Book 'em

They’ve got me surrounded.

Cookbooks, I mean. Specifically, the 153 cookbooks that are falling off shelves, piled onto counters, and wedged into dusty corners in my house. (And yes, I counted them just this morning.)



What’s more appalling than their sheer number is the realization that I actually use only about seven of these cookbooks. There are some I open on occasion (seeking Father DeWolf’s brisket recipe in Keeping the Feast, say, or the Mediterranean tuna dish in Pasta Fresca) and some that serve as a good reference (the canning process in The Joy of Cooking), but shamefully I’ll admit that there are many from which I’ve never tried a single recipe.

Consider the mysterious Treasures of Armenian Cooking. I’ve never been to Armenia, nor has anyone in my family. Moreover, I’d find it difficult to imagine a single culinary specialty that has its origins there. Well, okay, maybe pilaf. But why is Treasures of Armenian Cooking on my shelf? And ditto for The Best of Austrian Cooking. I have actually been to Austria, but only because they wouldn’t let me into Czechoslovakia, and … well, it’s a long story. Let’s just say I wasn’t shopping for cookbooks during the short time I was there.

I suppose you could consider the collection to be a sort of chronicle of my development as a cook, or at least a progression of my interests. There’s the Tassajara Bread Book from my college days when I baked shoebox-sized loaves of whole wheat bread and wore Indian print skirts and my hair in a long braid. Or Simply Scones – a bible during my (thankfully) brief stint running a tea room. For many years, the royal family dined well on Pierre Franey’s 60 Minute Gourmet, although spending a whole hour on a single meal now seems like an indescribable luxury. Fast forward to Pretend Soup as the children learned to cook (but not, alas, to clean up). And just recently my professional interests have led me to acquire Victorian Cakes. Don’t ask.



Whims are represented in several volumes that obsess on single items: Biscotti … A Passion For Potatoes … Paella! … Cobblers, Crumbles, and Crisps … Wraps… The Totally Pancakes and Waffles Cookbook …Tamales … Cupcakes …Grilled Cheese (50 Recipes to Make You Melt) … and -- count ‘em -- two volumes of The Garlic Lover’s Cookbook.

Politics gets its due in 30 Years at the [Arkansas Governor’s] Mansion and the 1887 edition of The White House Cookbook. The latter helpfully includes directions for crafting poultices along with a remedy for boils and a cure for ringworms.

There are restaurant cookbooks – Nora, City Restaurant, Coyote Café, China Moon, Rowe’s Family Restaurant, Café Beaujolais, and La Brea Bakery – some of whose recipes require a sous chef, a dishwasher, and a couple of line cooks to pull off.

I have several volumes of cookbooks in French. These would be an interesting experiment if one had the time for experimentation, and if one knew how to measure out a hectogram.

There is a big glossy coffee table book by a sexy, tattooed and leather-clad chef named Ludo Lefebvre who promises that cooking is “a sensual process that involves all five senses at every stage of preparation.” I suspect more women bought the book for the sensuality than for the recipes. (Ludo appears in a tantalizing centerfold right there on page 1, bare-chested and emerging from the beach displaying his two large … uh … fish.)

And finally, the cookbooks are supplemented with magazines. Lots of them. Every single issue of Gourmet from 1985 to 2003. Cook’s Illustrated. Saveur. Oh, and a big stack of food sections from the Los Angeles Times that my mother-in-law graciously saves for me each week.

So, searching for an idea for this week’s pie, I decided to put one of these forgotten cookbooks to good use. Thus we have Torta di Pere e Mandorle (Pear and Almond Tart) exhumed from Rogers Gray Italian Country Cook Book, a most handsome volume once you remove the layer of dust from the cover. Don’t ask me where the book came from or why, although I imagine it had something to do with a fantasy involving an Italian villa, a warm bowl of tagliatelle, a big bottle of Chianti, and a husky voice murmuring cara mia.

Not to mention the King wading through the breakers toting a big halibut.



Pear and Almond Tart
Adapted from Rogers Gray Italian Country Cook Book

Full disclosure: No one in the royal family went ga-ga over this (although Lucy was not consulted). And this might, perhaps, offer an explanation to the under-utilized quality of the cookbook. Of course we ate it anyway: the filling is both custardy and marzipan-like and the resulting confection is sweet and rich and a little bit chewy.



For tart shell:

1 1/3 c. flour
¼ c. sugar
½ t. salt
1 stick (1/2 c.) cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
1 egg yolk beaten with 2 T. ice water

For filling:

1 ½ sticks butter, softened
1 c. sugar
1 ¼ c. whole almonds (blanched if you can find them)
2 eggs

5 ripe pears, peeled and sliced



Make tart shell: In food processor, mix together flour, sugar, and salt. Add butter, while pulsing, until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Continue pulsing and add yolk and water mixture. Form dough into disk and wrap in plastic wrap. Chill at least one hour.

Preheat oven to 350. Press pastry into bottom and sides of 10-inch tart pan. Line with parchment paper and pie weights (or beans or ball bearings, I suppose). Bake 20 minutes, or until light brown. Cool.

Lay pears inside shell. (I arranged them decoratively but it was for naught since the filling covered them up. Feel free to scatter randomly.)

For filling: Cream butter and sugar until mixture is light. Chop almonds fine in food processor. Add to butter and sugar mixture and mix well. Add eggs. Spoon over pears and bake for 35 minutes (or until filling is puffed and golden brown).