maybe that was a mistake as it took several minutes to return to a boil after adding the cold fruit.  Overall, I thought they came out a little too sweet, and something, maybe the star anise, lent them a funky flavor.  I pawned them off on as many unsuspecting friends as possible, but they were pretty and I love the idea so I might try another more traditional “American South” recipe.

Undaunted, I forged ahead with a basic pickled beets recipe from epicurious.com using Chioggia beets, an heirloom Italian variety, instead of the dark purplish ones.  Bright red on the outside with concentric white circles inside, these lovelies yielded a pickled beet that was milder tasting and a very pretty bright pink.  These, too, were a bit on the sweet side, but definitely still tasty, unlike the watermelon rind (which I still have if anyone wants it).

After making the beets, I threw some raw purslane into the leftover pickle juice, inspired by some friends who’d bought pickled purslane (who knew you could pickle that?) at a roadside farm somewhere up the PCH.  It worked OK, but the spicier stuff my friends had gotten was much tastier, and I have to concede I don’t know the first thing about pickling purslane.  Really, I don’t know a lot about purslane at all, so let’s move on.

With one moderate success and one embarrassing failure, I thought I’d try some straight-up “Real Kosher Dills” according to Mark Bittman’s ever-useful tome How to Cook Everything.  What makes these the real deal is that they are cured with kosher salt rather than vinegar; the ingredient list is simple: water, salt, fresh dill, garlic, and Kirby cucumbers.  I also added some coriander seeds, mostly because I like the way they look floating in the jar among the spears.  Delicious and super easy, the only cooking involved was boiling water.  Packed in the Ball canning jars (which I finally tracked down at Target of all places), their classic aesthetic is charming, isn’t it?  And they really taste like a dill pickle— salty, crunchy, a nice garlic bite.  If anything they might be just a bit too salty, but that’s probably a matter of taste.  In any case, I saved the leftover pickle juice which I’m considering diluting a little and using to cure some more Kirbies, perhaps (thought this might be sacrilege) adding a handful of black peppercorns or a few dried chilies to spice things up.

Now that I can create my very own “pickle plate” at home, I feel like the possibilities are endless.  I don’t really care whether it’s an overlooked culinary treatment or a a retro-cooking fad, pickling made me want to plant a victory garden and make more of my own eclectic condiments.  Maybe ketchup is next?

Listening to the radio last summer on the 40th anniversary of Woodstock,  I heard that Wavy Gravy, a sort of psychedelic clown, introduced granola to those stoned, hungry, and no doubt smelly masses.  Although some kind of proto-grapenuts version called “granula” dates back to the 1860s, Wavy Gravy’s fruity/nutty/oat-y “breakfast in bed for 400,000” seems to be the style that really caught on, forever establishing the link between hippies and granola.

While I would never self-identify as a hippie, I gratefully acknowledge Gravy’s contribution to the breakfast pantheon, and indeed start most mornings with a bowl of yogurt, honey, and fruit, topped with homemade granola.

I started making my own granola when I realized that the one I was buying was hideously expensive.  With such simple components, I figured it couldn’t possibly be that hard to make, and it isn’t.  I started experimenting, basing my ingredients on the brand I liked most, and at this point have refined it to a pretty consistent recipe.   I like to make it with less oil than typical granolas and without processed sugars, and I vary the nuts and fruits depending on what I have on hand.  I also make it in sizable batches so that it lasts 2-3 weeks.

Granola - makes a lot!

6 cups rolled oats
1 cup wheat germ
1 cup ground flax seed
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 cup pepitas (raw, hulled pumpkin seeds) or other seeds
1 cup nuts
1/2 cup pure maple syrup (grade B is best)
1/2 cup water (plus additional if needed)
2 tbsp honey
2 tbsp neutral flavored oil (such as canola)
1-3 cups dried fruits
canola or vegetable oil spray (optional)

Preheat oven to 325.

Combine oats, wheat germ, and flax in a large bowl.

Add salt, and spices.  The spices can be varied depending on personal taste.  I also grind whole cloves with a mortar and pestle for more potent flavor.

Add seeds, if using.  I like pumpkin seeds best, but other varieties (such as sunflower) work, too.

