Pie Day Friday

Out of the Kitchen

2007-07-13T14:00:00.000-04:00

Hot days make for a paucity of pie-baking, so what we need is a special pie to beat the heat.

Feeling cooler already. . .

Sounds Good To Me

2007-07-06T18:59:00.000-04:00

Here’s a boring piece of information: I’m not really a visual sort of person. You know those quizzes that determine the type of learning style you have? I always find myself securely in the auditory category. (Find out your own style here) And that parlor game where you have to decide which of your senses you’d give up if you had a choice? Well, taste, as you might imagine, would probably be the first sense I’d preserve. Sight, however, would fall quickly, right after smell. (And no, I’m not interested in that claptrap of how you need to have smell in order to have taste. This is a game, remember? And besides, I’m the Queen and I set the rules.)

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the visual. I do ... although you might not know if from my…er… home decorating efforts. Or even from my wardrobe, although I’ve learned to avoid mixing animal prints. And while I’m lucky to have a movie-star handsome husband, I’d still let him bake my biscuits even if the movie star he most resembled was Wallace Shawn. As I get older (shudder) it seems that appearances are of less importance to me. I suppose this is all wise and good and perhaps one of the (few) benefits that age brings to the table.

This is a roundabout explanation of why you’ll never see a gaudy flag cake or splashy red, white, and blue tart at my 4th of July festivities.

I’d rather have something taste good than look good, and with those elaborately-decorated confections, appearance always seems to trump taste. And besides, some of my very favorite foods are incredibly ugly: the chunky gray blob that is baba ghanoush; a plain dark slab of liver pate; the wart-laden skin of a squash. Or maybe I just harbor affection for the frumpy and the forlorn.

Anyway, here’s the pie I served up at our Independence Day celebration.

Appearance-wise it’s certainly no dog, but it doesn’t invoke the patriotic fervor of a Yankee Doodle sundae or firecracker Jigglers. The pie does, however, taste really, really good. It’s filled with tart apricots that become meltingly soft and juicy during baking and a splash of raspberries for extra flavor.

Those raspberries served another purpose, too: adding a beautiful, rosy glow to the interior of the pie. So there, you visual types: the raspberries are a little gift from the Queen of Tarts. A little bit of looking good never hurt anything, I guess.

Apricot Raspberry Pie
Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

Pastry for a double crust pie
1/3 c. cornstarch
½ t. salt
1 ½ c. sugar
1 ¾ pounds apricots (I used about 16 small apricots), pitted and sliced into ½ inch wedges
6 oz. raspberries
1 egg, yolk and white separated
1 T. sugar

Place baking on sheet on oven rack and heat oven to 450.
Roll out half of pastry to fill plate. Whisk egg white and brush over bottom and sides of pastry. Refrigerate. Mix remaining egg white back into yolk and reserve.
Mix together cornstarch, salt, and sugar in bowl. Add apricots and stir well. Gently stir in raspberries. Spoon filling into pie shell. Roll top pastry and cover filling. Crimp edges. Lightly brush top of crust with egg mixture and sprinkle with 1 T. sugar. Cut several slits into crust for venting. Bake pie on hot pie sheet for 15 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375 and continue to bake 45 minutes more, until crust is brown and filling is bubbling. Cool several hours before serving.

Pie In Your Eye?

2007-06-29T18:38:00.000-04:00

With the offspring away on summer excursions, there’s been a significant lack of hubbub in the royal commissary this week (although I did make myself a kick-ass birthday cake, and no, that isn’t nearly as pathetic as it sounds.)

Nonetheless, I’ve been thinking pie. Specifically, I've been thinking about the word in its infinitive verb form – as in, to pie someone. Not surprisingly, there’s a plethora of information on the subject online, including an entry on Wikipedia that includes a chart of people who have been pied: Phyllis Schlafly, Milton Friedman, and Jeffrey Skilling, among many others.

Gersh Kuntzman gives an historical overview of pie launching and illuminates us on the particular genius of 70’s activist Aron Kay, aka The Pieman. Apparently, Kay was unique in his attempts to match the flavors of his pies with their recipients; for example, he made sure to hurl a fruit pie at notorious homophobe Anita Bryant.

Or perhaps you’d like to read an interview with a leading Belgian pie-throwing activist named Noel Godin? Maybe you’re interested in exploring the anarchic antics of the Biotic Baking Brigade and Al Pieda? It’s all here, dear Readers, and it’s simply shocking stuff.

Finally, Jack Boulware provides an instructional guide on the topic. The author has several useful suggestions for do-it-yourselfers, including fortifying oneself with booze before launching the attack and remembering to hurl gently, since one goal is to humiliate, rather than injure, the recipient. (The other goal involves avoiding an assault charge.)

And while the Queen is not exactly condoning the practice (Oh, what a waste of a perfectly good pie!), she admits to having a few political pie fantasies of her own.

Bon appetit, Ann Coulter!

What about you, dear Readers? How do you feel about this form of artistic expression/civil disobedience/ political theater?

And more importantly, who would you most like to see pied?

Entartons!

Life is Just . . .

2007-06-22T22:56:00.000-04:00

...a bowl of cherries.

Well, sometimes. Today I answered the doorbell twice – once for the UPS man with a stack of packages and once for a florist with an exotic arrangement of flowers-- only to discover that both times, they’d been delivered to the wrong address. And while the neighbors are no doubt delighted to have someone so Scrupulously Honest living nearby, the Queen will admit to suffering a few pangs of disappointment.

Nonetheless, there’s much to be cheerful about. So let’s count some of our blessings this Friday:

A blue ribbon in the breaststroke event
The return of a missing cat
Fireflies
An aged Provolone from Little Italy
A new book by Haruki Murakami
The Amtrak train --on time
A beginning tennis player learns to serve
Lucy gets a gift (Mellow Mutt, I hope you work soon)
The completion of 60 white boxes
Day lilies blooming after skipping a year

And when we’re done counting, let’s have a piece of pie. . .

Rustic Cherry Tart
Adapted from Martha Stewart Desserts

1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed
5 T. butter, softened
1/3 c. plus 4 t. sugar
1/2 c. ground up blanched almonds
1 egg
1/2 t. almond extract
1 egg yolk
1 T. cream
1 pound cherries, stemmed and pitted

Line your work surface with a large sheet of parchment. Sprinkle with flour and roll puff pastry large enough to cut a 12-inch circle from it. Roll the edges inward to create a 10-inch crust. Transfer parchment and crust to a baking sheet and chill for 30 minutes.

Mix together butter, 1/3 c. sugar, ground almonds, whole egg, and almond extract in a bowl. In another bowl, lightly mix egg yolk and heavy cream. Prick surface of pastry with fork and then brush yolk/cream mixture on the surface and edges of crust. Spread the almond mixture over crust and chill for another 15 minutes. Spread cherries in a single layer over almond mixture. Bake tart for 15 minutes. Sprinkle remaining 4 t. sugar over tart and continue baking for 5-10 minutes until tart is deep golden brown. Transfer tart to a wire rack to cool.

Music to My Ears

2007-06-15T16:21:00.000-04:00

No pie photos or recipes this week, dear Readers. Instead, treat yourself to this audible feast, compliments of uber-musician Steve Chambers. Long promised and worth the wait, this is likely the only song I'll ever have written about me (or my pies).

Mrs. Linder's Pies

Enjoy! (And a royal thank you to Steve)

(You may need to use Internet Explorer in order for the music player to work properly. Hey, I'm a baker not a programmer. . .)

Everybody Needs a Nonna

2007-06-08T18:00:00.000-04:00

Lately I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to have an Italian grandmother hanging around the house. You know the kind I mean – a wizened little old woman in a headscarf who’d cluck over my skinned knee (or bruised ego), tend to a flock of chickens in the back yard, and pour out a fortifying slug of grappa when I needed it. Then, when I’d had just about enough of Nonna, she’d gently nod off in her rocking chair and make soft, Italian-accented snoring sounds. Sounds great, huh?

The other thing Italian Grandma would do of course, is cook. This would be her passion, making good things for me, the little principessa, to eat. Minestrones, panzanellas, roasted meats, and every kind of pasta. Italian Grandma would bend over her wooden counter and roll out raviolis by the dozen. “E niente,” she’d shrug - It's nothing - and I’d smile fondly at Nonna and keep on chewing.

And maybe in certain households in Italy, it really is nothing. My friend Anita visited her relatives in an Italian village and after eating her way through a four-hour, multi-course dinner, she watched, aghast, as they fed the leftovers to the dog. Thing is, those leftovers were handmade tortellini, the kind of thing Anita makes only a couple of times a year – on very special occasions, when she’s got say, an extra five hours or so. Lucky, lucky dog.

And that reminds me of the time that the royal family once stayed at a bed and breakfast in upstate New York. We came downstairs at breakfast to find the house cats chewing their way through a tangle of spaghetti and meatballs, both cats coming at it from opposite ends of the same strand. It was a great place to spend a weekend: We all loved the goat that lived on the property, a sweet little creature named Molly who gave a whinny whenever her name was called. Funny how these things become embedded in family lore. Call out the name “Molly” in that particular singsong voice and any one of our family will still bray in response. (Umm, okay, maybe you had to be there.)

But I digress. Back to Italian Grandma ... Nonna. This week’s recipe is in fact called Torta della Nonna, translated as tart or cake or pie Grandmother-style. It comes from my dear friend Ellen, a former colleague and terrific traveling companion, who tells me she made it for a Grandmother Shower. She claims it was the perfect accompaniment to the prune-tinis they served at the shower, although I hope she was kidding about the beverage selection.

I can vouch that the torta is a wonderful treat and tastes divine with a cup of strong coffee. The buttery pastry is orange scented and the filling is a ricotta custard with just enough pine nuts and Cointreau-soaked raisins to give it a bit of a zing. One bite and you’ll agree: La vita e bella.

Oh, if only Italian Grandma were here to taste it.

Torta della Nonna
Adapted from Good Friend Ellen

Ellen makes her version with almonds; I used pine nuts. Ellen used a 10-inch springform pan for her torta; I used an 11-inch tart pan with removeable bottom. (I ended up with enough extra pastry to put in the freezer and use for another tart.) Nobody's complaining about either version.

For the pastry:
1 1/2 c. butter, softened
2 c. sugar
2 t. vanilla
grated zest of 1 orange
1/2 t. salt
2 eggs + 2 egg yolks
5 c. flour

Cream butter and sugar together in the bowl of a stand mixer until light and fluffy. Stir in vanilla, orange zest, and salt. Mix eggs in one at a time until well incorporated. Dough will be very soft. Refrigerate for several hours or overnight.

For the filling:
1 egg + 2 egg yolks
4/5 c. sugar
1/2 c. + 2 T. flour
2 c. whole milk
12 oz. ricotta cheese

Whisk together eggs and sugar in heavy bottomed saucepan. Sift flour into mixture, whisking to avoid lumps. Add milk in a stream, stirring gently. When mixture is smooth, put over medium low heat, stirring until mixture thickens. When mixture comes to a boil, allow to cook for 2 more minutes. Pour mixture into a bowl to stop it from cooking any more. When mixture has cooled completely, stir in ricotta.

For assembling:
1 egg yolk
3 T. pine nuts or blanced almonds, sliced lengthwise
3 T. golden raisins soaked in 2 T. Cointreau

If the pastry has chilled, let it come to room temperature before rolling out. Preheat oven to 375.

Divide pastry and roll into 2 circles. Fit one half into bottom of pan. Pour ricotta mixture into pastry shell and sprinkle with 2 T. nuts and all the raisins. Cover with remaining pastry and crimp edges. (If you use a tart pan, the pastry will cut itself as you place it atop the ricotta.)
Whisk the egg yolk and brush over pastry. Sprinkle tart with remaining tablespoon of nuts. Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, depending on size of pan. Tart will be golden brown. When cool, dust with powdered sugar.

Hey, Big Boy

2007-06-01T20:34:00.000-04:00

When I was a teenager in suburban Cincinnati, going to Frisch's Big Boy after the basketball game was a Big Thrill. In a Happy Days kind of way, things were always happening at Frisch's: Natalie J. might be throwing her shoe at Lucky W.'s windshield (she'd caught him flirting with that ho, Pam E.); Mike B. might be cruising through in his metallic blue Corvette (if only he didn't smell so bad); or I might be lamenting that that the other Mike B. was probably never going to think of me as anything more than a friend. In those days, I'd usually sip a chocolate malt and have an onion ring or two, but frankly, there was little time for eating in between all the drama.

But years before that, when I was in pigtails and shiny white go-go boots, my mother and I would sometimes head to Frisch's for a bite to eat (although we never ate in the drive-in ... sigh). Just thinking about the hunky Buddy Boy or the tantalizing Brawny Lad still makes me lick my lips. I was even taken by the Big Boy (something a wee bit odd about these names, wouldn't you say?), although back then, I'd have scraped off the tartar sauce. And for dessert -- no counting calories when you're 9 -- there was a gooey hot fudge cake or an impossibly glossy strawberry pie.

And so, dear Readers, I present you with this week's entry: an Impossibly Glossy Strawberry Pie, a la Big Boy Restaurants.

The recipe comes from Rose Levy Berabaum of The Pie and Pastry Bible, complete with her own memory of Big Boy Restaurants. I don't think I've ever made a real strawberry pie before, although I assure you that now I have this recipe in my possession, I'll make it again and again.

And while I'd like to tell you that I made this from fresh local strawberries, I didn't. The quart of those that we bought from the Amish farm disappeared long before I got around to making the pie, and so I had to settle for California imports. They were the typically gorgeous fat berries and fortunately, this time, they were atypically tasty.

Here's the link to Berabaum's recipe forStrawberry pie, compliments of Epicurious.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Blog

2007-05-26T00:24:00.000-04:00

The King has taken Friday into his own hands once again, spiriting the Queen away in honor of their 20th wedding anniversary.

Worry ye not: Her Highness is comfortably ensconced in a cozy inn with a view of the Mendocino coastline. She's getting lotsa good stuff to eat, although no pie ... yet.

Check back next week for another installment of Pie Day Friday.

A Date With Mr. Peanut

2007-05-18T14:38:00.000-04:00

Oh, you poor people with peanut allergies, I feel so very, very sorry for you. Peanuts, you see, are one of my favorite things to eat in the world. I love them straight from the Planters’ jar, or dug out of a paper bag at a baseball game. I love them encased in M&M candy coating, or ground up in a tidy Reese’s cup. I love them sugar-coated, roasted, spiced, and boiled. I love sitting in bars and nibbling on them, especially in the kind of bars where you can toss the shells onto the floor. I used to look forward to airplane rides simply because I knew those little foil pouches were headed my way. And you can always count on me to negotiate my Cracker Jacks’ prize for just one of your candied peanuts.

Jimmy Carter and I would get along just fine.

I also love peanut butter. When I lived in France, my care packages contained nothing but jars of Jif. That’s because it used to be quite hard to find beurre de cacahuetes in the City of Light, since the French seem to find the spread about as appealing as toe jam. No matter. I’d tear open the box with the jars, head straight to one of the little street markets, purchase half a dozen apples and return to my room, locking the door and closing the canopy to the bed. I’m sure Madame had her suspicions about what I might be doing in there but I doubt any of them involved spreading the paste of a legume on a wedge of fruit.

These days, I keep a couple of different jars in the pantry. There’s the organic variety that needs to be stirred vigorously and the fancy-shmancy brand that is woven through with dark chocolate. For ordinary stuff I usually buy Reese’s brand: creamy and crunchy are both good for emergencies.

To my surprise, the royal offspring have never been fanatical about peanut butter, although for a while they took pleasure in making and eating Fluffernutter sandwiches. And who am I to doubt their wisdom? Lucy the pooch takes her many meds buried beneath a spoonful of peanut butter (or two if she’s looking forlorn). And when I need a nibble, peanut butter is one of the first things I’ll reach for. I guess I’m not alone in my predilection: Wikipedia claims that a half a billion people rely on peanuts as their primary source of protein. That’s a lot of goobers, baby.

So here’s a recipe for those of you who share my affections. The flavor of the pie filling is a bit subtler than you get by dipping a spoon straight into a jar, but it makes up for that in richness.

This pie is also a good workaround for those of you who suffer from Arachibutyrophobia, the fear of getting peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth.

Peanut Butter Pie

Chocolate (or regular) graham cracker crust
1 ½ c. whipping cream + 2 T.
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
7 oz. sweetened condensed milk
1/3 c. sugar
1 t. vanilla
1 c. peanut butter
¼ c. chocolate chips
¼ c. peanuts, coarsely chopped

Whip 1 ½ c. cream until soft peaks form. Remove from mixing bowl and reserve. Beat cream cheese, sweetened condensed milk, sugar, and vanilla until well blended. Add peanut butter and continue mixing until incorporated. Fold whipping cream into mixture and pile into prepared graham cracker crust. Freeze for at least an hour. Heat chocolate chips and 2 T. whipping cream in microwave until chocolate has melted; stir until smooth. Remove pie from freezer and drizzle with chocolate mixture. Sprinkle peanuts on top. Freeze again until chocolate is firm. Remove pie from freezer at least 30 minutes before serving. You may keep remaining pie in freezer or refrigerator, depending on your texture preference.

Pieku Friday

2007-05-11T08:00:00.000-04:00

The Queen is taking a brief departure from her usual format this week and is offering you -- her loyal readers -- a chance to contribute to the pie-blogging community. In order to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you need only write a haiku. Or rather, a Pieku.

Here, to get us started, are a few from the Royal Family:

Red juice down my chin
Tart and tangy but still sweet
Strawberry rhubarb

Love in a diner:
A waitress pops the question,
Ice cream with that, hon?

That sounds great you say
A new pie every week
You try staying slim!

Send your piekus via comments or email me at MadameTart@gmail.com and I promise to post them lickety-split.

....A friend in D.C. writes:

Quaffing in pie scent
I sense a savoury filling
Will you share? I prey.

....And from a complimetary Anonymous reader:

I like to eat pies
They make my tummy feel warm
I bet your pies rock!

...And more Anonymous entries:

A warm apple pie
Stimulates tastebuds and soul.
But better than sex?

My pie has a kick.
Like a giant samosa.
More curry powder!

Savory delights
A pie by another name
Real men do eat quiche

...And these are enough to make a Queen blush:

The queen can chase me
Through the kitchen anytime
With a rolling pin.

I learn so much here
The slits in the upper crust
Are not just for looks

...But wait, there's more:

Pie-ku is tricky!
How many syllables in
"Julia Child"?

Confused recipes!
Wrong filling in the wrong crust!
Yoo-hoo! Royal pooch...

All Hail the Queen!

2007-05-04T17:31:00.000-04:00

No, not me. That other Queen. The British Her Majesty who’s currently visiting the U.S. and doing all sorts of jolly things: touring Jamestown, lunching at Williamsburg, attending the Kentucky Derby, and hanging with George Bush. I mean, touring Jamestown, lunching at Williamsburg, and attending the Kentucky Derby.

Whew.

In honor of Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor (or Elizabeth II to you commoners), I’m giving you the recipe for a rhubarb tart. Rhubarb is a favorite of our friends across the pond and as it happens, of mine, too. This recipe was inspired by another Brit, Nigella Lawson, self-proclaimed Domestic Goddess. Except for the accent, I can find few other similarities between these two British figures – especially, perhaps, in their figures.

I’ve changed Nigella’s version a bit, since I always have the suspicion that her publishers had very little interest in truly adapting her recipes for an American market. Her measurements often seem a bit funky -- ½ cup plus 2 Tablespoons sugar; 1 2/3 c. plus 1 Tablespoon tonic water; 7 oz. cream cheese – and the pans and baking dishes aren’t American standards, either. (A deep 8 inch flan pan or shallow 10-inch pan?) Plus, the recipe as I first prepared it, did not deliver tantalizing chunks of tender rhubarb, but rather a shapeless, although soothing, mass. (Rather like Queen Elizabeth herself?)

Ah, well. We’ll call it compote and be satisfied with our lot. We may not be getting the royal treatment this weekend, but we commoners deserve a little indulgence too, don’t we?

Rhubarb Tart
Adapted from How To Be A Domestic Goddess

Pastry for a 9-inch tart
2 pounds fresh rhubarb
1 c. sugar
7 oz. cream cheese, softened
3/4 c. whipping cream
2 T. sugar
1 t. lemon zest
1/2 t. vanilla

Preheat oven to 375. Cut rhubarb into 3/4 in. pieces and toss with 1 c. sugar. Place in ovenproof dish and cover, cooking until rhubarb is tender (check after 30 minutes). Allow to cool, reserving juices. Meanwhile, line a 9-inch tart pan with tart pastry. Fill with foil and beans or pie weights. Bake approximately 15 minutes. Remove foil and beans and cook another 5-10 minutes, until golden brown. When ready to assemble tart, strain rhubarb and put juices in small saucepan. Boil juices rapidly until syrupy. Whip cream and then fold in softened cream cheese, 2 T. sugar, lemon zest, and vanilla. Spoon into tart shell. Top with the strained rhubarb pieces and drizzle thickened juices over all.

Have a Seat

2007-04-27T14:53:00.000-04:00

When I announce the name of this week’s pie, you must promise to restrain yourselves, dear readers. We’ll have no frenzy of excitement, no frothing at the mouth, no clawing at the keyboard to print the recipe. Everybody sitting down? Okay, then, hold on. . .

Buttermilk Pie.

You think I’m kidding? I’m aware that there are those of you who are right this minute making frowny faces and preparing to turn the page. (Or whatever its digital equivalent.) But I promise you that that would be a big mistake, for this is the perfect recipe – nay, the perfect antidote -- for the tumultuous times we live in. So stay put.

A kissin’ cousin to the custard pie, buttermilk pie entreats you –in a calm and soothing tone – to pull up a chair and sit a spell. It begs to invite your neighbor Earl over, to plug in the percolator, and to settle in for a long chat. Preferably on a wide front porch with a creaky swing and a dog named Buster nearby.

As enticing as Buttermilk Pie sounds (well, at least to some of us), I’ll admit that it’s really nothing fancy. It’s sweet yet tangy, buttery but not rich. If you’re craving white chocolate macadamia caramel decadence with a dollop of crème fraiche and a swirl of raspberry coulis, then scat. You’d not be happy on this porch anyway. Go find a bungee cord to dangle from.

Also related to the New England Chess Pie (“‘jess pie, that’s all”), Buttermilk Pie is an old southern favorite. This is the sort of thing they were probably serving at those lunch counters in the 60’s, with a dash of civil rights on the side.

While we’re on the subject, it just so happens that the King went in search of buttermilk at the local convenience store so that I could make this pie. The store is operated by Turkey Hill, a large Lancaster County dairy producer, and it carries a full line of dairy and ice cream products. So chances are, they’d have buttermilk, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong. The clerk looked at the King like he’d worn his crown out in public and then practically snickered at the question. “You must be from the South, huh? Buttermilk, jeez.” (For the record, the King is from the South, albeit Southern California. So jeez yourself, Mr. Turkey Hill Store Clerk. And no, you may not have a piece of pie.)

Buttermilk Pie
Adapted from Country Cooking

pastry for a one crust pie
3 eggs
1 c. sugar
2 T. flour + 1 t. flour
1/2 c. butter, melted
1 c. buttermilk
1 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 325. Roll out pie crust and place in pie plate. (Here, for your viewing pleasure is one of my pretty plates. I collect them, you know. The Queen believes you can never have too many pie plates. Or pies, for that matter.)

Lightly beat eggs and add sugar and 2 T. flour. Add melted butter and stir well. Add buttermilk and vanilla, mixing. Sprinkle 1/2 t. flour over bottom of crust. Pour filling into shell and then sprinkle remaining flour on top.
Bake until custard is set, approximately 1 hour.

In Memoriam

2007-04-19T22:36:00.001-04:00

A recipe from the Amish, another community that knows about tragedy.

Funeral Pie
Adapted from Cooks.com

Pastry for double crust pie
1/2 c. brown sugar
3 T. cornstarch
1/2 t. ground allspice
2 T. (1/4 stick) butter
1 T. cider vinegar
2 c. raisins, seedless
2 c. water
1/2 c. sugar
1 t. cinnamon
Speck of salt
1 t. orange rind, grated

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Roll out the piecrusts and line pan with half. In a medium saucepan, simmer the raisins and 2/3 cup of water over medium heat for 5 minutes. In a bowl, combine sugars, cornstarch, cinnamon, allspice and salt. Gradually stir in the remaining 1 1/3 cup water. Add to the raisins, stirring until the mixture bubbles up.Add the vinegar, butter and orange rind and continue cooking until the butter melts. Cool mixture until it is almost lukewarm. Pour into unbaked shell. Top with second crust and cut decorative holes in the top to allow steam to escape. Bake 25 minutes. Cool completely.

Fear No Tarte

2007-04-13T07:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Readers, I did something this week that I’ve been afraid to do.

No, I didn’t jump from an airplane into the sky, nor did I ask for a raise, pet a python, or get on the scale. What I did was…drum roll…make a tarte tatin.

The quintessential French apple pie, tarte tatin has always seemed daunting to me. While I’m fairly comfortable with a number of other complex cooking operations, I can explain my concern regarding this delicacy in one word: unmolding. The process involves caramelizing apples and then covering them with pastry dough. The whole concoction is baked and then – after removing it from the oven – is flipped so that the crust lies on the bottom and the apples nestle cozily together on top. The photographs in cookbooks present a glossy, burnished version of an upside-down pie. But I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t going to be quite as easy as all that.

Well, making a tarte tatin wasn’t easy at all, if you want to know the truth. But the unmolding part was really the least of my concerns. A minor problem involved trying to preserve enough apples when a child was gobbling up the pieces as fast as I could slice them. A major problem involved slightly burnt caramel.

If you’ve ever made caramel you’ll know that you have to work quick like a bunny once it all starts to brown. You stir the sugar and the butter over and over without anything happening and then, finally, it begins to sizzle. Soon your pan is filled with pale brown lava and then, presto! before you know it, it’s done. Or, in this case, maybe a bit too done.

I had a suspicion that was the case but I didn’t want to admit it and I didn’t want to burn my tongue by tasting it and I certainly didn’t want to start over, so I plopped in the apples – Splatter! Ouch! – and continued on with the recipe. Everything else worked beautifully so I kept trying to convince myself that it was just very dark caramel. I even managed to unmold the thing without losing a single apple and it looked quite handsome as it perched upon the platter – handsome in a swarthy sort of way.

Unfortunately, one of the children declared it “interesting.” The other called it “bitter.” That is to say, they both thought it sucked. I didn’t think it was that bad: the pastry was tender and flaky and the apples were juicy and it did hold together very nicely. My tarte tatin certainly wasn’t a candidate for this, the Burnt Food Museum (Burnt Food Museum), although it did taste a tiny bit...scorched.

On the bright side, there exists a whole category of people for whom “burnt food” is not a detraction. Apparently, these eaters actually appreciate the unique qualities of carbon-enriched cooking. And fortunately for the Queen, the King is one of them.

Tarte Tatin
Adapted from Julia Child's The Way to Cook

6 Golden Delicious apples
Grated rind and juice of 1 lemon
1 ½ c. sugar
6 T. butter, cut into pieces
pastry dough for 1 crust pie

Peel apples, core and cut each apple into 8 slices. Put in bowl with lemon juice and rind and ½ c. sugar. Allow to steep for about 20 minutes, until apples have rendered some of their juices. Drain apples, discarding juice.

To make the caramel, heat a frying pan (a 9-inch cast iron pan works well) over medium high heat with the butter. Stir until the sugar melts and a syrup forms. Careful! It will be molten hot. When light-medium brown, remove pan from the heat.

Arrange apple slices in circular pattern on bottom of pan. Place the rest of the apples on the top, packing them to fit pan. Put pan back on heat, pressing apples down as they soften and cook. Use a baster to coat the apples with the juices. When apples begin to soften, cover pan and cook 10-15 minutes, until juices are thick and syrupy. Take pan off heat and allow to cool slightly.

Preheat oven to 425. Roll dough into circle that’s about 1 inch larger than pan. Cut four steam holes into center. Fold dough in half, then again to make a quarter and position it atop apples in pan. Unfold and press overhang down into pan. Bake for approximately 20 minutes, until pastry is brown and lightly crisped. Place a serving plate on top of pan and then – carefully! – flip the pan and plate to unmold the tart. Rearrange slices as necessary. Serve hot or warm or cold with ice cream.

Makin' Whoopee

2007-04-06T01:42:00.000-04:00

Life in Central Pennsylvania has much to recommend it. For starters, there’s a picturesque quality to the region: On any given Sunday you’ll find the country roads brimming with horse-drawn buggies and the Amish folk that ride inside them. Hex signs wink at you from the sides of crumbling tobacco barns; the rolling fields are filled with rich dark earth and grazing livestock. This charming old town isn’t bad, either, with its row houses, small museums, and – soon – an academy of music designed by none other than fancy-pants architect Philip Johnson.

What else? Well, sometimes, instead of the pervasive aroma of manure, the outside air smells like chocolate – or Twizzlers – thanks to an abundance of candy manufacturers. And it’s always possible to feel connected: Your child’s pediatrician is likely to be your next-door neighbor and also the person in the pew behind you at church. The person perching on the next bicycle at spinning class is a favorite high school teacher; later you’ll see him down the aisle at the local theater company’s opening night performance. Six degreees of separation? More like two around here. Sometimes this all feels comfortable and cozy.

So what if Wikipedia deems Central Pennsylvania an “exclave” of Rednecks? Heck, we have a great Indian restaurant in town and a couple of Vietnamese places, too. Starbucks has recently decided we’re worthy of its presence and there are even a couple of CraigsLists for the region. Trader Joe’s, consider yourself invited.

Now you might be wondering, Dear Reader, where exactly this travelogue is going. Has the Queen been hired to promote the region to her legions of fans? Well, not exactly. (Although by now you must surely be planning a visit?) One thing I haven’t yet mentioned – and one of the best things about living here – is the proliferation of farmers’ markets. Local produce and farmstand-quality meats and dairy products abound; fresh baked goods are considered household staples. While the selection varies from cinnamon breads and rice krispee treats to local delicacies like snickerdoodles and shoofly pie, almost all of these bakery stands feature the epitome of Pennsylvania Dutch goodies … wait for it … the Whoopee Pie.

I’ll confess that I’ve never much liked Whoopee Pies, although based on the quantities – and varieties (chocolate, red velvet, pumpkin, peanut butter) – that sell around town, I must be in the minority. The version that appears below is not quite the standard, although personally I find it much more appealing. The “cookie” part is like a fudge brownie and the inside filling is nothing more than a partially-toasted marshmallow.

Now you don’t need to tell me that marshmallows aren’t exactly pure and natural, but in this concoction they seem sweetly innocent. They are, at any rate, less insidious than the shortening-based “crème” that is stuffed into the original. If you wanted to be really “gourmet” you could fill them with a spoonful of homemade whipped cream, but trust me, you’d be veering far, far away from the farmers’ market standard. Heck, your Whoopee Pie might even be designated “exotic,” something that’s not exactly a complimentary term hereabouts.

Whoopee Pie
Adapted from Food Network Kitchens

2 oz. unsweetened chocolate
4 oz. semisweet chocolate
½ c butter
1 c. sugar
3 eggs
1 t. vanilla
1 c. flour
¼ c. cocoa powder
½ t. baking powder
¾ t. salt
18 large marshmallows

Preheat oven to 375. Line a couple of baking sheets with parchment paper.

Melt chocolates and butter together together, either by microwaving (stir every 30 seconds until melted) or over very low heat in a saucepan. Stir until well combined.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the sugar, eggs and vanilla. Stir into chocolate and butter mixture and mix until smooth. In another bowl sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder and slat together. Gradually whisk dry ingredients into the chocolate mixture, just until thoroughly moistened. Spoon a heaping tablespoon of batter onto cookie sheets, spacing approximately 1-inch apart. Try to get 36 cookies. Bake approximately 6 minutes, just until cookies spring back when lightly touched. Cool cookies slightly, before moving half of them to a rack. Flip the remaining cookies so that the flat sides face up. Place a marshmallow on top of these 18 cookies and return pan to the oven. Let them bake 3 more minutes, just until marshmallows begin to soften. Remove from oven, cool slightly, and top with the remaining cookies, pressing lightly to make sandwiches. Cool completely on wire racks.

P.S. Lucy the Royal Pooch is on the mend. Her surgery for a ruptured ACL was successful and she’s expected to return to her food-stealing ways very soon. Note to file: Stash the Whoopee Pies!

A Word from the King

2007-03-29T22:27:00.000-04:00

Editor’s note: The Queen has been busy. REAL busy. There’s been all sorts of activity at the castle which the Editor won’t go into except to mention that the Royal Pooch had surgery, which requires that the Queen be at her side at all times because if there’s anything the Queen loves more than pies it’s the Royal Pooch. And the King and the Princes of course, but not necessarily in any order that the Editor feels it would be prudent to mention. Bottom line, the King is filling in this week.

People come up to me all the time and they say to me, “King, what’s it like being married to the Queen of Pies?” And I guess maybe I should lie a little because I hate to make people feel bad, but usually I tell them the truth, which is that it’s great. I mean, what’s not to like, right? A fresh homemade pie every single week. Sometimes two pies. It doesn’t suck.

Also I always think of that song from the 80s: “I Know What Boys Like.” The Waitresses, right? From when MTV was young (and so were the King and Queen). Because the Queen knows what boys like. Boys like pie.

So anyhoo, there were a bunch of guys over to the castle the other night for a meeting of the Let’s Play Music and Drink Beer and Call It a Charity committee. Also there were a couple of very nice upstanding women present at this meeting, but largely it was a guy thing. And so, the Queen – knowing as she does what boys like – baked a couple of pies and left them for us while she quite wisely took cover in the comfort of a local bistro with a few of the wives.

The specific pies in question were: a) Blueberry, and b) something called Florida Pie.

I admit that I do not have the skill with words that the Queen has when it comes to describing pies, so I won’t even try. I will just say that they were both delicious, although truth be known I was particularly partial to the Florida Pie because of the fact that it contained coconut. And I don’t want to speak for all of the guys who were there, but judging from the enthusiasm with which they consumed the pies I would say that they found them delicious also.

But hey, don’t take my word for it. Check out the photos of some of the very guys I’m talking about, eating the very pies in question. They look pretty happy, right? The dude with the silver hair there is Steve – a very talented musician who has written a song about the Queen and her pies that we hope to have up and playing on this blog soon. Stay tuned.

In closing, and considering that I may never have an opportunity to address you again, I would like to ask you to please request that the Queen post more blog entries about coconut cream pies. There must be hundreds of recipes for coconut cream pie, right? Why limit yourself to just one a year?

Because one boy in particular really really likes coconut cream pie, and the Queen knows it.

Florida Pie
Adapted from Baking, From My Home To Yours

9 –inch graham cracker crust, baked and cooled
(Use a store-bought crust or make your own)

1 1/3 c. heavy cream
1 ½ c. shredded sweetened coconut
4 eggs, separated
1 14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
½ c. lime juice (about 4 limes)
¼ c. sugar

Preheat oven to 350. Mix cream and 1 c. coconut in saucepan and boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Cook and stir until mixture is slightly thickened and reduced by half. Pour into bowl and let cool slightly. Meanwhile, beat egg yolks with mixer on high speed until pale and thick. Reduce mixer to low and stir in condensed milk. Add half of lime juice, mix well, and add remaining lime juice. Spread coconut cream mixture into bottom of pie crust, spoon lime filling over top. Bake for 12 minutes. Cool on rack for 15 minutes, then freeze pie for at least 1 hour.
Later, put 4 egg whites and sugar in a saucepan and heat briefly, whisking until the whites are hot. Transfer them to a mixer and beat at high speed until they reach room temperature and hold firm peaks. Fold in the remaining coconut into the meringue. Spread meringue over chilled pie and heat under the broiler until the top is golden brown. Freeze for at least 30 minutes, or up to 3 hours.

Easy Does It

2007-03-23T21:10:00.000-04:00

Thanks to a loyal reader (and a great sister-in-law) the Queen has been alerted to an important discovery in the form of the New Orleans fried pie.

Who knew? Well, New Orleanians, I guess. Apparently Hubig’s is A Really Big Deal down in Louisiana: a regional concern that’s been turning out this specialty since the 1920’s. After Hurricane Katrina, production was suspended for four months; when the distinctive glassine-wrapped friedpackages finally appeared on grocery shelves again, there was much celebrating among the locals.

As you can see, the package is adorned with the patron saint of fried pies, the ever-cheery Savory Simon, whose many flavor selections include pineapple, sweet potato, and chocolate.

I confess that my previous visits to the Crescent City had not clued me in to the Hubig’s phenomenon. While I hold plenty of fond New Orleans food and drink memories (Café du Monde beignets, Tujaque’s shrimp remoulade, Mother’s oyster loaves, Commander’s Palace Eggs Sardou, and, embarrassingly, Hurricanes in souvenir glasses on Bourbon Street) I had never made the acquaintance of Savory Simon.

Our surprise package arrived via overnight mail. After poring over the wrapped treats like aborigines examining the Coke bottle in The Gods Must be Crazy, we unwrapped our Hubig’s and, following the instructions, microwaved the pies for 25 seconds.

The result? Well, I’m not making a special trip to New Orleans any time soon just to pick up a Hubig’s or two, although I can respect how they became a local thing. There are lots of testimonials to be found on the ‘net and nobody can accuse New Orleanians of not knowing a good thing to eat when they see it. But, you know, maybe it’s an acquired taste. For heaven’s sake, I’ve lived in St. Louis, home of toasted (read: fried ) ravioli, and Cincinnati, where they put chili on spaghetti of all things. So who am I to question another city’s hometown favorite?

Plus that Savory Simon looks like my kind of guy.

Calling All Leprechauns

2007-03-16T13:03:00.000-04:00

Here, in anticipation of a lively St. Patrick’s Day, is your holiday pie. Its Irish-ness derives from a hearty splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream, perhaps not the most authentic of beverages, but certainly one of the most beloved.

The pie is a close cousin to a cheesecake, with a cream cheese filling that’s lightened (ha!) with whipping cream and a nice dousing of the liqueur. A chocolaty crumb crust and shavings on top give it an extra boost of flavor.

Bailey’s is tasty indeed, yet it is not the beverage that I most associate with the Emerald Isle, nor is the country’s namesake whiskey. No, when I think of Ireland (and I do, often) I think of the splendid Guinness. One of my most vivid (albeit boozy) memories involves a voyage I took in college. The trip was a homecoming of sorts, not for me, but for a fellow student who intended to look up relatives in County Mayo. There were a few problems with the scenario. The first was that my friend had never actually met any of these relatives before, although she assured me that they’d welcome not only her – but also two of her friends -- with smilin’ Irish eyes. The second was that I had to make my way across Ireland all alone, since for whatever cockamamie reason I couldn’t leave Paris at the same time as the two of them. The third complication was that it was Christmas.

I hasten to remind you that things were primitive then, without cell phones and ATM cards and Google Maps. Somehow, after boarding the ferry to Ireland, I realized I’d left most of my traveler’s checks back in Paris. I seem to recall having about three dollars in my backpack, and just the name of the town where the clan was said to reside.

Luckily, that was enough. A family I met on board the ferry gave me a ride for part of the way and then, somehow (please don’t try this at home) I managed to hitchhike to my destination. I ended up in the appointed town late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Although I had no specific street address, everyone knew the Gintys and pretty soon I did, too. My friend had been right – that great big Irish family couldn’t have been more welcoming. They clucked over my adventure, fed me lamb stew, and asked me if I knew any American television stars.

After dinner, some of the Irish cousins took us to the pub and before we knew what was happening, there were five Guinness’ lined up in a row for each of us. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to buy a drink for the American Girls. The American Girls did not demur.

Toasting! Dancing! Singing! We’d barely put a dent in the evening when the midnight bells began to chime. Bong! Bong! Bong! Before the bells had struck four, the entire pub rushed out the door and we were whisked along with them to the church next door. ‘Twas Christmas and time for midnight mass.

That, dear Readers, was my idea of a religious experience.

Irish Cream Pie

Crumb crust:
9 oz. chocolate wafer cookies, finely crushed
4 T. butter, melted

Filling:
2 8-oz packages cream cheese, softened
1/3 c. sugar
1 c. whipping cream
1/2 c. Bailey's Irish Cream
1/2 t. vanilla

dark chocolate for shaving

Combine cookie crumbs and butter and press mixture onto bottom and sides of 9-inch pie plate. Bake at 350 for 8 minutes.

Blend together cream cheese and sugar until smooth and creamy. Whip the cream in separate bowl until stiff peaks form. Fold whipping cream, Bailey's Irish Cream, and vanilla into cream cheese mixture.

Spoon filling over crumb crust and set in refrigerator for at least 3 hours. At serving time, shave dark chocolate over top of pie -- and pass the Bailey's.

3.14159. . . . . . . . .

2007-03-14T08:42:00.000-04:00

Happy Pi Day, Mathematicians!

Fungus Among Us

2007-03-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

I have just a couple of things to say about mushrooms. If you want true scholarship on the subject, go take a course in Mycology.