Coarsely chop nuts, or leave whole if desired.  Again, just about any kind of nuts, chopped or not, can be used. Add to dry ingredients, and mix well until spices, seeds, and nuts are evenly incorporated. 

In a small bowl, combine liquid ingredients and whisk until emulsified.  I used cream-style honey here, but the liquid kind works just as well.  Water that is a little on the warm side helps to dissolve the honey more easily. I also used Grade A maple syrup because that’s what I had this time, but I prefer Grade B — it has a stronger maple flavor. 

Pour liquid ingredients over dry, and toss to coat evenly (hands work well for this).  If the mix seems dry at this point, add a bit more water as needed.  It doesn’t need to be really wet, just evenly dampened with the liquid.  For granola that is “clumpy,” add more water or oil to the mixture and squeeze small handfuls together.  Note that this will take longer to bake, however.

Line a four-sided baking sheet (also called a jelly roll pan) with a sheet of parchment.  Using your hands, spread a thin layer of granola on the parchment, and spray with a light coat of vegetable or canola oil.  Bake for 20 - 35 minutes, stirring once or twice, until granola is light golden brown and crispy. (Time will depend on how much granola is in the pan as well as personal preference)

When granola is light golden brown, add some of the dried fruits by simply tossing them into the pan and stirring a bit.  This is optional, as some folks don’t like fruit in their granola (boys, mostly).  Also, pretty much any type of dried fruit can work here, as long as it is reasonably soft.  I mostly use cranberries, blueberries, and this mix that TJ’s is now making that includes dried berries and pomegranate seeds.  After adding the fruit, bake another 3-5 minutes, until golden and crunchy (Alternately, the fruit can be added after baking).

Remove granola from oven and cool on a cooling rack.  Repeat until all granola is baked.  When cool, granola can be transferred to an airtight container and will keep at least 2 weeks at room temperature. 

Super simple, delicious, and way cheaper and healthier than the commercial stuff!

This recipe came out of a desire to make something delicious with egg roll wrappers leftover from another recipe and a seasonal vegetable, which happened to be Snap Peas.  However, the recipe is versatile, and I’m also looking forward to making them in the winter with roasted butternut or Kabocha Squash (“Japanese Pumpkin”) and maybe some fried sage.  

Because I couldn’t think of a sauce that wouldn’t overwhelm the delicate flavor of the peas and herbs (and I don’t like cream sauces), I decided to serve them in a light broth.  The result is a fresh-tasting pasta/soup hybrid.  This recipe makes four generous servings, probably six if served as a starter.

I have made this using two different cheeses and it was delicious both ways.  If you can get it, Cypress Grove offers an amazing chevre called Purple Haze which is made with lavender buds (hence the name) and fennel pollen.  The plain Trader Joe’s kind (I think it’s called Silver Goat) also works just fine, and about half of the eleven-ounce log is a good amount. 

Snap Pea and Chevre Ravioli

1 lb snap peas, washed (not necessary to trim ends)
1 lemon, quartered
assorted fresh herbs. (I used chives, tarragon, basil, thyme, mint, and added dried lavender when using the plain cheese)
about 10 whole black peppercorns
1 package egg roll wrappers (or fresh or homemade pasta)
4-6 oz chevre (soft goat cheese)
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan, rind reserved, plus additional for grating over finished dish
1/4 cup bread crumbs (plain)
freshly ground pepper

Fill a large pot (six-quart size works well) about two-thirds full of water, or with about as much as you would use to boil a pound of dry pasta. Add a good amount of kosher salt— a few tablespoons should do it.  (You could also use stock, but you might want to dilute it by about half, and don’t add any additional salt.)

Make a “bouquet garni” by tying some herbs together with kitchen string— just use a branch or two of whatever fresh herbs you are using.

Finely chop the rest of the herbs to equal 1/2 to 3/4 cup depending on your taste.

When the water boils, add the peas and cook just until they are bright green and crisp-tender.  Scoop them out of the water with a sieve, slotted spoon, or mesh skimmer (whatever you have), reserving the water or stock in the pot.

Transfer the peas to a bowl of ice water, or run lots of cold water over them to cool quickly.  Meanwhile, add the bouquet garni, lemon wedges, whole peppercorns, and parmesan rinds to the water, cover, and turn the heat off.