The first thing I’ll say is that I like them. All sorts, from the lowly button to the exotic enoki. And you should, too, since their nutritional profile includes significant amounts of potassium and copper. The second thing: According to folklore (and the Mushroom Council), the mushroom has many qualities that could prove rather important (superhuman strength, immortality, aphrodisiacs, and . . .help in finding lost objects). I don’t know about you, dear Reader, but that seems a most potent combination.

Here then is a recipe to take full advantage of our friendly fungi, a wild mushroom tart. Use any combination of mushrooms (as long as they’re of the legal variety), add a splash of onions, a sizzle of sherry, and a sprinkling of Parmesan. You’ll wind up with a wonderful vegetarian main course or a saucy appetizer, and maybe, a new lover and the key ring you misplaced last week.

Wild Mushroom Tart
Loosely adapted from Whole Foods Market

Pastry for a single crust pie (I used a whole wheat pastry flour in my usual pie crust recipe to great success)

1 c. Parmesan cheese
3 T. olive oil
2 T. butter
1 c. onions, thinly sliced
¾ lb. wild mushrooms (any variety or a combination), roughly chopped
½ t. sea salt
¼ c. dry sherry
½ c. vegetable or chicken stock
1/3 c. sour cream
2 T. half and half

Preheat oven to 450. Line a 9” tart pan with pastry, pressing into bottom and up sides of pan. Prick several times with a fork and line with parchment paper. Fill with dried beans or pie weights, place on baking sheet, and bake for 10 minutes. Remove paper and sprinkle ½ c. Parmesan cheese over bottom of crust.

Reduce oven to 350. Combine butter and olive oil in large skillet. Add onions and sauté until pale golden. Stir in mushrooms and add salt and pepper. Saute until mushrooms are soft, about 6-8 minutes.

Add sherry and stock and simmer until liquid has been absorbed. Stir in sour cream and half and half and simmer gently, about 5 minutes. Spoon into tart pan. Sprinkle remaining ½ c. Parmesan over mushroom mixture. Bake tart about 45 minutes. Let rest a few minutes before serving.

Yes, We Have No Bananas

2007-03-02T09:54:00.000-05:00

In this (hopefully) brave new world of green awareness, the Queen has decided that incorporating a form of recycled recipes is an appropriate way to augment our Pie Collection. This week’s featured concoction is a prime example: Banana Pudding Pie. Now most of you know this beloved southern dessert from its lower order – the simple but tasty banana pudding. Here it’s served -- with most of its delicious components intact, even improved upon -- in the form of our favorite dessert category.

You might recall that a Toll House cookie recipe was recently rendered in a similar way. What’s next? Think of that titillating parlor game played with fortune cookies. You know, the one where the phrase “in bed” is added to the end of the fortune to make the reading livelier. Perhaps the same could be done with “pie.” Tiramisu pie? (sounds promising to me) Ice cream pie? (oops, already done that) Brownie pie? (hmmm……not a bad idea at all) Pound cake pie? (uh, no)

If you’re fond of bananas (is there anyone who’s not?) and creamy vanilla pastry cream (ditto) and the airy fluff of meringue (50-50?), you’ll find this pie scrumptious. It’s not difficult to make, although it does require several distinct steps. One of those involves the grinding of a large amount of vanilla wafers in order to create the crust. As you can see, this particular pie was made with the assistance of a 6-year-old whirlwind, someone who found the grinding and smashing duty quite satisfying.

Alas, she was eager to hand over the whisk when it came time to make the pastry cream. 6-year-olds, you see, can be such specialists.

Warm Banana Pudding Pie
Adapted from Valerie Hill, Johnny’s Half Shell Restaurant

For the crust:

2 c. finely crushed vanilla wafers (about 45-50)
3 T. sugar
6 T. butter, melted

For the pastry cream:

½ c. sugar
¼ t. salt
¼ c. cornstarch
6 egg yolks
2 c. whole milk
2 T. butter, softened
1 t. vanilla extract

For the meringue:

5 egg whites
6 T. sugar
¼ t. cream of tartar

For the crust: Preheat oven to 350. Combine wafers, sugar, and melted butter and press into 9-inch pie plate. Bake 7-8 minutes, until golden brown. Allow crust to cool.

For the pastry cream: Combine sugar, salt, and cornstarch in large bowl. Add egg yolks and whisk for about 30 seconds. Put milk into medium saucepan and heat until bubbles begin to form around edges of pan. Remove heat from the pan and gradually whisk 3-5 tablespoons of milk into egg yolk mixture. Then whisk egg mixture back into saucepan of milk. On medium heat continue whisking until mixture becomes thick and starts to boil. Pour mixture into a bowl and stir in butter and vanilla. Press a sheet of plastic wrap directly on the surface and refrigerate at least 3 hours.

For the meringue: Combine egg whites, sugar, and cream of tartar in bowl of standing mixer. Place pan over bowl of barely bubbling water and whisk for 2 minutes, until frothy and warm to the touch. Place bowl on mixer stand and beat on high speed until meringue is satiny with soft peaks.

To assemble: Preheat oven to 375. Cut bananas into ¼ inch slices and fold gently into pastry cream. Spoon mixture into vanilla wafer pie shell. Spread meringue over all, covering edges of filling completely, to seal. Use back of spoon to swirl meringue into decorative peaks. Bake for 10 minutes, until meringue is golden brown. Serve immediately.

The Truth About Turnovers

2007-02-23T15:45:00.000-05:00

When it comes to turnovers, the French have a version called chausson aux pommes, consisting of crisp, flaky pastry layers surrounding a smear of apple compote. There’s a nursery-food quality about this particular treat, which might have something to do with standing at the counter of a patisserie and ordering an apple slipper.

McDonald’s used to serve a type of turnover, better known as fried apple pie. The crust possessed a fascinating texture: crunchy, bubbly craters that looked like a lunar surface. Apparently a lot of people became peeved when McDonald’s switched from fried to baked pies, circa 1992. If you’re among them, here’s a comprehensive listing of fried pie sightings.

A college boyfriend once took me to visit his grandmother in Palm Beach. Tou-Tou lived in a swishy place on the water, had hair the color of a kumquat, and seemed completely surprised to see us. The night we arrived she was hosting a benefit for a Republican senator; the high-ceilinged rooms were filled with tanned people that resembled George Hamilton. We didn’t spend much time with Tou-Tou until the evening before we were to leave, when the three of us ate dinner in the big dining room that smelled of cash. At the end of the meal, a maid served us dessert from a silver tray and guess what was on it? Pepperidge Farm turnovers! Tou-Tou gave me first choice on the filling, and I (daintily) grabbed the only apple. At that point I decided I liked Tou-Tou a lot, even if she was a Republican.

This recipe, however, is for blueberry turnovers. I’ve already given you lots of apple treats: apple pie, apple crumb pie, and apple dumplings. Besides, blueberries don’t require peeling and slicing. Tick, tock goes the relentless pie-making clock. You could substitute apples for the blueberries, although you’d need to cook them first, I think. I used a cream cheese pastry and the resulting turnovers were lovely and crisp with a nice juicy filling.

As far as desserts go, turnovers are rather jolly, like something you’d see in a book of nursery rhymes. They’re cozy and portable and require not even a plate or fork to enjoy them. One young prince dubbed them “pie to go,” and then promptly sat down and ate two. (Or was it three?)

Blueberry Turnovers
Adapted from the Pie and Pastry Bible

Pastry for a double crust pie
16 oz. blueberries (frozen is fine)
1/2 c. sugar
pinch of salt
2 T. cornstarch
1/4 t. almond extract
1 egg white, stirred until frothy
milk for glazing

Whisk together sugar and salt. Add blueberries and toss gently to coat the fruit. Allow to sit for at least 30 minutes. Transfer blueberries and their juices to a saucepan. Stir in the cornstarch until it is dissolved and bring the mixture to a boil, stirring gently. Allow to boil for 30 seconds to a minute, until the juices become clear and very thick. Gently stir in the almond extract. Empty the fruit mixture into a bowl and allow it to cool completely.

Make a 6-inch circle cardboard template. (I used the back of a legal pad,) Divide the pastry dough into 10 equal pieces. Using a well floured board and rolling pin, roll the dough into a circle. Place the template on top and with a sharp knife, cut out the dough into the circle.

Brush the bottom half of the circle with egg white, leaving a 1-inch border. Spoon 2 tablespoons filling onto this section and then fold the top part of the dough over the fruit, so that the edges line up.

With your fingers, press the border to seal it. Fold the edge up over itself, pressing again to seal. Place carefully on a foil lined baking sheet. Repeat with remaining turnovers. Refrigerate for 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 400. Set an oven rack on the lowest position and place a large cookie sheet, baking pan, or baking stone on top. Brush milk lightly on top of turnovers and sprinkle with a bit of sugar. Use a sharp knife to cut a few steam vents into the top of each turnover.

Bake 20-30 minutes or until the filling is bubbling out of the vents and the pastry is golden. Cool on a wire rack.

Makes 10 turnovers.

Toll House Pie

2007-02-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

The name might seem familiar. Toll House, you say, in a voice tinged with skepticism. As in . . . cookie?

Correct. A+. Well done. Class, go home.

Really, there’s not much else to say. The filling is simple and rich. It tastes of chocolate and nuts and butter and sugar, just like the cookie that made the restaurant (and Nestle) famous. This version of the dessert makes a tidier presentation, though, and in exchange for your labor in making a piecrust you don’t have to grease cookie sheets and stand over an oven counting the minutes. You don’t have to worry that some of the cookies will come out scorched and some underdone and some oddly-shaped and some oversized. You don’t have to count how many you’ve eaten and worry that it’s seven too many.

The pie is much more forgiving. And like its namesake, it’s open to a bit of improvisation. Perhaps you’d like to try a different flavor chip – milk chocolate, say, or butterscotch? Wise choice. Do you only have pecans or macadamia nuts? Not to worry. Maybe you’d like a bit of fruity chewiness – dried cherries, perhaps? Finely chopped dates? A capital idea. The King requests that the next time I make it I include coconut, and naturally --as usual -- the Queen will be captive to his wishes.

What you have then is a No Excuse Pie. Even if your pantry – like mine - is looking a bit peaked after a string of snowy, housebound days, this is a manageable treat. Pull yourself off your post-Valentine’s Day posterior and get to the oven. Don’t ask for whom that bell tolls, Dear Readers – it tolls for thee.

Toll House Pie

1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell
2 eggs
1/2 c. flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 c. brown sugar
1 c. (2 sticks) butter, melted and cooled
1 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 c. walnuts, chopped

Preheat oven to 325. Beat eggs until foamy. Add flour and both sugars; blend well. Add butter. Stir in chocolate chips and walnuts and pour mixture into pie shell. Bake for one hour. Cool for a bit before serving.

A (Sad) Tale of Two Pies

2007-02-09T17:57:00.000-05:00

In case you have not memorized each tantalizing morsel of these weekly dispatches, let me remind you, Dear Readers, of a few facts:

1) The sour cream apple walnut pie at Little Pie Company rocks
2) The Queen knows how to make a mean apple pie herself
3) The Queen is a flunky, however, when it comes to multi-tasking
4) A good pie can only serve eight at most
5) Lucy, the royal pooch, is one hungry dog

And yes, these points are all salient when it comes to this week’s post, which if I wanted to be trite I might have titled “Recipe for Disaster.”

Here’s the short version: There were to be nine for dinner and since guests who come to dine at the palace expect pie, well, damn it, I needed to make pie. I found a knock-off recipe for the Little Pie Company’s specialty and decided to also make (see #4 above) another apple pie that involved a traditional filling and a cheddar cheese crust. After all, apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze, right? Or so I hear.

It was a busy day. Snow squalls were blowing outside and I had to trek to the grocery store and then take the dirty dog to the groomer. One child was going away for the weekend and needed help getting packed up and delivered to his destination. There were papers to grade and gossipy accounts of Berlusconi, the Naughty Husband, to read. And then of course, there was that little matter of nine for dinner.

But the Queen had it Under Control. She whipped up the crusts for the pies early in the day -- between other tasks -- and managed to peel and slice about eight pounds of apples before making the two separate fillings. In the midst of the hubbub she assembled the pies and did all the other critical cooking things, which left her with only the very important tasks of fluffing her hair and hiding the embarrassing family artifacts before her guests arrived.

The first clue that things weren’t going well presented itself while we were still having drinks. Coming into the kitchen to fetch ice, I found Lucy the Pooch – on her hind legs – at the counter, nibbling at the crust of the cheddar cheese pie. I snatched the pie from her jaws, but alas, there was to be no camouflaging of the damage.

Sigh.

And now we cut to dessert. Or rather, we come to the point where the pies were to be cut. We were still gathered around the dining table, forks in hand. The pies were presented. We started with the cheddar-crusted apple and it was only as I began to slice it that I realized that the interior looked a little . . .milky. Weird. But no matter.

I next cut into the sour cream apple pie, teasing the knife through the crunchy top only to discover that the inside of that pie was not sour cream-y at all. Rather, it looked like an ordinary pie filling.

And then I knew: I’d accidentally switched the fillings. Two recipes at one time were too many for me. And frankly, this Queen is no Dairy Queen: Cheddar cheese crust with sour cream filling is a bit much of a good thing. Plus it looked creepy, like the apples were held together with Elmer’s Glue. And the icing on the cake (to mix metaphors)? The King reported that the cheddar cheese crust tasted like cheese straws. Not that he doesn’t like cheese straws, he tells me. Just not for dessert.

Sigh.

The other pie, however, was pretty good, and since the teenage contingent had fled before dessert was served, there was plenty of it to go round. The filling was sweet and simple and the topping was crumbly, buttery, and crisp. It was, perhaps, the best we could hope for at that point, an amalgam of both pie recipes, a true American hybrid. This, my friends, became our Prius of Pies.

Apple Pie with a Crunchy Top

Pastry dough for a single crust pie

Filling:
6-7 large eating apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced
2 T. lemon juice
1 c. sugar
1/3 c. flour
1 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. salt

Topping:
1/4 light brown sugar
1/4 dark brown sugar
1 stick butter, chopped up
1 T. light corn syrup
1/2 c. flour
3/4 c. walnuts, finely chopped

Line pie plate with pastry, chill until filling is made. Toss sliced apples with lemon juice. Mix together sugar, flour, cinnamon, and salt and add to apples. Mix gently and spoon into pie shell. Make topping by putting sugars, butter, corn syrup, and flour into food processor and blending. Stir in walnuts. Press clumps of topping between your hands and lay flattened layer atop pie, patching to cover the surface. Bake at 400 for 20 minutes; reduce heat to 350 and cook for another 35 minutes.

When Life Gives You Lemons

2007-02-02T08:00:00.000-05:00

Is it possible to be a little bit crestfallen? If so, I am. Disappointment, lemon tart is thy name.

Oh, I was so hoping for fabulous, Dear Readers. I wanted to offer you a glorious sunny treat to illuminate these dank and dingy days of winter. I planned on a tangy citrus twist that would pucker you up in preparation for Cupid and all the amorous days ahead. I’d hoped for a silken, velvety morsel that would glide across your tongue before melting down your throat, arriving cozily in your tummy with lemony good cheer.

I at least wanted to get what I was promised.

After all, I’d heard terrific things about Dorrie Greenspan and her fat cache of recipes, Baking, From My Home to Yours. A week ago, I’d even tried her jumbo carrot cake, a dessert that practically required a forklift to hoist from counter to table.

(It was good, but no, I’m not reprinting the recipe. Pie blog, remember?)

I’d been given the book as a Christmas gift and couldn’t wait to premiere one of the many pies and tarts featured within. The choice was easy. I’m a sucker for grand pronouncements and the cookbook’s build-up of this recipe (concocted by Pierre Herme, “France’s king of pastry”) was enormous. From its title: “The Most Extraordinary French Lemon Cream Tart” to Ms. Greenspan’s description of it: “the ne plus ultra of the lemon world. . .a stroke of culinary magic," the tart seemed to call out my name.

How could I possibly resist? Or perhaps more accurately, how could I fail to be disappointed?

Okay, I’ll admit that it’s not exactly bad. In fact, the King declared it very, very good. One kid nibbled at his slice until it was mostly gone, although there was no real enthusiasm present; the other tasted it and then scooped only the whipped cream into his mouth, announcing that he didn’t really like creamy tart-things anyway. I’d give it a grade in the range of B – tasty, if a bit eggy (yes, well, the filling does contain 4 eggs, duh) -- and frankly, a hell of a lot of work.

I tend to resist concoctions that require thermometers and super-precise timing and temperatures. Just part of a general aversion to things numerical and mathematical, I suppose, but it preys upon my suspicions that my thermometer isn’t calibrated correctly and that the whole thing is going to flub. Predicting disaster, a friend calls it. Well, this recipe requires you to bring it to temperature not only once but twice. And then you whip it at high speed until the grinding noise of the blender nearly drives you mad and you imagine the machine’s motor threatening to smoke and blow up. (Predicting disaster, take two.) And even when that doesn’t quite happen, you can’t help but feel that niggling little sensation of doubt. And it turns out, you’re right. This, my friends, is certainly not the ne plus ultra of the lemon world.

If you really want to see some fine specimens of Parisian lemon tarts, take a look at this post, “What is the best lemon tart?” from the lovely blog, Paris Breakfasts. The shocking news, though? The winner of that contest was the very same Pierre Hermes (co-creator of this week’s lemon tart). Quel mystere!

You deserve better, dear Readers. So, for the mere price of a business-class ticket, I’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. It seems that The Queen of Tarts has a few questions for the so-called King of Pastry. . . (Perhaps the first question: Could we possibly be related?)

The Most Extraordinary French Lemon Cream Tart
Adapted from Baking, From My Home to Yours

For filling:
1 c. sugar
Grated zest of 3 lemons
4 large eggs
¾ c. fresh lemon juice (from 3-4 large lemons)
2 sticks plus 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon size pieces, at room temperature

For sweet tart dough:
1 ½ c. flour
½ c. confectioners’ sugar
¼ t. salt
1 stick plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 large egg yolk

Make filling: Bring a few inches of water to a simmer in a saucepan. Put sugar and zest in a large heatproof bowl that can be set over the simmering water. Off heat, rub sugar and zest together with your fingers until the sugar is moist, grainy, and aromatic. Whisk in the eggs, followed by the lemon juice. Set the bowl over the pan of water and start stirring with the whisk. Cook the lemon cream until it reaches 180 degrees. Whisk constantly to keep eggs from scrambling. The cream will thicken as it begins to approach 180; this means the cream is almost ready. As soon as it reaches 180 degrees, remove the cream from the heat and strain it into the container of a blender or food processor. Discard the lemon zest. Let the cream stand, stirring occasionally, until it cools to 140 degrees (about 10 minutes). Turn the blender to high (or turn the food processor on) and with the machine running, add the butter about 5 pieces at a time. Scrape sides as needed to make sure butter is incorporated. Once the butter is in, keep the machine going; you must continue to blend the cream for another 3 minutes. According to Greenspan, “If your machine protests and gets a bit too hot, work in 1-minute intervals, giving the machine a little rest between beats.” Pour the cream into a container, press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight. (Will keep in fridge for up to 4 days, or in the freezer for up to 2 months. Thaw in refrigerator overnight before using.)

For tart shell: Put flour, confectioners’ sugar, and salt in a food processor and pulse to combine. Add butter and pulse until butter resembles coarse flakes. Stir the yolk and add it a little at a time, pulsing. When the egg is in, process in long 10 second increments, until the dough forms clumps. Turn the dough onto a floured work surface and knead it lightly – just to incorporate dry ingredients. Butter a 9-inch tart pan with removeable bottom. Press dough evenly into the bottom and up the sides. Freeze the crust for at least 30 minutes before baking. When ready to bake, preheat oven to 375. Butter a piece of aluminum foil, press buttered side down against the crust. Put the tart pan on a baking sheet and bake the crust for 25 minutes. Carefully remove foil. Continue cooking for another 8-10 minutes, until golden brown. Transfer to a rack and cool.

When ready to assemble tart, whisk the cream to loosen it and spoon it into the cooled tart shell.

Serve with whipped cream.

Oh, How Pathetic

2007-01-26T22:52:00.000-05:00

I’ve just violated one of the cardinal rules of food-blogging: I forgot to take a picture of the finished product. Yes, yes, it’s inexcusable. And yes, I am aware that I have an obligation to my legion of readers to provide thorough documentation of the preparation and consumption of pies, tarts, and pastries. The Queen begs your forgiveness.

And now that I’ve stepped into the confessional, I’ll add that I’m in violation of other food-blogging conventions, too. I have not, for instance, incorporated a sexy design into this blog (although I intend to remedy this eventually). Also I fear that I may be guilty of describing the equivalent of the cheese sandwich I ate for dinner last night, which I didn’t realize was a problem until I read this.