Pulse peas in a food processor until chunky.  Push chunky peas through a food mill into a large bowl, scraping the underside with a rubber spatula from time to time.  This step is time consuming but well worth the smooth texture obtained by using the food mill. 

After you’ve extracted as much puree as possible from the peas (discard the solids left in the food mill), crumble in the goat cheese and add the chopped herbs, parmesan, bread crumbs, and freshly ground pepper to taste and mix well.

Lay out one egg roll wrapper, and, using a pastry brush or your fingertips, brush water lightly around all 4 edges and in a “+” shape through the center, dividing the sheet into quadrants.  Place a dollop of filling in each of the four “quadrants” of the egg roll wrapper, then place another wrapper on top.  Press along the + and edges (where you brushed water) to seal, then cut into quarters to make 4 ravioli.

Transfer the ravioli to a piece of parchment or a kitchen towel (don’t overlap or they will stick together), and repeat with remaining egg roll wrappers and filling.

Taste the cooking water, which at this point has been steeping a while.  Add salt or seasoning if needed (I like to use a bit of “Better than Bouillon” which is a concentrated stock).  The broth should have some flavor but still taste light and fresh. 

Remove the herbs, lemon, and cheese rinds, and return the stock to a gentle boil.  Drop the ravoli a few at a time into the stock, and cook for about 2-3 minutes or until they float and the pasta is translucent enough to kind of see the filling inside.  Making them in batches helps prevent sticking.

Serve the ravioli in wide bowl with an ample amount of broth.  Grind a bit of pepper and grate some parmesan over the top.  When you cut into them, the filling that escapes will mix in with the broth making it even tastier.  Yum!

I have been wanting to make Hand Pies since November when I competed in KCRW’s first Good Food Pie Contest.  Waiting in the entry line with my Caramel Pumpkin, I admired one woman’s lovely blueberry hand pies which later that day won Second Prize in the “fruit pie” category. 

A road trip up to Santa Cruz for Memorial Day weekend seemed like a perfect excuse to try out this idea, and some fragrant farmer’s market strawberries and slender pink-and-green rhubarb stalks sealed the deal. 

Excited by my plan for the most perfect picnic pies ever, I started on a crust from my go-to resource for baking, Betty Crocker’s Picture Cookbook (1950).  Now, I’m one of those people who believes a pie crust to be almost sacred.  I wrote recently about my dad making yeast dough, but my mom is the one who fancies herself a pastry chef.  And by that I mean she makes one pie a year, and it has to be perfect.  Eventually there came a time when my brother and I realized that, for our own safety, we ought to leave the house when that annual crust was being made. 

I don’t know how anyone can expect to do something once a year and have it be perfect.  The whole “easy as pie” concept, I’m convinced, only becomes a reality when you make a lot of pies.  Before the pie contest I tried to do some research online about pie crusts and was overwhelmed by a gazillion different theories, from people who make their pie crusts with vodka or vinegar instead of water, to the food-processor school, to those who swear by lard. Gross.  I decided to stick with the tried and true method.  For one thing, I’m one of those butter people (for baking anyway), and was before the whole trans-fats mania.  It just tastes better.  And I don’t even want to know how long that Crisco has been sitting on my mom’s shelf. 

One great technique I learned from the Betty Crocker cookbook: CUT THE BUTTER INTO THE FLOUR IN TWO STAGES. Betty says to cut half the butter in until you achieve a texture like coarse meal; this, she writes, makes for tenderness.  Then, cut in the rest to achieve that famous “small pea stage,” which makes the crust flaky (the butter melts leaving tiny air pockets).  Tenderness and flakiness— you gotta have both!

Once the soon-to-be flaky dough is all pressed into two beautifully swirled, striated discs, they need to chill.  Chilling the dough relaxes the gluten, making the dough easier to roll out.  (One other note: if the dough cracks while I am rolling it, I just gently mush it back together and re-roll.  No need to hurl it at the wall and start over, in tears, like my mom did.) 