Forgive me, Readers, for I have sinned.

In my photo defense, I’ll explain that I got all swept up in getting dinner on the table – or in this case, the cute little trays we use on those special Family Nights when we sup together while watching a movie. It’s a rare moment indeed these days when the stars align for this to happen since somehow, teenagers find family time about as appealing as being drawn and quartered. But it was Sunday night, the Netflix envelope beckoned, the “children” were both at home, and we only had to pay them a small sum to hang out with us.

I’d not heard much about the movie Osama, although I’d recently finished the book, The Swallows of Kabul (which was so much better than that dreadful Kite Runner, a book that every other person in the western world seems to adore) and I suppose I was on the equivalent of an Afghan binge. A movie about Afghanistan. Well, that would be good for the family, I imagine. Let the royal offspring count their blessings and learn a bit more about life on the other side of the world.

Well, it certainly fulfilled the blessings component. Suddenly, emptying the dishwasher and taking out the trash didn’t seem like such a heavy price for the Princes to pay for their relatively luxurious existence. But I’d probably not recommend this movie as a complement to dinner. The family gamely watched all 82 minutes of it (not that anyone was, er, counting), although frankly, there was an uncomfortable sort of irony in eating a hearty dinner when the characters in the movie were desperate to get ahold of even a melon.

Anyway, I think my brain was looking for an excuse not to focus on the film because about halfway into it, I realized that I’d neglected the photo session. It actually occurred to me that I could probably have just replicated the photos from the chicken pot pie I featured a few months back, but you’ll be pleased to know that your Queen does maintain some standards of journalistic integrity.

Which is why you should take my word and make this dish. I can promise you both a savory and hearty repast for a cold winter night and a lovely reward to your taste buds, too. The pot pie is actually a sort of stew with a crust; its flavor is rich and what I guess you’d call zesty – enhanced with a lot of red wine and oddly enough, red wine vinegar. There are vegetables (carrots, potatoes, green beans) enough to call it a meal in itself, although it’s good served with homemade applesauce and a glass of robust wine.

Just be careful what you watch while you eat it.

Beef Pot Pie
Adapted From The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook

1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
1 1/2 pounds boneless beef chuck, cut into 1 inch pieces
1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 T. flour
1 t. salt
1 t. pepper
2 c. sliced carrots (1/2 inch thick)
5 small red potatoes, each cut into 8 pieces
1 T. Dijon mustard
1 c. dry red wine
1 c. beef broth
1/2 c. red wine vinegar
1 t. dried thyme
2 T. dark brown sugar
8 oz. green beans, trimmed and cut in half
pastry for a single crust pie
milk

Preheat oven to 350. Heat butter and oil in large skillet. Brown the beef on all sides, a few pieces at a time. Remove to medium-size casserole. Saute onion and garlic in the same skillet for 2 minutes. Add to the casserole. Mix together flour salt and pepper and sprinkle over the beef and onions. Toss to coat thoroughly. Add the carrots, potatoes, mustard, wine, broth, vinegar, thyme, and brown sugar to the beef and stir. Heat to boiling over medium heat. Cover and place in the oven. Bake for 1 hour. Remove the cover and bake for another 30 minutes.

Cook green beans in boiling water until just tender, about 5 minutes. Drain. Remove beef stew from oven. Increase the heat to 425. Stir beans into stew.

Pour the beef stew into a clean deep 2-quart casserole or souffle dish. Roll out the pastry and place on the top of the dish. Trim the pastry. Brush with milk and cut a steam vent in the center.

Bake until crust is golden, about 25 minutes.

A Cause for Celebration

2007-01-23T10:36:00.000-05:00

According to the American Pie Council (who knew?) today – January 23 – is National Pie Day. Those official pie folks list a number of suggestions to perform “Random Acts of Pie-ness.” (No eye-rolls, please) My favorite:

“Pay it forward. Hand out pie slices to strangers and encourage them to do the same for others. It could spread the peace on earth and goodwill to mankind that we all hope for.”

Ah, the Power of Pie. I don’t know about you, dear Readers, but in these parts, those of us standing on street corners while handing out pie slices are considered candidates for the local booby hatch.

So I suggest you keep your celebration simple. Not even your Queen can find the time to make a pie today, but in the interests of Commemoration, she’ll do her best to seek out something worthy of the holiday (and the calories). In fact, there’s a little café in town that serves a fine slice of oatmeal pie. Heck, with a tall glass of milk, it’s practically a lesson in healthy eating. . .

Felicitations!

Let Them Eat Tartlets

2007-01-19T07:17:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, when I was in the throes of a semester that could best be described as hectic – and would better be described as hellish -- I made a promise to myself: If I could just manage to hang on for a few months more, I’d reward myself by doing . . . absolutely nothing. I’d spend my days lounging and loafing and lifting my fingers only long enough to pop bonbons into my mouth. I’d read books and take naps and daydream and go to the movies in the middle of the day. I’d spend hours with the New York Times and learn exactly what went wrong in Darfur and Iran and North Korea. (Iraq? Not a chance.) I’d reacquaint myself with members of the royal family and take the imperial pooch for bracing walks. I’d forget about the anxiety that had filled my days and would strive to incorporate tranquility into my daily existence.

So here it is, a month into this declared hiatus from stress. And guess what?

Well, I have eaten a few bonbons.

Actually, these tasty little tartlets probably don’t technically qualify as bonbons, but they’re the closest things I’ve got. (I’m going to conveniently forget the box of hand-picked See’s Candies, the bittersweet chocolate squares from Dean & DeLuca, the French toffees, and the assorted dark and milk chocolate Wilbur Buds that have been hanging around the house since the holidays.) I think, however, the tartlets’ petite size and saucy shape merit a mention and in fact suggest that they are precisely the type of delicacy that Marie Antoinette (great movie, huh?) would have nibbled on during her moments of idle self-indulgence.

I served the tartlets to my book club on Tuesday night when the eight of us met here to ~~gossip~~ have a scholarly discussion about Anita Rau Badami’s novel, The Hero’s Walk. I thought something with fruit and a vanilla pastry cream might temper the spicy curry and chutney flavored hors d’oeuvres. (Indian themed food for an Indian novel) Since a whole tart of pastry cream might ooze unappetizingly when sliced, I feared that my bookish companions might take a rain check on dessert. (I confess that I’ve heard tell of that phenomenon, although have never actually experienced it myself.) Ergo, tartlets.

If you remember from an earlier post, I had a few problems with shrinkage when I last baked tart shells. So this time, I tried a different crust recipe and used mini-muffin tins exclusively, cutting the dough into rounds with an inverted champagne flute. The result? They still shrunk.

Fortunately, though, it didn’t really matter. The pastry cream is so buttery and luscious that the shell is a mere vehicle for the cream and fruit. And the fruit aspect couldn’t be more simple: raspberries (or strawberries or blueberries, for that matter) gently coated with a good raspberry (or strawberry or blueberry or use your imagination) jam that has been heated to a liquid consistency. A spoonful of cream, a berry or two, and voila – bonbons fit for a book club. (Or perhaps even a Superbowl party, depending on the crowd you’re hanging with.)

Overall, this meeting of the book club was a success, despite the occasional distractions from the zebra finches’ cacophonous ruckus and Lucy the Labrador’s vigorous snores. I’m simply thankful my guests weren’t aware of the menagerie's other creatures -- the five flying squirrels that had been lurking upstairs just last week.

Marie Antoinette Tartlets

This vanilla pastry cream is so divine that you might find yourself creeping to the refrigerator, spoon in hand, just to check in on it.

For the tart shells:

1 1/4 c. flour
1/3 c. powdered sugar
1/2 t. salt
10 T. chilled butter, sliced into pieces
2 egg yolks
1 T. water

Combine flour, powdered sugar, and salt in food processor. Add butter and process until mixture is crumbly. Pulse, adding water and egg yolks, until mixture holds together. Divide dough in half, form into two flattened disks, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate at least an hour. Preheat oven to 400. Roll dough into 1/4 inch thickness. Depending on size of tins, use round cookie-cutter, or biscuit cutter, or inverted glass to cut rounds of dough to fit tins. Fit dough into tins and bake 15-20 minutes (or until golden brown). Transfer to rack and cool.

For pastry cream:

2 c. whole milk
1/2 c. sugar, divided
6 egg yolks
4 T. flour
4 T. butter, sliced
1 pinch salt
1 t. real vanilla extract

Heat milk and 1/4 c. sugar in saucepan over medium heat. Combine egg yolks and 1/4 c. sugar in a bowl and whisk until pale colored. Stir in flour and salt. When the milk begins to boil, remove from heat. Slowly dribble hot milk into yolk mixture, whisking continuously. When half of milk has been added, place all of the yolk mixture into the saucepan over medium heat. Mix the pastry cream, making sure to stir thoroughly. Bring mixture to a boil. Let boil for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Mixture should be thick. Remove from heat and add the butter and vanilla, stirring. Place into a bowl and cover directly with plastic wrap to stop a skin from forming. Chill.

For berries:

1/2 pint fresh raspberries, blueberries, or strawberries
1/2 c. good-quality jam in a complementary flavor

Melt jam over low heat. Add berries and toss gently to combine.

To assemble:

Spoon or pipe pastry cream into tartlet shells. Position berries atop.

The Capture of Thing 1 and Thing 2

2007-01-12T07:23:00.000-05:00

An Official Statement from The Palace:

The intruders have been caught. The Kingdom has been secured. Residents of the realm are no longer in jeopardy.

Tuesday night I returned from watching a young prince swim in a high school meet (he’s a fine breaststroker, in case you’re interested) and venturing upstairs, I heard a noise. Although I’ve become accustomed to rodent-related reverberations, this particular sound seemed more aggressive than usual.

The noise was coming from a large cedar closet near my studio. Descriptively known as “The Dress Up Closet, ” it houses evening gowns that (ahem) seem to have shrunk; garments with sentimental attachment (the dress I wore on my first date with the King); and almost two decades worth of children’s Halloween costumes(many reincarnations of Dracula). I consider it an archaeological repository for the family’s fashions.

For the past two weeks, it’s also held a Havahart trap baited with peanut butter.

The noise seemed to be growing more insistent. I summoned the King. We (er, He) opened the door to the closet and there it was:

A flying squirrel. You might even say it was sort of cute, in a rodent kind of way. While hanging out in the closet it had managed to grab onto a blue silk sash and a pair of striped leg warmers (circa 1984) and pulled them into the cage with it. I might have found that sweet, I guess, except that I also happened to like those leg warmers.

After donning gloves, the King and the younger prince took the prisoner to a nearby field. They popped open the cage and the squirrel immediately ran up a chain link fence that surrounded a tennis court. Advantage, Rodent.

All was well.

Well, that is, until the King put the trap – and more peanut butter -- back into the closet. “We might have a problem,” he soon informed me. “I think there’s more.”

At 3 a.m. we had proof when the trap was once again sprung.

Although no one but the King heard it, he claims that the squirrel made so much noise that it had to be temporarily relocated to the basement until morning. And then, another visit to the field so that the two rodents (christened Agnes and Charles) could be reunited.

And there you have it: A Happy Ending. (Although we’ve reset the trap, just in case.)

You probably didn’t imagine when you started reading this blog – an innocuous little treatise on pie and pastry – that you would soon find yourself immersed in rodent management. What’s next, you ask? Techniques for predicting the spread on football games? Lessons in geothermal dynamics? An evaluation of Kantian ethics?

Or maybe we should just stick to pie. Although it seems a bit anticlimactic, the Queen takes her responsibilities most seriously. Regrettably, I am unable to make any sort of graceful transition to this week’s featured recipe except to report that I can actually take a slice of it up to my studio to nibble on without fear that some critter will leap out from behind the bookcase and attack it.

And I consider it worthy of attack. With a consistency akin to a fluffy cheesecake, Ricotta Tart with Rum-Soaked Golden Raisins is damned irresistible.

Soft, rummy raisins tucked into a puffed, citrus-scented filling . . . Okay, okay, I surrender. Served with a cup of tea, the tart is a lovely way to end a meal: calm, soothing, and perfectly serene. Just like a house sans rodent.

About time, I’d say.

Ricotta Tart with Rum-Soaked Golden Raisins
Adapted from The Art of The Tart

Although the recipe stated that this would produce one tart, I found that there was enough filling to make two, especially when you add extra rum-drenched raisins (as I did and as the recipe now reads).

Pastry for 2 unbaked 9-inch tart shells
4 T. dark rum
2/3 c. golden raisins
2 c. ricotta cheese
5 eggs, separated
3 T. potato flour (I found this in a health food market)
6 T. sugar
1 t. vanilla
grated zest from 1 orange or 1 lemon

Preheat oven to 375. Put pastry into tart tins; line with parchment and beans or pie weights. Bake for 15 minutes; remove beans and bake 5 minutes more.

Combine rum and raisins in small saucepan and heat gently until raisins absorb liquor. Put ricotta in a bowl and add one whole egg and four egg yolks. Mix well. Add potato flour, sugar, and vanilla. Gently stir in raisins and zest. In a separate bowl, whip egg whites until stiff. Stir a tablespoon of the egg whites into the ricotta mixture until blended, then lightly fold in the rest. Divide mixture among two tart shells.

Bake 45-50 minutes. Tarts will deflate slightly after being removed from the oven. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

Special Delivery

2007-01-05T07:07:00.000-05:00

My husband the King doesn’t ever mention his late grandmother’s name (Hazel, btw) without adding that she was a fine pie baker. One of her specialties, he recently told me, was an apricot pie made with dried apricots.

He said that in a wistful tone, designed to melt a queen’s heart and loosen her grip on the other pie recipe she’d planned to use this week.

Faithful readers might recall that my grandmother made pies, too. While my memory may be nostalgically rosy, I seem to recall that they were uniformly delicious. (No apricot, though.) But as a child, it wasn’t pie, but rather cinnamon sticks, that I believed were Gran’s culinary claim to fame.

I’ve since figured out that cinnamon sticks aren’t exactly the stuff of Le Cordon Bleu. Actually, they’re just the leftover scraps of pie dough, cut into rectangles, baked, and then swirled with powdered sugar and cinnamon. When I was eight, though, I wouldn’t have traded a plate of them for anything . . .except maybe an autographed photo of Davy Jones.

So today’s question is: Do you have a specialty? (I only want to know about food, thank you, not auto repair or birdcalls.) Because, after serious reflection, the Queen thinks that perhaps, everyone should.

Trust me, this could make your life much simpler. And it may give you a shot at posterity.

The one downside of having a food-related specialty is that it will get called into play often. Invited to a party? Forget making anything but that for which you are known. Just ask Soren (Caesar salad), Wendy (coffee cake), Anita (tortellini soup), or Kenny (cranberry bread). April knows that everyone will show up when it's tamale night; Follin is aware that for many of us, Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without her celebrated milk punch. And yes, I’ll admit that I’ve been asked to make a pie or two along the way.

Those golden handcuffs, though, are more often blessing than curse. Remember, a specialty can simplify. There’s no need to scour the recipe books or tax your tired gray matter for innovative, trendy contributions when all anyone really wants is Aunt Betty’s bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Maintain a stash of ingredients for Your Famous Dish and instead of grocery shopping, take a nap.

So how did my apricot pie compare to Hazel's? Alas, the King informs me that Hazel’s pie contained more goop and less fruit. Oh well. For what it's worth, something about these cinnamon sticks aren’t quite the same either, although a certain young person seemed to find them more than acceptable as an afternoon snack.

Truth is, the specialty is never as good when prepared by someone else, although that may have more to do with mystique than mastery.

And what about your specialties, dear Readers? Tell me what you do best; I’ll make sure to ask you to bring it when we all get together for dinner.

Extreme Apricot Pie
Adapted from The Crisco Kitchen

Although this recipe hails from Crisco-land, the Queen confesses that she doesn't use Crisco in her pie crusts. Let's just keep that our little secret, okay?

Pie dough for a double crust pie

3 c. dried apricots
1/2 lemon, peeled, thick white pith removed, seeded and chopped
3 c. water
1 T. vanilla

2/3 c. brown sugar
4 T. butter, diced

milk
sugar

Combine apricots, lemon, and enough water to cover fruit. Bring to a boil and then simmer, covered, until apricots are very soft and tender -- about 45 minutes.

Remove fruit with a slotted spoon and reduce remaining juices in saucepan until 1/2 c. remain. Stir in vanilla.

Preheat oven to 425. Line pie plate with pie crust. Spoon in apricot mixture and then drizzle juice over top. Sprinkle brown sugar over all and then dot with butter. Cover with top pie crust, trimming as necessary (cinnamon sticks!). Brust milk over crust and sprinkle lightly with sugar. Cut several slits in crust to vent.

Bake at 425 for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350 and bake 30 minutes more.

A Report From The Road

2006-12-29T07:09:00.000-05:00

1) Unlike many who travel to NYC for pleasure, your Queen's priorities are aligned differently than those making forays to Prada, or per se, or even the Park. Her destination this day was The Little Pie Company, reputed to be the city's finest purveyor of . . . well, you can figure it out, right?

2) With its yellow walls and red naugahyde booths, it's a bright, retro spot. You can imagine it as filled with a cheeful bustle, if you happen to like that kind of thing. We perched on stools and awaited the delivery of our late afternoon snack, paying little attention to the radio music playing on the soundsystem. Wait! What's that song? American Pie! Coincidence? The Queen doesn't think so . . .

3) The next song: MacArthur Park. Even though the LPC's menu includes cake, we didn't order any. (It's not The Little Cake Company, after all.) Although, honestly, after the whipped cream melted all over the key lime pie, it did look like it had been left out in the rain. I don't think that I can take it. . .

4) From our spots, we had a fine view of the kitchen where we observed cans of Crisco stacked on the shelves. Beware, LPC, the day of trans-fat reckoning is near.

5) We tried four different five-inch pies. Montmorency Cherry, Florida Key Lime, Southern Pecan, and Sour Cream Apple Walnut. I think the apple was the best, which is fitting, since LPC calls it their "signature pie." Five inch doesn't sound that big, but trust me, that's plenty of pie. In fact, the Queen -- an individual not particularly known for her dainty appetites -- toted half of hers home in a doggy bag. That turned out to a very fortuitous move, since we just happened to stop in for a box of Beard Papa cream puffs on our walk back.

6) There was a stack of pies at the front door, waiting to be Fed-Exed. They were all in Dean & DeLuca boxes (is this investigative reporting, or what?) and we couldn't help but notice that the top pie was to be sent to Dan Rather. Bon appetit, Dan.

No Mas Sugarplums

2006-12-22T11:45:00.000-05:00

Is it possible to be all holiday-ed out even before The Holiday arrives?

Sadly, the Queen admits to already being a bit weary of Seasonal Cheer. Treats laden with any combination of chocolate, butter, sugar, cinnamon, or nuts have begun to make her groan. Tiny appetizers involving soft cheese or creamy dips are left untouched. And thank you, but no, I don’t care for any eggnog.

In addition to appetite fatigue, I’ll confess that my reservoir of scintillating small talk is running dangerously low. Unless you want to hear about my undecorated tree or the high jinks of The Rodent you’d be better off chatting with the person wearing the reindeer pin.

I’m blaming a lot of my Scrooge-like behavior on stress. Most of us have pretty full plates, right? (Admittedly, when it comes to pie, that can be a good thing.) But around this time of year things begin to get messy. Those plates start overflowing with added responsibilities: shopping, decorating, gift-wrapping, baking. Being merry? Maybe. Finding peace? Not even a remote possibility.

According to a recent study, a majority of people in industrialized nations experience stress on a daily basis, and those stressful feelings are intensified during the holidays.

No kidding.

The interesting news, however, is that Mexicans have somehow escaped this devilish pressure. According to the poll, more than half of them “rarely or never experience stress in their daily lives.”

I suspect it has something to do with tamales.

You may know, of course, that these cornhusk-clad delicacies are a traditional Christmas treat in Latin America. You may know that tamales are old news, really, dating back to the pre-Columbian Americas. You may know that tamales are delicious and fortifying -- and not at all easy to make. But I hope that you'll someday find out that constructing tamales can be a collaborative social event that brings a bit of fiesta to the task of food preparation. And to that, the Queen says Ole.

So dear Reader, while I freely admit that I can’t do a lot about the big things that bring so much stress to The Season, I can try to make a little difference. And my small rebellion starts here -- with this Tamale Pie.

A fragrant and spicy chili that’s laden with tender chunks of beef, corn, and beans, the pie is topped with a lid of crumbly cornbread. Nary a spoonful of butter and nothing cloying about it. Better yet, I can even offer a time-saving shortcut for those so inclined (and who isn’t at this time of year?)

Tamale pie pairs nicely with something light and refreshing – a tangy cucumber salad, perhaps – and makes a fine antidote to the platters of chubby food that’s put in front of us all month long. Uncap a Corona with it and you’ll feel your blood pressure drop with every bite.

Wishing you and yours a Feliz Navidad!

Tamale Pie
Adapted from Sara Moulton, Sara’s Secrets

For Chili:
4 T. oil
2 pounds boneless beef chuck or rump, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 large onion, chopped
2 large fresh jalapeno chiles, seeded and finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 t. salt
3 T. chili powder
2 t. cumin
1 (28-ounce) can crushed tomatoes in puree
1 (10-ounce) box frozen corn
1 1/2 cups water
1 (15 to 16-ounce) can pinto or black beans, drained and rinsed
1 cup chopped pimiento-stuffed green olives

For Topping:
1 c. flour
1 c. yellow cornmeal
¾ c. grated sharp cheddar cheese
1 ½ T. sugar
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
1 medium fresh jalapeno chile, seeded and finely chopped
3/4 cup milk
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Alternate Topping:
1 box high-quality Cornbread Mix (Trader Joe’s makes a good one)
¾ c. grated sharp cheddar cheese

Make chili: Heat 3 tablespoons oil in a 5 to 6-quart heavy pot over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then brown beef in 4 batches, stirring occasionally, about 4 minutes per batch, transferring with a slotted spoon to a bowl. Add remaining tablespoon oil to pot and cook onion and jalapenos over moderately high heat, stirring, until onion is softened, about 4 minutes. Reduce heat to moderate, then add garlic, salt, chili powder, and cumin and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Return beef to pot with any juices that have accumulated in bowl and stir in tomatoes, corn, and water. Simmer chili, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until meat is very tender, 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours. Remove from heat and stir in beans, olives, and salt, to taste.

Transfer chili to a shallow 3 quart baking dish.

Make topping: Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Whisk together flour, cornmeal, cheese, sugar, baking powder, salt, cumin, and jalapeno in a large bowl. Whisk together milk, butter, and egg in a small bowl, then stir into flour mixture until just combined. (Or prepare cornbread mix according to package directions and stir in cheese.) Drop batter by large spoonfuls over chili, and bake in middle of oven 10 minutes. Reduce temperature to 350 degrees F and bake pie until topping is cooked through, about 30 minutes more.

For the Constantly Inconstant

2006-12-15T07:32:00.000-05:00

Yes, I’m still here. Unfortunately, so is The Rodent.

Or so I hear. His calling card is the scritchy-scratch and patter-patter-patter that I hear every day just behind the walls of the bookcase. The only thing that seems to keep him at bay is my singing, which I resort to whenever I’m at my desk. However, singing while writing (or thinking, for that matter) is damned challenging for this non-multi-tasker. My output is suffering. Plus, I’m getting hoarse. And did I mention that my footwear is now limited to boots? (Fetching, I assure you, especially when paired with flannel pajamas.)

Maybe he just wants a piece of pie. I could offer the remnants of last week’s – the pie that didn’t ever make it to the blog.

It was blueberry cherry, an inspired combination although frankly, Dear Reader, it sounds better than it actually tasted. You didn’t miss much.

Besides, this week’s entry will make you much happier: Butterscotch and Banana Cream. If The Rodent doesn’t vamoose, though, his Christmas treat will consist of sugarplums laced with rodenticide.

But Butterscotch and Banana Cream, you ask? Well, the Queen likes variety. In fact, she admits to becoming bored quite easily. This tidbit of information will perhaps lend insight into her professional endeavors: toe-dips (if not outright plunges) into the realms of public relations, freelance writing, academia, culinaria, and non-profit administration. The luster of newness wears off quickly, and by the time routine is established, the Queen is beginning to yawn.

Not that I’m proud of this. Luckily, I’ve realized there are certain things that one should stick with: A good husband. Old friends. Children. (most of the time) Antique jewelry. One’s teeth.

So these days my penchant for variety seems to express itself most frequently via food. New recipes -- tried once, often to acclaim, and then never revisited -- are the most obvious manifestation of this syndrome. But my fickleness is exposed at restaurants as well. Woe to the poor dining companion who is coerced into going “halfsies” with me at every eatery. But how dull to eat just one entrée, I cajole. How exciting to try two different items. How much more interesting to swap plates at the midway point of a meal. No? Really? You’re sure? No? Well, ummm, can I at least have a bite?

Thus the appeal of butterscotch and banana cream, a combination of two luscious flavors that will satisfy even the most capricious dessert eater.

Slices of banana, coated with a velvety butterscotch-flavored pudding, nestled inside a flaky crust. Butterscotch. Banana. Butterscotch. Banana. Two flavors, one pie, the spice of life and all that jazz.

Oh, and the problem with last week’s pie?

I fear that it’s because I used frozen blueberries. Old frozen blueberries, tough and chewy, suffering from exposure. They’d been in the freezer a while, the remnants of one of those passionate, brief flings – berry smoothies, perhaps, or muffins – that seemed to disappear as quickly as it came.

Butterscotch Banana Cream Pie
Adapted from Moosewood Restaurant Book of Desserts

One small warning: no matter what you do to prevent it, the bananas inside the pie will become brown and slimy by the next day. My advice? Make sure to have guests when you serve this. Eat it all up, be happy, and then say goodbye to the pie. Like any one-night stand, you won't want to see it hanging out in your kitchen the next morning.

9 or 10 inch prebaked pie shell

1/4 c. cornstarch
3/4 c. brown sugar
2 c. whole milk
3 egg yolks, beaten
3 T. butter
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1 t. Scotch whiskey
3-4 bananas, sliced

whipped cream

Combine cornstarch and brown sugar in large saucepan. Slowly add milk, stirring to make a paste. Add the rest of the milk and the egg yolks and whisk until smooth. cook over medium heat, stirring constantly (or almost) until mixture becomes thick, about 15 minutes. Remove from heat and add butter, stirring until it melts. Add vanilla, Scotch, and bananas. Pour into prebaked pie shell and refrigerate until cold, about 2 hours. Garnish with whipped cream.

An Univited Guest

2006-12-07T22:50:00.000-05:00

I’ll be brief.

There’s a creature scurrying around on the third floor of this house (where it just so happens I work) and said creature has just scared the bejesus out of me. I don’t know what it is -- (Chipmunk? Large mouse? Rat? Squirrel? Skunk?) but as I sat at my desk, contemplating this week’s pie dispatch, it skittered across the floor in front of the bookcase.

Eeeeek! said the Queen (not the small rodent) as our eyes locked.

With a flurry of scritchy-scratches, it skittered back from whence it came. One fine, dutiful son dashed upstairs to ensure that his mother hadn’t suffered a fit. The other slammed the door to his bedroom and then wedged a towel beneath it.

I sat paralyzed in my desk chair, although I did manage to tuck my legs up beneath me.

Donning boots, the dutiful son (and the new heir-apparent) began to investigate. He climbed upon a chair and surveyed the room. Nothing visible. He cocked an ear and listened intently. Nothing audible. He waited.

After several minutes of Lamaze breathing I began to relax. Dutiful Son shrugged and hopped down from the chair, landing on the hardwood floor with a bang. And at that instant I caught sight of the rodent, insouciantly perched on a row of books! (Stuart Little, perhaps? Of Mice and Men? Flowers for Algernon?)

I’m sitting downstairs now. The King, alas, is out of town. In these circumstances, a good hot toddy is the next best companion.

Therefore, this week’s pie entry is post-poned. I hope you’ll understand.

The Quiche Chronicles

2006-12-01T07:00:00.000-05:00

1) This quiche, which I made for dinner last night, is adapted from Julia Child’s classic cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

It’s a Quiche Lorraine, meaning that its origins are in Lorraine, in the northeastern part of France. This particular version, however, is somewhat bastardized (at least according to Julia), since it includes cheese. Not that Julia was ever one to stand on form, mind you. My adaptation ignores Julia’s recommendation to blanche the bacon before sautéing it in order to get rid of the smoky, salty, taste. Umm…excuse me, but isn’t the smoky, salty taste the whole point of bacon?

2) I met Julia Child once. She’d just published a book, The Way To Cook, and was doing tours and demos around the country. I was living in southern California at the time, a brand new mother, and so I courageously bundled up Baby and cookbooks and headed to the mall. I found Julia to be gracious and charming and tall. With good humor, she uncapped her pen and signed all my cookbooks, praising the well-worn aspect of the tomes. Then she patted Baby’s head and we made small talk and discovered that Julia and Baby shared the same birthday. She added in a stage whisper that Napoleon Bonaparte was also a member of that exclusive birthday club and then gave her signature chortle. I like to think that Baby smiled in return.

3) The Larousse Gastronomique says, “Some writers claim that this kind of savoury custard tart belongs to German cookery, since in Germany the quiche is known under the name kuchen, from which the word kiche could have come.” I get the feeling that the Laroussians aren’t buying it.

4) This may not be a certifiable version of Quiche Lorraine, but to that I say tant pis. At least I’m not filling it with nasty things that have no place in a quiche, like this abomination from Bon Appetit containing succotash and goat cheese. Succotash! No wonder Real Men stopped eating quiche. Real Women wouldn’t want to touch that, either, and the French would probably turn pale and murmur Quelle Horreur if one of those so-called quiches landed on their Limoges.

5) And besides, the Queen decrees that this notion of gender-specific food is ridiculous. The three Real Men in this household gobbled up their slices of quiche and came back clamoring (yes, clamoring!) for more. And as far as I’ve been able to tell, there’s still plenty of testosterone coursing through their bodies. The Queen primly suggests that lumberjack breakfasts, kick-ass chili, porterhouse steaks and a restorative Scotch on the rocks be shifted from the dominion of “guy food” into the realm of “food.” Period. And by the way, fellas, help yourselves to all the petits fours and pink lemonade you want.

6) The B-52’s have a song named Quiche Lorraine (which you can hear a clip from here). It’s a sad little ditty about a poodle gone wrong. I’d rather eat the tart than listen to the song, but I’ll leave that up to you.

Quiche Lorraine
Adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking

Piecrust for a single crust pie

6 slices medium thick bacon
3 eggs
1 ½ c. half-and-half or whipping cream
¾ c. grated Swiss cheese
½ t. salt
pinch of nutmeg

Preheat oven to 400. Line tart pan or pie plate with piecrust and then line piecrust with parchment paper and pie weights or dried beans. Bake 8-9 minutes; remove parchment and weights. Prick bottom and sides of crust and continue to bake for another 3 minutes. Remove from oven and place pan on baking sheet.

Lower heat to 375. Cut bacon into small pieces. Brown in skillet; drain fat. Scatter pieces on bottom of tart shell.

Beat eggs, cream, and seasonings together until blended. Stir in cheese. Pour into pastry shell. Bake for 30-35 minutes or until quiche has become puffed and lightly browned.

Post-Prandial

2006-11-24T07:16:00.000-05:00

Oof.

I don't know about you, dear Reader, but these Thanksgiving frivolities have rendered me exhausted. Dog tired, worn out, played out, spent -- and sadly, way too close to an appearance that can best be described as zaftig. Honestly, if your dining experience was anything like mine, the last thing you want to contemplate is how to make another pie. I don't even want to imagine eating pie for a while.

Heresy, I know.

So we'll just take a little rest this week. Then we'll munch on celery sticks and grape nuts and apples. We'll drink lots of water and get some exercise and use positive imagery to envision the svelte new selves that our virtuous lifestyle will afford us. We'll even (briefly, thank God) consider that radical Calorie Restriction Diet that would allow us to live long, albeit unhappy, lives.

And we won't be the least bit tempted by the leftover slices of pumpkin, apple crumb, chocolate pecan, and pomegranate pear pies that are right there on the counter at this very moment .

We won't allow ourselves to consider what a fine breakfast a wedge of pie paired with a cup of coffee makes. Or how a tiny sliver of pie and a glass of ice cold milk is The Perfect Snack. Or even how a bit of fruit-sweetened crust is just hovering there forlornly along the side of the plate and begging to be nibbled at.

No, really, we won't allow any of that.

No, really, we . . .

Who You Calling Sissy?

2006-11-17T07:10:00.000-05:00

Let the record show that I have no beef with your basic pumpkin pie. For as long as I can remember our Thanksgiving standard has been compliments of an old family friend named Libby. That’s what it says on the label and we have indeed liked it, liked it, liked it on our table, table, table. This has not been a tradition to tamper with.

At some point a young prince took over the pumpkin pie mixing bowl and it became one of his specialties. While other kids brought in tadpoles and Pokemon cards for show and tell, the Prince toted glass pie plates and cans of whipped cream. Come next Thursday, he’ll be back in the kitchen, stirring up this year’s batch.

And yes, we’ve tried using “real” pumpkin – that which hails from a field and not a shelf -- with the accompanying laborious scraping and chopping and removing the stringy bits and seeds. While the resulting pies are tasty enough, they’ll never supplant Libby in dependable smoothness or our affections.

Nonetheless, there are moments in which we crave something a bit more glamorous to supplement the holiday dessert table. We might yearn for that spicy pumpkin flavor while also craving a sweet that is both ethereal and airy. We might want to consider a dessert that stands tall and proud, one that practically shimmers with deep orange splendor.

If that’s the case, then I offer you Pumpkin Chiffon Pie, a bit of sizzle that’s sure to satisfy.

Chiffon pies were popular in the 1950’s and 60’s, due in no small part to a key ingredient – powdered gelatin -- that was also atop the era’s food charts. To my mind, gelatin has retained that retro air and has, coincidentally, produced some spectacularly scary foodstuffs. Yet, according to culinary expert Linda Stradley of What’s Cooking America, chiffon pies have actually been around since the 1900’s, when they were known alternately known as Sissy Pies and Fairy Tarts.

Please don’t let that dissuade you.

Rather than speculating on its curious etymology, the Queen prefers to dwell on the many positive properties of this particular pie. For one thing, the zingy gingersnap crust is both simple to make and a crunchy counterpart to the slinky fluff of the filling. In fact, concluding a heavy meal with a chiffon pie seems almost virtuous (if you can somehow manage to ignore the one and a half cups of whipping cream and six eggs that it contains). As befitting an extraordinary chiffon pie, it’s “lightened” by folding both whipped egg whites and stiffly whipped cream into its pumpkin custard base. The addition of gelatin to the custard firms the pie just enough to slice, while giving it the sweetest little jiggle.

And so, as the big day approaches, the Queen hopes you have been taking careful notes. By her account your holiday table should be bursting with a seasonal bounty of pie: apple, pecan, and one or both versions of pumpkin. This is your pie-making Final Exam, dear Readers, a veritable Day of Reckoning for you, the pastry apprentice.

So start your ovens, loosen your belt buckles, and get to work.

(And don't forget to count your blessings.)

Pumpkin Chiffon Pie With Gingersnap Crust
Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

For crust:

20 gingersnaps, finely ground
½ stick butter, melted

For filling:

3 ½ t. unflavored gelatin (two ¼ oz. packets)
¼ c. bourbon
6 large eggs, separated
¾ light brown sugar
2 ¼ c. solid-pack pumpkin (from one 29-oz or two 15-oz cans)
1 ½ t. cinnamon
1 t. ginger
¾ t. nutmeg
½ t. salt
½ c. sugar
1 ½ c. very cold heavy cream

For crust: Combine gingersnap crumbs and butter. Press onto bottom of 9-inch springform pan. Bake at 350 8 minutes. Cool.

For filling: Sprinkle gelatin over bourbon in a small bowl and let soften.

Beat together egg yolks and brown sugar in electric mixer at high speed until thick and pale, 3-5 minutes. Reduce speed and add pumpkin, spices, and salt. Transfer mixture to large heavy saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until temperature registers 160 degrees on thermometer, about 5 minutes or so. Remove pan from heat and add gelatin/bourbon mixture, stirring until dissolved. Either transfer to metal bowl set in another larger bowl filled with ice and cold water (or do what I did and place saucepan in sink filled with ice and cold water). Stir occasionally, until cool.

Beat egg whites at high speed until foamy in clean mixing bowl. Add sugar and beat until whites have stiff, glossy peaks.

Gently – but thoroughly – fold into pumpkin mixture. Clean bowl again.

Beat cream until it holds stiff peaks.

Gently – but thoroughly – fold into pumpkin mixture. (This helps to avoid unappetizing white streaks when you slice pie.)

Pour filling into springform pan and smooth top. Refrigerate uncovered for 1 hour and then refrigerate until pie is set, at least 3 hours.

Before serving, run a knife around edge of pie before removing side of pan. For easiest slicing, dip knife into hot water before each slice.

Serves lots.

A Pot Pie of One's Own

2006-11-10T06:55:00.000-05:00

In 3 Acts

Act 1:
Swansons. Or maybe Banquet.

My babysitter Margie is a senior in high school. Tonight she makes me dinner and we play Mystery Date. According to the rules of the game, I try to accumulate all the right clothes to make up an outfit that will prepare me for my adventure. The potential escorts include some glamorous possibilities: a ski instructor, a beach bum, the Dreamboat. The excitement comes when one of us completes our ensemble and gets to open up the door in the center of the board. Most of the time I find that when I’m wearing a pink satin evening gown with silver slippers and a fur stole, I’m stuck with a guy in Bermuda shorts who’s toting a bowling ball.

(Actually, I think something like that once happened to me in real life.)

Margie spends hours talking on the phone with her boyfriend Larry. I’ve seen pictures of him and while he isn’t a Dreamboat, he’s not a Dud, either. I nibble at the crust on the rim of the little tin pie pan and dig around in Margie’s book bag. Her shorthand textbook is filled with mysterious scribbles and dots and sweeping curves. Margie hoots at something Larry says. I press my fingers to the pages of the book and stare, wondering where this magical language is spoken.

Act 2:
In the Tea Room

It is the third time this week that the chef has called in sick. Last week he waved a knife in my direction and scowled in a dark way. He likes to fry bacon when he knows I’m scheduled to arrive, understanding somehow that at this stage of my pregnancy, one whiff of pork fat is all it takes to make me heave.

I do not think I am suited to running a restaurant.

The lunch crowd will be arriving soon. I declare the chef fired and Oscar, the 16-year-old dishwasher, promoted. Oscar is sweet and puppy-like; the only thing he has ever waved at me is a dishrag -- a sign of surrender at the end of his shift. Now he lines the pot pie dishes with pastry and counts out the morsels of chicken. Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete. The flock of blue-haired ladies who lunch here quickly become indignant if one is awarded more chicken than another.

Act 3:
When I was a stay-at-home mom

Bake a pot pie and take it to the friend who just had a baby.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the preschool for the teachers’ lunch.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the neighbors who are moving away.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the church lady who just had her knee replaced.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the old guy whose wife just died.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the friend who just had two babies.
Bake a pot pie and send it to the elementary school for the teachers’ lunch.
Bake a pot pie and take it to the new neighbors.
Bake a pot pie and leave it on the doorstep of the old guy who is now living with the church lady who just had her knee replaced.

Chicken Pot Pie
Adapted from The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook

I’ve used variations of this recipe for years. You can assemble it a day ahead and keep it, unbaked, in the refrigerator overnight. Make two and you'll make a friend.

2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 c. heavy cream
4 carrots, peeled and cut into ½ in. pieces
2 zucchini, cut into ½ in. pieces
4 T. butter
2 small onions, chopped
4 T. flour
1 c. chicken broth
¼ c. Cognac or white wine
1 t. dried tarragon
1 ½ t. salt
pepper to taste

pastry for a single crust pie
milk

Lay chicken breasts in a single layer in roasting pan. Pour cream over and bake at 350, 20-25 minutes. Let the chicken cool in the cream. When cool, cut chicken into 1 inch pieces. Reserve the cream and cooking juices!

Blanch carrots in boiling water for 5 minutes. Add zucchini and blanch 2 minutes more. Drain.

Melt butter in large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and sauté until translucent. Add flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 3 minutes. Add broth, and whisk until thickened. Stir in reserved cream and cooking juices, along with Cognac or wine. Cook over low heat until thick. Stir in tarragon, salt, and pepper.

Fold in chicken and vegetables. Pour mixture into deep casserole or soufflé dish. Roll out pastry and place on top of dish. Trim pastry and crimp edges. Brush milk over top of crust. Cut steam vents.

Bake at 425 for approximately 30 minutes.

A Pie Crust Primer, Part 2

2006-11-03T07:24:00.000-05:00

Now that you’ve had plenty of time to practice the bottom crust, let’s move upwards.

To make a double crust pie:

Step 1:
Line pie plate as previously instructed but do not crimp edges. Trim dough about an inch all around. Refrigerate while you prepare filling.

Step 2:
Make filling and spoon into pie.

Step 3:
Roll out top crust and drape it over rolling pin. Position carefully over filling and unfurl. Now don’t dawdle; it’s important to keep the crust cold while you’re doing all this. Admire your handiwork later.