I usually let the dough chill overnight, then allow it to come to room temperature a bit while the oven is heating and I prepare my filling.  In this case, I sliced the rhubarb and strawberries a little smaller than I would for a regular size pie.

filling

2 cups rhubarb chunks
2 cups halved or sliced strawberries (this ratio is variable, with the goal being 4 cups of fruit)
1 cup sugar (also variable depending on ratio of fruit as well as sweetness of berries )
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
small sprinkling of freshly grated nutmeg

After I rolled the dough out, I decided to use a 3” biscuit cutter to make little round pies (like the woman at the pie contest did, though hers were bigger).  One batch of crust would thus yield a dozen pies, I reasoned, enough that we could each have 3, not including the ones I would make from the scraps and eat hot out of the oven, a.k.a. “poison testers.” 

After arranging half of the little dough circles on a baking sheet, I topped each with a dollop of fruit, then covered them with the other twelve dough circles. 

Rolling out the top circles a tiny bit more after cutting made them large enough to blanket the little mounds of fruit.  I then pressed around the edges with my fingers to seal, followed by a go ‘round with the tines of a fork.  I cut tiny holes to let the steam escape, then brushed each with milk and sprinkled with sugar, like my grandmother always used to do, to give them a nice golden glaze. 

I baked them at 425 degrees, and of course I forgot to make note of how long for, but I think I started at 30 min and just kept checking until they were golden and the juices inside were bubbling.

In retrospect, perhaps the biscuit cutter idea was a mistake.  For one, they were so small as to have me cursing over the filling and sealing process.  For another, I had at least half my filling left over.  Well, live and learn.  They were not a bad size for eating (about cookie size), and now I have instant pie filling in my freezer.  Additionally, it seems my sealing methods were inadequate, because they leaked juice all over the place during baking. 

No matter, they were a tasty snack/dessert/breakfast for our adventure, and next time I will make two batches of dough, cut the circles bigger, and seal them more tightly.  Here’s my husband holding “the pretty one” for a photo in Santa Cruz:

The smell of yeast dough is, for me, a kind of Proustian experience.  My dad, an immigrant from Greece with little education, spent most of my childhood working as a cook in pizza restaurants, and for a short while running his own place.  I would often watch him work, mixing huge batches of dough in enormous stand mixers, kneading and measuring out pieces by hand.  I was mesmerized by his rhythmic, sure movements, and I remember being particularly fascinated by the sensation of the sharp knife cutting though the soft, smooth dough. Smelling that dough takes me right back those restaurant kitchens and the time I spent there with my dad.

Despite those strong feelings, however, I seldom bake bread.  I always wish I baked it more, but it feels like such a time commitment, even if the effort involved is minimal.  So when I read in Gourmet a while back (still sad about its cancellation) about Jim Lahey and his “no-knead bread,” I thought, maybe I can handle this.  On a recent trip to New York, I had the opportunity to eat at Lahey’s pizza place, and it was every bit as mind-blowing as I expected.  Upon our return, I decided I HAD to try out one of Lahey’s bread recipes, and found a basic one on his Sullivan Street Bakery website. 

The bread was almost embarrassingly little work.  I mixed the dry ingredients (I didn’t have bread flour so I used two parts all-purpose and one part whole wheat),

then added the water and it almost immediately formed a dough, as if on its own.  

Then it gets transferred to a fresh, oiled bowl and covered with plastic wrap

where it just does its thing, the yeast eating and burping until the dough is all bubbly and gooey looking, which takes about 12 hours. 

Once that happens, it takes about 5 seconds of work to massage it into a round-ish shape, then some more hanging out under a kitchen towel, about an hour or two.  I think I left it a lot longer and it was still fine.

The most challenging part was getting it from the towel into the preheated pot (I used a Le Creuset) to bake.  I guess I was a bit stingy with the flour, because the dough stuck to the towel a bit and kind of flopped over on itself as I dumped it into the hot oven.  No matter, it was delicious and had an amazing texture.  I shared it with friends and we ate every bite before it even cooled (so much for having toast the next morning).  And now I’m definitely buying Lahey’s Book; In fact, I’m not sure why I haven’t made the bread again, but I sure plan to.  A friend who had also made it recommended that I start it the night before for dinner the next day, a very good suggestion.  I wish my dad lived close enough that I could bake it for him, too.