Trim top crust about the same size as lower crust and then, folding, tuck upper layer of crust under bottom to create a ridge. Using thumb and forefinger, crimp all around the edge.

Step 4:
With a sharp knife, cut several steam vents into top of pie. Strive to be decorative.

Step 5:
Brush milk gently over entire surface of crust, poking pastry brush into crimped indentations. This will ensure you have a lovely golden crust.

Step 6:
Holding a spoonful of sugar several inches overhead, lightly sprinkle entire surface with sugar.

Step 7:
Make sure oven is preheated ahead of time. Position your rack in the middle or lower third of the oven. I try to remember to put the pie on top of a baking sheet in order to avoid bubbling, burning messes, but sometimes I forget. Unless you like a houseful of smoke, I suggest you try to remember.

Now, go forth and bake pies! Thanksgiving – the veritable Pie-Palooza of holidays – is rounding the bend. The Queen expects A Full Report of your successful pie production.

Coral’s Rhubarb Pie
Slightly modified

Deviating from my usual devotion to seasonal produce, this week I am delving deep into the freezer. (Take that, Nora!) Frankly, dear readers, time is short and I cannot manage even the honest labor involved in wielding a peeler or a paring knife. Tucked away in a corner of the Amana, behind a package of lima beans and nestled against a bottle of Limoncello lay a package of cut rhubarb. Its provenance was unknown, but for the purposes of this blog, I dubbed it “Salvation in a Ziploc Bag.”

The first time I ate a rhubarb pie was at my friend David’s house in Barrington, Illinois. We had just finished our spring semester at college and had pushed the Fiat hard to get away from Minnesota. I was exhausted from a night of No-Doz and a battle with my Smith-Corona, as I’d typed my final paper for a literature class called Devious Domesticity.

David’s mother Coral greeted us with hugs. We stretched our legs as we ambled through her fragrant garden, Coral pointing out the different flowers and vegetables. We went inside where Coral showed us the beautiful braided rugs she was making from old clothes and bundles of rags. Finally, we slumped into chairs at the kitchen table and let Coral serve us fat slices of still-warm rhubarb pie. In between bites I looked around: the whole house glowed with late afternoon sun, the luster of polish, and an unmistakable air of welcome.

Domesticity, dear readers, had never seemed less devious.

Filling:
4 cups rhubarb, in ½ in. chunks
1 c. sugar
1 T. flour
2 eggs, beaten
1 t. grated lemon zest

Pastry for a double crust pie
Milk
1 t. sugar

Mix all filling ingredients together and heap into an uncooked pie shell. Cover with top crust, brush with milk, sprinkle with sugar. Bake at 425 for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350 and bake 40 minutes more, or until bubbly.

A Pie Crust Primer, Part 1

2006-10-27T07:09:00.000-04:00

Okay, so here’s how I do it. I’m not claiming this method to be The Best Way to make a pie crust, but it works for me. So far nobody’s ever gagged or sent a slice back to the kitchen.

As you’ll see, it’s really fairly simple, especially if you use a food processor. And as long as you have the food processor out you might as well make a bunch. Double, triple, quadruple the recipe; the Queen is confident you can do the math. How gratified you will feel to reach into your freezer and pull out a disk of dough – ready for the next day’s baking!

I mentioned this to Nora Ephron recently, (no, the Queen is not above name-dropping) when we were discussing pies. She looked at me with something like pity and said, “Obviously, you don’t live in New York.”

I tried not to gasp. How could she tell? Was it my John Deere suspenders? The straw poking out of my pocket? Perhaps my eau de manure cologne?

Thankfully, none of the above. Ms. Ephron was under the impression that in order to make multiple pie crusts, one must be in possession of an enormous amount of freezer space, something residents of Manhattan are presumably likely to shun in favor of other things -- all 20 volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary, say, or their collection of Matisse lithographs. I didn’t get around to explaining that these petite disks take up less space than a bread plate, far less, in fact, than the cardboard box that holds the Pillsbury Unroll and Bake or a plastic carry-out container from Gourmet Garage. And anyway, I’m not going to argue with Nora Ephron. I mean, take a look at Heartburn and see what happened to Carl Bernstein when she got pissed off at him. . .

Pie crust for a double-crust pie

2 ½ c. flour (unbleached white flour is the best choice here.. Don’t use whole-wheat unless you want a leaden crust)
1 t. sugar
1 t. salt
2 sticks butter (unsalted; if you only have salted, omit the tsp. salt in the recipe)
1/3 – ½ c. ice water

Step 1:
Gather all your ingredients together. Make sure your butter is well-chilled; slice each stick into 10-12 pieces.

Step 2:
Throw the flour, sugar, and salt into your food processor and give it a whirl.
OR (if you don’t have a food processor or are determined to do things The Hard Way):
Throw the flour, sugar, and salt into a bowl and stir it up.

Step 3:
Add the butter, using the Pulse button until the butter and dry ingredients look like coarse sand or pebbles or tiny bubbles.

OR …Using one of these nifty gadgets called the Pastry Blender (or two knives, in pinch), smash the butter into the dry ingredients, trying to achieve the same gravel-y results.

Step 4:
Add 1/3 c. ice water to processor, and pulse again, until mixture seems to be coming together. If this is not happening, add another ¼ c. or so. Stop pulsing and check to see if you can form dough into a ball. If so, stop. If still too dry, add a bit more of ice water and pulse to combine.

OR…Sprinkle ice water over butter/flour mixture and using a fork, mix until dough can be patted into a ball, adding slight amounts of ice water if necessary.

Step 5:
Divide dough into two parts.

Pat each into a disk, flatten slightly, wrap in plastic wrap. If you plan to use dough immediately, put in refrigerator and let chill for at least a half an hour.
If you plan to reserve for later, toss into freezer.

Step 6:
Take dough out of refrigerator about 10 minutes before you’re ready to roll. (Literally and figuratively)

Step 7:
Sprinkle work surface with lots of flour. If you have a marble pastry board, pull it out and use it. If you don’t, consider acquiring one. Alternately, consider acquiring a husband who will give you one for Christmas. (What, you don’t think this is romantic? Maybe not but it does adhere to the gift mandate the Queen once issued to her king: Nothing with a Plug.)

Step 8:
Pull out your rolling pin and wave it menancingly in the direction of anyone who looks skeptical at your pie-making prowess. Make sure you have a pie plate at the ready.

Step 9:
Remove plastic wrap from dough and position disk in middle of well-floured work surface. Rub flour onto rolling pin, too. Take a deep breath. Place rolling pan on dough and roll outwards, away from you. Gently lift dough and give it a quarter turn before placing back on board and repeating the away-from-you rolling motion. Do another quarter turn and repeat. The goal is to avoid the back-and-forth rolling motion that is said to toughen the dough. Keep checking to make sure you have enough flour on the board and your rolling pin; you don’t want the dough sticking to either.

Step 10:
When you seem to have achieved some semblance of a circle – approximately 3 inches bigger in diameter than your pie plate, place rolling pin on top of dough. Lift one edge of the dough onto the pin and roll it up slightly. Position pie plate beneath rolling pin and then, allow dough to unroll over pie plate, shifting it gently to let pastry fall in place. Cool, huh? Ease dough into plate, pressing slightly.

What you do next depends on the type of pie you plan to make. Some recipes require that you pre-bake a pie shell before filling; others do not. Some pies require a top crust; we’ll work on that next week. This pecan pie is very simple and requires neither a top crust nor a pre-baked pie shell.

Trim edge of pastry with scissors until it hangs about an inch or so over the edge of the plate. Lay scraps aside and wait for teenager to come and scarf them up.

Fold edge slightly under itself and then, using finger and thumb, crimp edge of crust, making indentations along pie shell.

Put pie shell into refrigerator while you prepare filling.

Pecan Pie

Consider this pie a Fall Classic: pecans suspended in a sugary sludge and flavored oh-so-faintly with a bracing shot of bourbon.

1 unbaked pie shell
3 eggs
1 c. dark brown sugar
1 c. light corn syrup
3 T. butter, melted
1 t. vanilla
1 T. bourbon whiskey
2 c. pecans

Preheat oven to 350. Lightly beat eggs; add brown sugar, corn syrup, butter, vanilla, and bourbon. Fold in pecans and pour into pie shell.

Bake approximately 50 minutes, or until knife inserted into pie comes out clean. Let cool.

Now it’s your turn, dear Reader!

Good Thing, Small Package

2006-10-20T07:16:00.000-04:00

If a contest were held to name the friendliest food, I’d place my wager on the cheerful dumpling, a veritable Miss Congeniality of cookery.

Although its definition varies widely – encompassing anything from dough simmered in broth to small packages of pastry with something tasty swaddled inside – its starchy coziness remains the same. Dear, dear dumpling -- even its name connotes chubby, pink-cheeked goodness.

Frankly, your Queen has yet to meet a dumpling she hasn’t liked. She’s not alone in this, apparently, since most culinary cultures lay claim to a dumpling or two: The Chinese have potstickers, the Japanese gyozas, the Polish pierogies, the Czechs knedlíky. We all know by now about the beloved Indian samosa, and the Italians, of course, have gifted us with both ravioli and gnocchi.

One of the happy things about dumplings involves their size. Usually, they’re smallish, single-portioned, and perfect for the toddler who lurks inside each of us -- the one who shrieks “Mine!” when anyone eyes his personal treasure. And that’s another good thing: You don’t have to share a dumpling, although I suppose (sigh) you could offer someone a bite.

But only if you want to be friendly.

Apple Dumplings
Adapted from The King Arthur Baker’s Companion

Apple pie, take two.

I make these with my favorite pastry recipe, although here it simply envelops half of a juicy Smokehouse apple. The sweet and buttery cinnamon sauce gilds the lily; let the record show that the Queen is All For That.

For dumplings:
Pastry for a double crust pie
4 medium, tart baking apples (peeled, cored, and cut in half through the midsection)
½ c. sugar
1 t. sugar
Raisins (if desired)

For syrup:
1 ½ c. sugar
1 ½ c. water
1 t. cinnamon
1 T. lemon juice
1 stick butter

Make syrup by combining all ingredients and bringing to a boil. (Use microwave or stove burner). Stir to melt butter and set aside.

Take half of the dough from the refrigerator and roll outward on a floured surface to form a large square. Pastry should be approximately 1/8 inch thick. Cut dough into four squares. Place half an apple on each square, cut side down. Mix cinnamon and sugar together and sprinkle into cavity left from core. Add raisins, if desired. Using a pastry brush, paint the edges of the dough square and folding inward, wrap dough around each apple half.

Gently paint the seams with water. Repeat for remaining dough.

Place apples in large, lightly-buttered baking dish (or roasting pan) and pour syrup all around. Bake the dumplings at 375 for 45-50 minutes, until golden brown. Allow them to rest 5-10 minutes and then, spoon into a shallow bowl.

Not bad with ice cream, either.

Book 'em

2006-10-13T07:19:00.000-04:00

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).

The Devil Made Her Do It

2006-10-06T07:31:00.000-04:00

The Queen had the loftiest of intentions this week. As you know, Dear Reader, autumn is well underway and apples are at their peak. I’d planned to write a scholarly treatise on the origins of apple pie (or pye, as our Elizabethan friends called it). I was eager to delve deep, infusing my scholarship with all manner of history and yes, science. As Carl Sagan once claimed, “In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe.”

It was going to be a long post.

Things began well. I selected the most gorgeous apples from an orchard store brimming with abundance.

I lovingly peeled the tart fruit, tossing it with just enough spice to draw out its flavors. I spooned the mixture into an all-butter crust and eased it into the oven, allowing the aromatic vapors to permeate the kitchen.

So far, so good.

The baked pie emerged full of golden promise.

A short while later, the royal family tucked into it. Still warm, fragrant with cinnamon and sweet with buttery apple juices, it was, perhaps, the best apple pie I’d ever tasted. We’d barely put down our forks before anticipating the pleasurable prospect of pie for breakfast.

Unfortunately, we weren’t alone in our anticipation. As we soon learned, another creature in the house likes apple pie, too.

Those of you familiar with life inside the realm have undoubtedly been expecting this post. Indeed, how have four long months of blogging passed without a single mention of the royal canine – Lucy, our 109-pound Labrador Retriever? Lucy, the plus-size pooch with an….um….eating disorder?

The exploits of Lucy and her appetite are legendary. A box of Krispy Kreme donuts, the entire side of a coconut cake, a wheel of Fourme d’Ambert cheese. Bagels off my breakfast plate (good morning!), candy pulled from a Christmas stocking, cat food, bird food, fish food. A paragon of open-mindedness, Lucy lives by this creed: It’s all good.

She’s a most benevolent hostess; in fact she adores it when we entertain. And while members of the royal family know enough to be on the lookout, not everyone has her number. Young children -- at eye level with dear Lucy – are especially vulnerable, liable to have their wieners snatched from their buns, their Popsicles pulled from their sticks.

Walking with Lucy has its own particular challenges. Her nose constantly twitching, she’s apt to lunge into a bush where she will emerge, triumphant, with a half slice of pizza hanging from her jaw, or sometimes, a dead squirrel. Yes, all good.

The only things Lucy doesn’t like? Wind-up mechanical toys, raw tomatoes, liver pate, and scarecrows.

So really, when it came to pie, we knew it was just a matter of time.

And while the Queen would never wish to incriminate anyone, there’s a certain ruling male figure in the household who left this week’s entry rather too close to the counter’s edge. So close in fact, that it was well within the range of Man’s Best Friend.

You know what happened next.

An intense rescue effort ensued and Lucy’s jaw was pried from the plate containing the poor pie. And though another Lucy (of Peanuts fame) would surely shriek, “Dog germs!” and hurl the remnants into the trash, I suspect that members of the royal family will instead mumble that old adage about a dog’s mouth being cleaner than a human’s -- and discreetly consume the remains of the pie.

After all it is, or was, pretty damn tasty.

But don’t take my word for it.

Just ask Lucy.

Apple Pie
Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

Mixing several different varieties of apples gives a wonderful depth of flavor. I used McIntosh and two varieties that I’d never heard of: 20 Ounce (yep, they were BIG) and Fortune.

4 T. flour
1 t. cinnamon
¼ t. allspice
pinch of salt
1 t. lemon zest
¾ c. sugar + 1 T.
3 – 3 ½ pounds apples (approximately), peeled, cored, and sliced
1 T. fresh lemon juice

pastry for a double-crust pie
milk

Place a baking sheet on the middle rack of oven and preheat to 425. Stir together flour, cinnamon, allspice, salt, lemon zest, and ¾ c. sugar. Add apples and lemon juice and toss gently.

Roll out pastry and line pie plate. Spoon filling into pastry. It’s okay if your apples form a mound; they’ll shrink during baking. Roll out remaining pastry and drape over apples. Pinch crust closed. Brush milk over surface of pie and sprinkle with 1 T. sugar. Cut several steam vents into top of pie.

Bake on hot baking sheet for 20 minutes. Reduce heat to 375 and bake for another 40 minutes – or until crust is golden and pie filling is bubbly. Cool on a rack for at least an hour. Store far away from hungry hounds.

I've Seen Better Days. . .

2006-09-29T07:08:00.000-04:00

Things fall apart. Shit happens. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.

Most days, we do what we can. We try our best to clean up the mess, patch the cracks, console the bereft. Sometimes we just write a check.

But some days there’s nothing you can do but check out. The best decision – for everyone involved – is to take care of yourself first. Put on your oxygen mask. Adjust the straps. Breathe deeply. There, there. You can get back to fixing the rest of the world later.

Now, lest you be concerned with all this abstract doom and gloom, I should assure you that everything’s fine in the royal realm. Perfectly peachy, in fact. But you don’t spend 30-odd years (ahem) on this earth without suffering through your share of rotten days, right?

So let’s talk about comfort.

When one of those days happens, the Queen has a strategy. First, she dresses the part in a uniform that likely consists of a pair of men’s flannel pajama bottoms and a tattered cotton turtleneck. She sports Chinese velvet slippers -- the kind that make a consoling flop-flop as she wanders from room to room -- and her favorite gray “writer’s sweater,” a once-lovely piece of clothing that now hangs baggy and forlorn at her waist. Then, on particularly bad days – when even a stray lock floating about her face is unbearably annoying – she twists her hair into a bun.

It’s a glamorous look, I assure you.

What else? A blazing fire is nice. A good book never hurts. A baseball game that doesn’t involve the Reds losing can be splendid succor.

And then, of course, there’s food.

We’re all familiar with the tired notion of Comfort Food. According to those in the know, it usually involves some combination of pasta, cheese, bread and hot soup. And chocolate, natch.

But the Queen’s not buying that. A gooey grilled cheese and a Snickers might ease a wrinkled brow, but so can a plate of spicy chilaquiles. Homemade pad thai with a squirt of lime can make you feel chipper on the double. Cincinnati-style chili on a nest of noodles can be the poor man’s Paxil.

There’s no single recipe for comfort. A hot bubble bath may calm your cares, but the resulting shriveled digits and smothering steam provide no solace for me. You, Dear Reader, need to figure out your own formula.

For a downtrodden queen, though, dessert is easy. Let me whisper these three words: Egg Custard Pie.

It’s cool. It’s settling. It works wonders on anything from troubled tummies to shattered psyches. Fragrant with nutmeg, utterly smooth and transcendently soothing, it’s the Make It a Double of pies.

Egg Custard Pie
Adapted from the American Pie Council

3 eggs, beaten
¾ c. sugar
pinch of salt
1 t. pure vanilla extract
2 ½ cups milk, scalded

1 unbaked pie crust
1 egg white
nutmeg

Preheat oven to 400. Line a pie plate with the unbaked crust. Brush sides and bottom with beaten egg white.

Mix eggs, sugar, salt, and vanilla until well blended. Stir in the scalded milk. Pour mixture into pie shell and sprinkle heavily with nutmeg. Bake 35-40 minutes, or until knife inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool on rack.

Tart Tarts

2006-09-22T05:22:00.000-04:00

There’s a theory that the world can be divided into two kinds of people: those who love chocolate and those who favor citrus. (Shush, all of you that are now protesting that you love both equally. We’re not talking about your children, for heaven’s sake!) Come clean: you’re at Starbucks, treating yourself to a pick-me-up. Which cupcake – the lemony Lazy Daisy or the Death by Chocolate – is going to end up next to your Americano?

Make up your mind: Chocolate or Citrus, Ginger or Mary Ann, The Yankees or Whichever Team is Playing Them, Shaken or Stirred, George Bush or Hugo Chavez. Obviously, it’s this diversity of opinion that makes life so very interesting. Right?

The Queen, you will not be surprised to learn, has a clear preference. While she likes chocolate just fine – preferably dark, bitter, and unadulterated, in small flat squares that
melt nicely on the tongue – she’s positively passionate about citrus: limes, lemons, grapefruit, along with oranges and all their close kin.

In fact, nothing can make the Queen’s heart flutter faster (aside, perhaps from the King or a new pair of leopard-print pumps) than a dessert that features the sublime lime.

So pucker up, citrus fans. This one goes out to you. . .

Mini Lime Curd Tartlets
Adapted from Diana's Desserts

And now for my confession: the tartlet part wasn’t as easy as…well, pie. See, I’ve been dying to use these little tins, a gift from my favorite 12-year-old.

But they’re a bit tricky to work with: the crust shrinks in them during baking and afterwards, is prone to crumbling. I tried again – this time pressing the dough into mini-muffin cups. The results were more uniform, if still slightly dowdy. Luckily, though, they tasted divine: the crisp, buttery shortbread a perfect foil for the cool tang of the lime curd. Still, the next time I’ll probably use a 9-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Or better yet. . . I just happened to notice that mini filo-dough tart shells are found in the freezer case at many groceries stores. Just pop them into the oven.

Yes, a labor saving tip from your Queen! (And you’d begun to think I churned my own butter. . .)

There is one good thing about the miniature quality of this dessert: It’s quite easy to deceive yourself into having one (or six) more. They’re just itty-bitty things, after all.

For lime curd:

4 large eggs
2/3 c. fresh lime juice (about 4 limes)
¾ c. sugar
6 T. butter
2 t. grated lime zest (plus more for garnish)

Mix together eggs, lime juice, sugar, and butter in saucepan. Stir constantly over medium low heat until mixture is thickened (about 10 minutes). Stir in grated zest. Pour through strainer over medium bowl. Cover and refrigerate several hours.

For tartlet shells:

3 c. flour
2 T. sugar
pinch of salt
3 sticks butter, cut into slices
3 T. ice water (approximately)

Mix flour, sugar, and salt in bowl of food processor. Add butter and process, pulsing, until mixture is crumbly. Add enough ice water until dough sticks together when pressed lightly. Form into a disk, wrap in plastic, and chill 30 minutes or more.

Garnish:

whipped cream
grated lime zest

To assemble: Preheat oven to 350. Press tablespoons of dough into mini-muffin tins or tartlet molds. Prick shells with fork and bake 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Cool before filling with lime curd. Garnish with a spot of whipped cream and a bit of zest.

Makes at least 2 dozen tartlets.

The Request Line is Now Open

2006-09-15T19:33:00.000-04:00

Someone recently asked me if I wasn’t afraid that I was going to “run out” of pies to write about. Run out? Are you kidding? Have a little imagination, Reader. We haven’t even broached the subjects of banana cream or butterscotch or Black Forest chiffon. There’s plenty to say about pumpkin and my God, what about the magnificent potential of the esteemed American apple?

Tartlets. Turnovers. Tatins. Plus I bet you can’t wait to hear the Queen extol the virtues of pot, right? (Pie, that is. Potpie. What were you thinking, anyway?)

So many possibilities! And maybe a few limitations. Just yesterday, a friend and I were engaged in a lunchtime discussion that included a digression to the topic of skinning animals for food. I made what I considered to be a perfectly natural conversational bridge: Hey, how about a Squirrel Pie? To which my friend cast a glance that clearly accused me of knitting with only one needle, or suggested at the very least, that I was completely hare-brained.

(Now there’s an idea: Peter Cottontail Pie?)

Well, perhaps we’re not quite ready to explore all the possibilities ...

But let it be acknowledged that the Queen believes she has an obligation to her loyal subjects to respond to what most interests them. Here, as our first example, is Samosa Pie.

A dear and longtime (well, 3 month) reader once expressed interest in something of the sort. The result is a bountiful display of potatoes, peas, and curry spices -- all tucked into a blanket of flaky crust. Forget the ice cream; serve this with a hefty dollop of mango chutney. I’m not sure if this is what the reader had in mind, but the people who tried it found it to be pretty damn good.

And if the rest of you have ideas/requests/~~complaints~~, bring ‘em on. The Queen is officially Open To Suggestion. And yes, I’ll even consider addressing your arch-nemesis The Pie Crust in a lengthy how-to, although frankly, I think you’d be better off just doing it a few times yourself. Piecrust-making is similar to that of many other worthwhile endeavors – conversing in a foreign language, developing an appreciation for wine, sex -- where practice is helpful, but expertise is certainly not a pre-requisite for enjoyment.

Isn’t it a wonderful world?

Samosa Pie
Adapted from a Recipe Zaar recipe

As written, this recipe makes a hearty vegetarian entrée that is luscious when served with a cucumber raita and chutney on the side. You could also add chopped chicken or pork and boost the protein. The Royal Family is especially fond of curry powder (Penzey’s Maharajeh Style works well, as do most Madras curry powders). If you like a milder flavor, adjust the spice mixture accordingly.

Crust:

2 ½ c. unbleached flour
2 sticks butter
½ t. salt
½ c. ice water

Egg wash:

1 egg
1 T. water

Filling:

10 c. cooked, cubed potatoes (1/2 inch size)
4 T. olive oil
2 c. chopped onions
2 T. chopped fresh ginger
4 large garlic cloves, minced
1 ½ T cumin
1 T. ground coriander
2 T. Madras curry powder
1 t. turmeric
salt to taste (be generous)
1 t. red pepper flakes
¼ c. chopped cilantro
½ c. fresh lemon juice
1 c. frozen peas

Make crust: Put flour, butter, and salt in food processor and mix well. Add ice water until mixture begins to form a ball. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate at least an hour.

Make egg wash: Whisk egg and water together.

Make filling: Heat olive oil and add onions, ginger, and garlic. Saute until golden. Add potatoes and cook a few minutes more. Add cumin, coriander, curry powder, turmeric, salt, and red pepper flakes. Mix well. Add cilantro, lemon juice, and peas. Remove from heat.

To assemble, preheat oven to 375. Roll out 2/3 dough into very large circle and place inside a 10-inch springform pan, lining the bottom and sides. Brush with the egg wash. Spoon filling inside and press slightly to compact. Roll out the remaining 1/3 dough and place atop filling, crimping edges. Brush with remaining egg wash and cut steam vents into crust. Bake 1 hour, until golden brown.

There is No “I” in TEAMWORK

2006-09-08T07:13:00.000-04:00

What a lot of hooey.

The Queen, it should be noted, has never been one to share her kitchen. Not that she is inordinately possessive of her personal space or that she has the slightest interest in preserving culinary mystery. No, the sad truth is that the Queen performs poorly on tasks involving Group Work. She detests committees, commissions, and communes. She’s not particularly fond of teams (except those in which fit young men wield wooden bats) and the mere prospect of collaborative endeavors where input is solicited and flip-charts are scrawled upon makes her positively queasy.

Plus she gets distracted easily.

Put someone in the kitchen with me when I’m trying to cook and the spoonful of salt in your soup is apt to be replaced with sugar. Ask about my recent trip to Timbuktu and I’ll respond with animation, even while I gaze helplessly at the pot of tomato sauce that burbles and boils over. And you may as well expect lots of charred food since it’s likely the oven temperature will be set incorrectly and the timer ignored.

In my kitchen, less is indeed more. This perverse form of arithmetic means that instead of the cook accomplishing twice as much with a helper, the meal will likely take twice as long to produce. Suddenly your dinner is in danger of turning into a midnight feast and your guests begin to wonder what happened to the promised first and second courses. (Short answer? I forgot.)

And only sometimes can I blame the wine.

This weekend, however, I benefited from the services of a lovely young apprentice, a maiden-in-waiting who approached the week’s pie-making challenge with enthusiasm --and thankfully -- not a lot of chatter. As instructed, she sliced, diced, rolled, and sprinkled. She didn’t flinch at unglamorous tasks and even, in fact, seemed to appreciate the ….er…cosmetic properties of unbleached flour.

The result? Two rustic fruit tarts –gorgeous enough to serve to houseguests, simple enough to execute in a kitchen that was bursting with a throng of onlookers.

In general, the Queen believes the only good thing about teamwork is having someone else to yell at when it all goes to hell in a hand basket. She will concede, however, that there are times when many hands make light work.

Or perhaps, lighter work. And only on rare occasions . . .

I mean, let’s not get carried away here.

Rustic Fruit Tarts
Adapted from David Lebovitz

I can safely promise you’ll love these tarts. The first, a plum and raspberry confection, is enhanced by a layer of crushed Amaretti di Saronno meringue cookies, resulting in a flavor that is piquant and complex. The fresh peach and strawberry version is equally tasty and as a bonus, the two fruits seem to cast a rosy glow upon one another. But don’t feel limited by these selections – most any combination of fruits will make a fine tart or two.

Pastry Dough (for two tarts)

2 ½ c. flour
2 T. sugar
½ t. salt
1 stick cold butter, cut into 8 pieces
2/3 c. ice water

Mix together flour, sugar, and salt. Add the butter – using a food processor (my preference), a stand mixer, or a pastry blender. Mix until the butter is well incorporated, but still visible as small chunks. Add the ice water all at once and mix until dough comes together. Shape dough into two disks, wrap them in plastic, and refrigerate at least an hour.

When you are ready to assemble the tarts, roll out each piece of dough into a 15 inch round. Transfer it to a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.

For the Plum & Rasberry Tart:

1/3 c. crushed amaretti or biscotti cookies

5-6 ripe plums, sliced into eighths

3 T. sugar

3 oz. fresh raspberries

2 T. milk

Sprinkle crushed amaretti on top of pastry dough, leaving a 2 inch border around the edge of the crust. Arrange the plums atop the crumbs in a concentric circle, overlapping to fit. When finished, lift the edges of the pastry and fold toward the center, pleating the dough to create a border. Brush the border with milk and sprinkle the entire tart with the sugar. Bake at 400 for 30 minutes. Remove from oven and place the raspberries over the plums. Return to oven and bake another 15 minutes, or until brown.

For the Peach & Strawberry Tart:

3 c. ripe peaches, peeled and sliced

1 ½ T. flour

3 T. sugar

½ t. cinnamon

1 t. vanilla

1 ½ c. strawberries, sliced

Mix together peaches, flour, sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. Arrange mixture atop pastry, as instructed in Plum & Raspberry Tart. Tuck strawberries into peaches randomly. Complete tart as instructed in Plum & Raspberry Tart.

The recipe claims that each tart can serve 6-8, but the 8 of us took on both tarts (and a pint of ice cream) -- and not a crumb remained.

How ‘bout a Little Java With Your Joe?

2006-09-01T07:19:00.000-04:00

The best news I’ve read in a long time came from a brief report in a recent New York Times health section. Coffee, it seems, can now be considered a health drink. According to the report, the medicinal properties of this exemplary beverage include lowering the risk of a plethora of ailments, including heart disease, cirrhosis of the liver, and diabetes. And contrary to all those who prudently advocate on behalf of moderation, in the prevention of certain diseases, a lot of coffee (more than 4 cups a day) can be even more beneficial than a little.

So sip on that, tea drinkers.

The Queen will admit that her previous admiration for the brew had more to do with its flavor and energizing properties than its antioxidant benefits. Specifically, when the busy-ness of our daily existence forces us to cram ever more into each moment, when all the best and worst of life is coming at you with a vengeance, when you discover that the reason your jaw hurts is because it is spending far too much time in a clenched position and you find that your shoulders have become permanently inched closer to your neck in such a way that you swear passersby are muttering “hunchback” – all this while you’re trying desperately to adhere to the bumper sticker wisdom that advocates that “Attitude is the only difference between Ordeal and Adventure” . . . Well, let’s just say that caffeine helps to make it feel like more of an adventure.

In celebration of this vindicating good news (What? The Queen vindictive? Surely you have me confused with someone else), I offer you coffee pie. Actually, it’s more of a mocha tart (kick up your heels, neglected chocoholics). But the velvety filling does contain a satisfying jolt of espresso and as a bonus, is simple to make. It is, in fact, the perfect quick dessert, especially when you’re feeling as if you are mere footsteps ahead of the posse.

So,bottoms up. What do you say we pull an all-nighter?

Warm Mocha Tart
Adapted from Bittersweet Artisan

This is a straightforward, albeit scrumptious dessert; I like my coffee black and my mocha tart unadorned. But if you need cream with yours, hon, then that’s okay. Add a dollop of the freshly whipped version alongside the tart, and spoon a little into your cup, too.

Crust:

1 stick butter, melted
¼ c. sugar
1/8 t. salt
¾ t. vanilla extract
1 c. flour

Filling:

3 T. butter, sliced
½ c. sugar
¼ c. cocoa powder (I like Green & Black’s Organic)
1 c. whipping cream
1 ¼ t. instant espresso powder or 1 ½ t. instant coffee crystals
½ t. vanilla extract
1 egg, lightly beaten

Preheat oven to 350. For the crust, mix together butter, sugar, salt, and vanilla. Add flour and mix until blended. (Mixture will be soft.) Press dough into bottom and up the sides of 9-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Bake for 20-25 minutes, until golden brown. Don’t turn off the oven!

For the filling, stir together butter, sugar, cocoa powder, and cream in saucepan. Cook over medium heating, whisking, until mixture is smooth and begins to bubble around the edges. Remove from heat and stir in espresso powder and vanilla. Just before the crust is done, whisk the beaten egg into the hot chocolate mixture.

Pour the filling into the hot crust and now, turn off the oven. Leave the tart in the oven until it trembles slightly in the center when the pan is nudged, about 10-12 minutes. Remove from oven and cool on a rack.

May be served warm or at room temperature.

Contrary to what you may have heard, studies show that coffee does not stunt one’s growth and will do no harm to children. The Queen is, in fact, a testament to that: a person who swilled the dregs from the percolator at a very young age and who now stands at an Amazonian 5 ft. 8 inches tall. (In the interests of your health, however, I’d suggest you don’t ask about the Queen’s other measurements.)

The Queen Apologizes in Advance for the Rant

2006-08-25T07:07:00.000-04:00

I once spent a weekend visiting friends and their extended family in a distant city. Not only was the company sublime and the improvised entertainment jolly, the food was pretty damn good too. In fact, we assertively ate our way through Saturday breakfast, lunch, and dinner before staggering outside, dipping our toes into the lake and falling asleep, exhausted from the day’s exertions. After a hearty Sunday brunch, we slumped in Adirondack chairs, drumming our fingers in anticipation of the culminating feast of the weekend. At the appointed hour we crammed into the kitchen, eager to pitch in. (An unknown quantity culinary-wise, the Queen was assigned the complex assignment of shucking the corn.) Barbecued meats and other tasty foodstuffs were readied but the main attraction was left in the capable hands of one of the aunts. Her peach cobbler was so renowned that the adjectives used to describe it might have included the oxymoronic: divine, orgasmic, heavenly, and killer.

Imagine how excited I was to observe the technique of this reputed baker. I stood, breathless, as the aunt spread out her ingredients on the big wooden table: a big bowl of freshly sliced peaches, a canister of sugar, a shaker jar with cinnamon, and . . .a package of Pillsbury refrigerated pie crust.

This was the most shocking discovery I’d had since learning about the income tax.

I didn’t care how good her cobbler would ultimately turn out to be; I felt betrayed. It seemed simply wrong that a reputation should be built upon something less than authentic. To me, it was analogous to accepting praise for the watercolor paintings on your wall without coming clean that they were paint-by-number. Or showing up at the prom with a handsome escort and not telling anyone he was your cousin. Or touting your high score at bowling and forgetting to admit that you were using bumpers.

It goes without saying that I ate the cobbler anyway. And except for the lingering taste of deceit that remained in my mouth, it wasn’t bad at all.

And that is my point. It’s perfectly fine to make time or laborsaving substitutions if necessary, but let’s be upfront about the shortcuts. Let’s strive for the real, the fresh, the genuine whenever possible. Let’s proclaim that homemade (and not the semi-homemade crap that’s made Sandra Lee famous) is still a desirable objective. Because otherwise we learn to settle – indeed, glorify – something lesser. And that becomes a steady march down the path that is “dumbing down” our taste buds – and our very culinary culture.

Class dismissed.

Happily, this week’s pie also involves the luscious peach. It’s that time of year, after all, so gather ye golden fuzzy orbs while ye may. Instead of a top crust, this pie wears a crown of brown sugar and butter crunch, making it both homey and luxurious. And homemade, natch.

To apologize for sounding so high and mighty (though it is a perk of royalty), the Queen admits that homemade does not necessarily equate with perfection. The peach pies I made ended up very juicy, spilling over their sides, the sugary juices catching fire in the bottom of the oven. First there were flames, then squeals from horrified onlookers, and then the kitchen became filled with so much acrid smoke that the dog ran barking from the room.

Gee, maybe I should have stuck to shucking corn.

Juicy Peach Pie with Crumb Topping
Adapted from Emeril Lagasse

An easy (easier) way to peel peaches is to drop them into boiling water for about a minute and then put them into a large bowl of ice water. Often (but not always) the skins will slide right off.

Pie filling:
1 ½ c. water
¾ c. light brown sugar
2 T. cornstarch
½ t. salt
1 t. cinnamon
½ t. nutmeg
2 ½ pounds peaches, peeled and cut into slices (about 3 ½ cups)

1 unbaked piecrust

Crumb topping:
½ c. brown sugar
½ c. flour
½ c. butter

Preheat oven to 350. Combine water, brown sugar, cornstarch, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a saucepan and whisk until there are no lumps. Bring mixture to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for 2 minutes. Put peaches into bowl and pour syrup over them. Stir well and let cool for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix together brown sugar, flour, and butter for topping. Use your fingers, two knives, or a pastry blender until mixture looks like coarse meal.

Line a pie plate with the pastry and then spoon the peach mixture into it. Sprinkle crumb topping over all. Place atop a baking sheet (unless you want to witness flames, too) and bake for 1 hour, or until topping is golden brown and filling is bubbly.

Quite good with ice cream, freshly whipped cream, or both.

Pie Are Squared

2006-08-18T09:12:00.000-04:00

Well, sort of.

The Queen submits this missive from the royal family’s vacation spot, a small, scrubby island with gorgeous dunes, umpteen miles of unspoiled beaches, and a cute village that’s made for careening around on a bicycle. It also features the most splendid coffee house in the known world, a comfortable spot where you can sink into an Adirondack chair, sip a Red Rover smoothie and gawk at the sunburns of the otherwise-prudent tourists. (And lest you become too complacent in Paradise, the locals will remind you that the flattering term they use for the island’s temporary inhabitants is Dingbatters.)

The island has no cell phone service, spotty internet access, and a single grocery store. It has fewer than 800 permanent residents, one of whom is the ghost of Blackbeard. A favorite entertainment option is attending a discussion at the history museum where a panel of octogenarian residents named Blanche and Bertha and Earl talk about how wonderful the island was before it was corrupted by modern amenities.

It’s a terrific place.

There’s only one flaw: you can’t buy a pizza pan on the entire island.

Normally this would not be a problem. But when it’s the birthday of a young prince and he’s issued a dinner decree – pizza, homemade -- it becomes a matter of some importance.

We rummaged in the cabinets of the house where we’re staying. The result? One slightly-dented cookie sheet. We pedaled over to the grocery store. Since we were not in need of poker chips or Funyuns or any of 20 varieties of mosquito repellent, it was an unsuccessful quest. The two “gourmet” boutiques on the island offered microbrews, mesclun greens, and champagne mustard, but few choices of cookware. The hardware store stocked a full range of wire nuts and spackle but no baking pans.

And so? We improvised. (Yes, readers, when it comes to sheer adventure -- isn’t this blog all you ever hoped for and more?)

The four pizza pies ended up rectangular in shape.

The toppings were somewhat irregular in composition. But the results were uniformly delicious: chunks of tender chicken on a smear of barbecue sauce, a classic pepperoni and mozzarella with red sauce, a Greek-infused kalamata olive and feta concoction, and a garlicky eggplant sprinkled with hot red peppers and parmesan. All on a light-but-toothsome homemade pizza crust.

The prince was satisfied. And not just with the pizza. The crowning glory of his birthday celebration involved I-24, his winning bingo number at the volunteer fire department’s weekly extravaganza.

Sometimes the Dingbatters get lucky.

Pizza Dough
Adapted from The King Arthur Baking Book

3 cups unbleached flour
1 package yeast
1 ½ t. salt
2 T. olive oil
1 1/3 c. water

Mix together all ingredients and knead – by hand or with a mixer – until the dough is smooth. This doesn’t take long. Put dough in oiled bowl, cover, and let rise for 45 minutes. Then, refrigerate the dough for at least 4 hours – or up to 36 hours – to develop the crust’s flavor.

Divide the dough in half. Heat oven to 500 degrees. Press the dough into a pizza pan, cookie sheet, or whatever the hell you need to use. When oven is at correct temperature, place pizza on middle rack for 5 minutes. Remove from oven and cover with your favorite toppings. Return to lowest rack of oven and back for an additional 8 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbly.

This recipe makes two pizzas. You can easily double or even triple the quantities.

To make the pizzas in the photos: 1) Spread prepared barbecue sauce to cover dough. Add chunks of cooked chicken and thinly sliced onions. Cover with mozzarella. 2) Spread prepared pasta or pizza sauce to cover dough. Sprinkle with sliced pepperoni and cover thickly with mozzarella. 3) Brush olive oil over surface of dough. Cover with nubbins of feta cheese and pitted Kalamata olives. Add thinly sliced onions and sprinkle with oregano. 4) Before making pizzas, cut eggplant into thick slices and then halves. Lightly brush with olive oil and broil a few minutes on each side. Brush olive oil on crust, cover with eggplant halves. Heat 2 T. olive oil in small pan. Add 2 cloves chopped garlic and ½ t. dried red pepper flakes. Heat 30 seconds and spread mixture over eggplant. Sprinkle pizza with half Parmesan and half mozzarella cheeses.

NMJC

2006-08-10T20:19:00.000-04:00

And you? It’s August, after all. You’ve finally gotten the hang of this summer thing – indolence, inertia, intermittent bouts of inebriation. It’s not a bad life. And as long as you keep staring into the sultry gaze of Summer you can still eek out a few more weeks of pleasure. But avoid meeting the eyes of that cool interloper, Autumn. He’s bringing a friend along named Industry -- the foresworn enemy of these lazy, hazy, crazy days.

To be safe, head for the hammock.

This week’s entry into our pie diary is definitely chill. It is, in fact, frozen. You don’t need an oven to make this Peanut Butter Ice Cream Pie. Hell, with a slight modification, you don’t even need a stove. Let me assure you, however, that no one’s enthusiasm will be diminished by the relative ease of the final product.

Those of you who are (still?) hesitant about baking should consider this dessert a mere exercise in assembly. Here’s the blueprint: A crunchy peanut butter cookie crust, a layer of creamy hot fudge sauce, rich peanut butter swirl ice cream, more hot fudge, a scattering of peanuts as a crown.

On the scale of putting things together, it ranks far lower in complexity than an IKEA shelving unit or the 3,104-piece Lego Imperial Star Destroyer.

And the aforementioned modification? Well, The Queen makes her own fudge sauce. Something about the idea of the so-called stabilizers in this type of packaged product makes her squeamish. Airplanes, cruise ships, and (occasionally) moods need stabilizers; ice cream sauces do not. So here’s to instability.

The recipe encourages such creative license. Plain vanilla ice cream would be fine but so would a busy Reese Cup mix-in. Nutter Butter cookies work well as a base for the crust, but you could also pull out the package of Do-Si-Do’s that lurk in your freezer (even if they’re so ancient they still bear the name Savannahs.) As for the peanut topping, well, that’s up to you too, Reader: lightly salted, honey roasted, or chocolate-coated?

The Queen understands that choosing the right goober is a very personal decision.

So just chill out, okay?

Peanut Butter Ice Cream Pie
Adapted from Bon Appetit

1 package (about 16 oz.) peanut butter sandwich cookies
7 T. butter, melted
1 recipe hot fudge sauce (or 1 18-oz. jar hot fudge sauce)
3 pints vanilla and peanut butter swirl ice cream, softened
1 ½ c. chopped peanuts

Hot fudge sauce:

3 oz. good quality bittersweet chocolate
4 T. cocoa
2/3 c. water
6 T. butter
2/3 c. sugar
4 T. corn syrup
½ t. salt
1 t. vanilla extract

Make hot fudge sauce by melting chocolate with cocoa and water in a small saucepan. Stir constantly. Add butter, sugar, corn syrup, and salt. Simmer, stirring frequently, until the sugar has completely dissolved. Stop stirring and cook at medium boil for 5-10 minutes or until mixture is thickened. Swirl the mixture in the pan and reduce heat if necessary to avoid scorching. Cool slightly and add vanilla.

To make pie: finely crush cookies in food processor or with a rolling pin. Add butter and blend well. Press mixture over bottom and sides of 9-inch springform pan. If using packaged hot fudge sauce, heat in microwave or saucepan until warm. If using delicious, homemade sauce, there’s no need. Pour half of sauce over bottom of crust. Freeze at least 1 hour. Spoon softened ice cream over sauce, smooth top, and freeze until firm, about 2 hours. Pour remaining sauce over ice cream, spreading to cover completely. Sprinkle nuts on top of pie and freeze until set, about an hour. You can prepare this several days ahead of time and freeze. Keep covered.

When ready to serve, release pan sides and cut pie into wedges.

The Japanese Prime Minister and I Have So Much in Common

2006-08-04T07:15:00.000-04:00

Correction: The Japanese Prime Minister and I Have One Thing in Common.

We both adore…

Elvis.

Yes, you read it here first: The Queen ♥ The King.

But it wasn’t always that way. As a mere girl, I was disdainful of Elvis the Pelvis. I didn’t like his movies, his music, or his jumpsuits. (Though I was intrigued by his Cadillac-bestowing generosity and his penchant for peanut butter and bacon sandwiches.)

Then one day, when The Queen was still a young princess in Cincinnati, her mother made an announcement: Big E was coming to town, and by God, The Princess was going to accompany her to the show.

Naturally, I was all shook up.

I can’t exactly remember which strong-arm tactic (bribery or threat) my mother used, but I went to the concert with her. In the car, she promised me that it was crucial to witness Elvis’ splendor now, since he wasn’t going to be around forever.

A very prescient comment, as that concert -- June 25, 1977 -- turned out to be the penultimate of his too-short career.

And by the time he began crooning Can’t Helping Falling in Love, I already had.

Even then, in less-than-peak physical condition, Elvis’s charisma was enough to make a teenager blush. The atmosphere sizzled with women tossing all sorts of things onto the stage – teddy bears, hotel keys, and enough lingerie to fill a Frederick’s of Hollywood store. For one heady moment, I wondered if he might have any interest in pink cotton bikinis with Thursday embroidered on them.

Then I remembered that I was sitting next to my mother.

We all know the sad ending to this tale: Elvis Aron Presley, 1935-1977.

But what about the pie, you ask?

Oh, right. Pie.

Well, let me remind you that the commemorative Elvis Week (August 8-16) begins shortly. (It’s not yet been declared a national holiday, but I’m helping you to stay ahead of the curve here.) Since you’ll want to celebrate appropriately, I’m dishing up Elvis’ favorite pie: Lemon Meringue, according to Kara, a knowledgeable internet resource.

A confession: I don’t even like meringue. If this were my pie, I’d substitute a nice swath of soft-whipped cream atop the tangy lemon layer. But this isn’t my pie, and for once, The Queen defers to The King.

Haven’t you ever made a sacrifice for the one you love?

It’s Now or Never. . .

Lemon Meringue Pie
Adapted from Alton Brown

Lemon filling:

4 egg yolks (reserve whites for meringue)
1/3 c. cornstarch
1 ½ c. water
1 1/3 c. sugar
¼ t. salt
3 T. butter
½ c. lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)
1 T. lemon zest

Meringue:

4 egg whites
¼ t. cream of tartar
¼ t. vanilla
3 T. sugar

1 9-inch pre-baked pie shell

Preheat oven to 375.

Make meringue by placing egg whites, cream of tartar, and vanilla in mixing bowl. Beat egg whites until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar and continue beating until stiff peaks form – about 2 minutes.

Make filling by whisking egg yolks in medium bowl.. Set aside. In a saucepan, whisk together cornstarch, water, sugar, and salt. Over medium heat, stir frequently until mixture comes to a boil. Boil for 1 minute. Remove from heat and gradually add half of hot mixture to egg yolks, whisking constantly. Return egg mixture to remaining mixture in saucepan. Turn heat to low and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 more minute. Remove from heat and stir in butter, lemon juice, and zest. Pour mixture into pre-baked pie shell.

Spread meringue over lemon filling while filling is still hot. Make sure meringue covers filling all the way to edge of the piecrust. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until meringue is golden brown. Remove from oven and cool completely before refrigerating pie.

(Dipping your knife in hot water before cutting into pie makes it easier to slice.)

The Early Bird Gets The . . .

2006-07-28T06:16:00.000-04:00

Pie.

You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you?

And how lucky those early birds are!

For the record, the Queen did not set out to make a breakfast pie. It was only as I was removing this week’s entry from the oven – and spilling bubbling pie lava on the floor -- that it even occurred to me that there would be leftovers. As a reasonable person, one who is concerned about muffin top waistlines and ugly displays of gluttony, the Queen is adamant about sharing. But this week the stars aligned in an unusual way: a farmer’s market crowded with succulent berries, an absence of dinner guests, a member of the royal family on work assignment in the Gulf Coast. The resulting constellation? Only three for dinner. And one fat pie.

Good Morning, Good Morning!

Now, before you give me that look, let me remind you that there are many people who breakfast on indigenous foodstuffs that are much weirder than pie. For starters, I’m personally acquainted with a teenager who went through a several-month-long phase in which his morning nutrition consisted exclusively of cold pizzas. (Pepperoni. Tombstone. Frozen. Please promise me you’re not dialing the Department of Child Welfare.)

Filipinos are known to indulge in fried fish heads for their wake-up meals, whereas the Chinese might breakfast on congee rice soup with sliced pig’s liver. The Brits have their black pudding (don’t even ask) and I hear the Japanese like fermented soybeans.

And you thought Belgian waffles were exotic. . .

A slice of jumbleberry pie on your breakfast table will help you face the morning without flinging up your hands in dismay at the state of the world and its attendant slew of tragedies.

Bursting with a combination of blackberries, blueberries, and raspberries, it is the perfect antidote for a person who has spent most of the night dealing with a 110-pound Labrador with an upset tummy. (You didn’t realize that the Queen resided in an animal kingdom?) Blanketed with its crisp, buttery crust, this pie is positively restorative.

So what are you waiting for? Put down that Pop Tart and get to work!

Jumbleberry Pie
Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

Although mid-summer is the right time to procure these kinds of berries, they don’t come cheap. In fact, just one of these pies contained over $15 worth of berries.

Ouch. So, unless you have access to blackberry bushes – your own or those owned by somebody who won’t notice that you’re stealing from them – the Queen suggests you don’t offer to bring this pie to your family reunion. Although your 30-odd kinfolk would be delighted, you’d have to auction one of your children to pay the mortgage. There is a reason, after all, that God created the sheet cake.

1 c. sugar
3 T. cornstarch
2 T. tapioca
¼ t. salt
4 c. blackberries
1 ½ c. black or red raspberries
1 ½ c. blueberries

Pie crust for double-crust pie (use your own recipe or see Cherry Pie)
Milk for brushing crust
1 t. sugar

Heat oven to 450. Place a baking sheet on middle of oven rack. Whisk together dry ingredients in large bowl; toss with berries. Roll out half of dough and fit into pie plate. Trim edge. Refrigerate while rolling out top crust. Roll out remaining dough for top crust. (You may exercise your artistic expression by making polka dots in the dough; I used the lid of a Cointreau bottle for my masterpiece. Or leave plain.) Spoon filling into pie plate. Cover with top crust and crimp edges. Brush top of pie with milk and sprinkle with sugar. Cut several small slits in crust to vent steam. Bake on hot baking sheet for 15 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375 and continue to bake about 45 minutes more. Cool pie on a rack for at least 2 hours.

Vive la France!

2006-07-21T07:36:00.000-04:00

A while back, I spent a year living in France. Ostensibly I was there to absorb a bit of culture and to study the French language. Naturally, I ended up never once visiting the Louvre and to this day I remain unclear on the distinctions between the passé compose and l’imparfait. (Don’t even mention the passé simple.) My sojourn, however, did not go by without an education of sorts.

I learned, for example, that there are few things better than riding on the back of a motorcycle along the Cote d’Azur with a handsome young Frenchman named Yann. I learned that when careening down those hills you can smell the fragrant fields of lavender before you catch sight of them and that the Mediterranean sea shimmers like a mirror sprinkled with blue. I learned that a year is not nearly enough time to spend in France when you’re 20 years old and poised for Life. I learned, finally, that it’s much easier to say Bonjour than Adieu.

Ah, well, c’est la vie. My contact with Yann ended as soon as my plane lifted off from Charles de Gaulle. I’ve never returned to that part of France, in part because I fear that the lavender fields have been overrun by Americans seeking their own Year in Provence.

Fortunately, though, I still have pissaladiere.

For those of you non-Francophiles, here’s a pronunciation guide. Although this will sound a bit like potty-talk, you must understand that the proper way to say this is Pee-sa-lah-dee-yair, not Piss-sa-lah-dee-yair. Pee not piss. Got it? The name comes from pissalat, an anchovy and herb paste that’s commonly found around those climes. Alternately, you could call it a Nicoise onion tart. Nicoise, as in from Nice.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s talk about why you should care about this dish. Most often served as an appetizer or snack food, pissaladiere is merely a tangle of silky onions heaped on an anchovy-scented pizza crust and adorned with oil-cured black olives. Cut into wide strips, it’s simple and delicious and yet impressive enough to serve to party guests. (Especially if you’ve got that pronunciation down.)

In France, fat squares of pissaladiere are sold in bakeries scattered throughout Mediterranean villages. I’d often stop on my way home and pick up a piece to munch on as I walked up the hill from town. Sometimes, I’d run into one of my good friends – Yann and his brother Patrick, or Karen, Magali, or Dominique – and then we’d gather at a café and gossip and drink a pastis together, too. Then, I’d resume the walk up the hill, although by this time I was probably hungry again and would need to stop at a patisserie for a pain au chocolat or a petite strawberry tart. . .

All of which helps to explain how I eventually returned to the U.S. with lots of good memories -- and a suitcase full of clothes that no longer fit.

Pissaladiere
Adapted from Saveur Cooks Authentic French
Originally this recipe called for the dough to be rolled out, transferred to a pizza peel, and then baked atop a hot pizza stone. I’ve discovered that it’s much simpler to simply press – or roll – the dough onto a baking sheet or pizza pan and then bake. However, the Queen gives you the choice. . .

For the dough:

1 package active dry yeast
¼ c. olive oil
3 c. flour
1 T. salt
cornmeal

For the topping:

¼ c. olive oil
3 pounds yellow onions, peeled and thinly sliced
salt and pepper
1 bay leaf
½ t. dried thyme
2 cloves garlic, minced
anchovy paste
1/3 c. oil-cured olives

Make the dough by dissolving yeast in 1 c. warm water. Let stand 5 minutes, then add oil. Mix together flour and salt in a medium-sized bowl; add yeast mixture and stir well. Turn out dough on floured surface and knead until dough is smooth and elastic (about 5 minutes.) Form dough into ball and place in a bowl that has been lightly coated with oil. Cover with a damp cloth, leave in a warm place, and allow to rise for 1 hour.

Meanwhile, make the topping.

Heat oil in large pan over medium-low heat. Add onions, bay leaf, and generous amounts of salt and pepper. Cover pan and let simmer 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. Uncover and continue cooking until moisture is nearly evaporated. Stir in thyme and garlic. Continue cooking until moisture is completely evaporated and onions have cooked down to a thick mass. Remove bay leaf.

Roll dough onto a floured surface and transfer to a baking sheet or pizza pan that has been lightly dusted with cornmeal. Cover dough with a damp cloth for 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 450. Remove cloth from dough and spread a thin layer of anchovy paste across the top of the dough. Spoon onions atop and arrange olives decoratively. Bake until crust is brown, approximately 20 minutes. Pissaladiere may be served warm or at room temperature.

Va Va Va Voom!

2006-07-14T07:03:00.000-04:00

Velvety.
Tongue-caressing.
Silky.
Voluptuous.

I guess they call it food porn for a reason. . .

Actually though, no adjectives can do justice to this week’s pie – a coconut cream confection that will have you, too, struggling for words. (But a simple moan of pleasure might get your point across.) In fact, the only way you could possibly be disappointed is if you come to the table expecting the coconut cream pie standard: a glop of thick, rubbery filling topped off with a ledge of Styrofoam meringue.

Or if you don’t like coconut.

And what’s up with that, anyway? Has there ever been a mainstream foodstuff more polarizing? I’ve heard the arguments – the gritty texture, the suntan lotion smell, the complex packaging – and I still don’t get it. I mean, there are plenty of foods in high demand that aren’t exactly user-friendly, i.e., artichokes, lobster, Gorgonzola cheese.

So why not coconut?

But I’m a mere advocate of pie, not an evangelist, so I won’t bother trying to persuade you. Here’s a warning, though: Don’t come to my house with your coconut prejudices unless you really mean it. Because you won’t be allowed to have a Thai curry or a pina colada, either.

The King (the one who shares the palace with the Queen of Tarts, not the one who lived -- lives? -- in Memphis) requested this pie for his birthday.

He seemed rather pleased with the result, even though the crust had shrunken a bit after baking. Thankfully, as kings go, he’s pretty good-natured (unlike, say Henry VIII), and my head remains attached to my shoulders.

Nasty-Good* Coconut Cream Pie
Adapted from Bullocks-Wilshire Tearoom and the Los Angeles Times

If you’ve made it this far, you must be a coconut aficionado. Now, pay attention: this pie filling needs to simmer for two hours. Otherwise, you’ll wind up with something that resembles coconut soup and the Queen’s ears will be ringing with your curses. So be patient.

*as described by a 12-year-old Prince

For the filling:

3 c. half and half
½ c. sugar
6 egg yolks
1 T. butter, softened
1 ½ T. cornstarch
1 T. canned sweetened cream of coconut
¼ t. vanilla
¼ t. coconut extract
1/8 t. almond extract

Pastry for a 9-inch one-crust pie (Use your own recipe or make crust for Cherry Pie and freeze half for future use.)

For the topping:

2 c. whipping cream
½ c. sugar
1 t. vanilla

1/3 c. flake coconut

Combine half and half and sugar in top of double boiler. Cook over simmering water 2 hours, stirring often. In separate bowl, beat together egg yolks, butter, and cornstarch. Add cream of coconut, and vanilla, coconut, and almond extracts. Let half and half mixture come almost to boil Stir ¼ c. into egg yolk mixture. Slowly add egg yolk mixture into half and half mixture, stirring rapidly. Cook and stir 5 to 10 minutes longer, until thickened. Cool in refrigerator at least an hour.

Meanwhile, roll out pastry and fit into 8 inch pie plate. Prick bottom of crust. Line plate with foil and fill with pie weights. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes. Remove foil and weights and bake 5 minutes longer. Cool before adding filling.

For topping, whip cream, sugar, and vanilla together until soft peaks form.

To assemble: Turn filling into pie crust and cover with whipped cream topping.

Sprinkle with coconut.

Now you can eat.

Luncheon is Served

2006-07-07T07:04:00.000-04:00

This week, in response to the torrent of reader requests for a savory specialty, I present you with a fresh tomato tart. This delectable summer tart would make the perfect entrée, accompanied by a splash of piquant spring greens, at the next luncheon that you find yourself hosting.

(In the interests of disclosure, the Queen must admit that she has likely never hosted a luncheon. Perhaps if she hadn’t successfully managed to elude the Junior League recruiting contingent for so many years, she’d have more familiarity with that particular mealtime concept. She might also have ended up with monogrammed towels in the powder room and handbags that matched her pumps.)

This tomato tart is simply an elegant riff on an old southern favorite, the tomato pie. If you’ve ever spent time south of the Mason-Dixon line (or wangled invitations from hospitable southern pals), you’ve probably had a taste of something like it. These pies often involve layers of ripe tomato slices, shredded cheese, and a drizzle of mayonnaise. In this version, the love apple is still the star attraction, but puff pastry and roasted garlic-infused goat cheese serve in supporting roles.

It’s perfectly appropriate (and probably de rigueur at luncheons) to use knife and fork to cut through the crisp and flaky crust of this tart before taking a delicate nibble. You’ll note from the photo, however, that it’s also considered acceptable to treat this tart like a slice of pizza. In that case, feel free to gobble with gusto.

Sliced and displayed on a fancy platter, the tart will also serve as a stylish appetizer for your next cocktail party. Whatever your pleasure, you’ll only want to make this with good tomatoes, preferably home-grown ones that actually taste like -- gasp!--tomatoes.

So, enjoy. Have a good time at your luncheon. And don’t worry about the Queen of Tarts. Never one to miss a meal, she remains quite familiar with another mealtime concept – lunch – and does, in fact, eat it every single day.

Tomato Tart with Garlic Goat Cheese
Adapted from Delia Smith

6-7 ripe tomatoes, (round, and on the small side)
5 oz. soft goat cheese
1 head garlic
3 tsp. chopped fresh thyme, plus several extra sprigs
½ package frozen puff pastry (1 sheet)
3 T. olive oil
1 egg, beaten with 1 tsp. water

Roast garlic: Slice the tips from a head of whole, unpeeled garlic. Spoon 1 T. olive oil on top, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Wrap in foil and bake at 350 for 45 minutes. Allow to cool slightly.

For tomatoes: Thinly slice tomatoes and sprinkle with salt.

Drain in colander for several minutes. When ready to use, blot tomatoes to remove excess moisture.

For tart: Follow directions on box for thawing puff pastry. Roll dough into large rectangle (it should fit atop a baking sheet.) Using a sharp knife, lightly score a line all around the inside edge of the pastry (about ½ in. from edge), creating a frame. Do not cut all the way through the pastry. Prick the bottom of the dough all over with a fork.

Put goat cheese into small bowl. Squeeze softened cloves of garlic onto cheese and add thyme, and salt and pepper. Mix well. Spread over pastry crust, staying inside the frame you have created. Arrange tomatoes in rows on top of cheese. Drizzle remaining olive oil over all and place thyme sprigs randomly. Brush outer edges of tart with egg and water wash.

Bake at 375 for 45 minutes, or until tomatoes are roasted and pastry is brown. Let sit at least 10 minutes before cutting into squares.

Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

2006-06-30T03:12:00.000-04:00

In case you haven’t flipped the page on your calendar yet, I’d like to remind you that the 4th of July – and all its accompanying patriotic frivolity – is fast approaching. This Tuesday, many Americans will spend the day getting pink-skinned at the beach or pool, and later, will join family and friends for incendiaries, inebriates and Independence Day feasting. Sometimes the feast will involve a potluck, and sometimes that means you will have to offer up dessert. What in the world will you bring?

Gee, I have an idea.

And what could be more American? While some may consider apple to be the quintessential American pie, there’s one reason I can’t recommend that you put an apple pie in your 4th of July picnic basket: Apples are not in season.

Luckily for you, cherries are.

Now before you rush to the store and pick up a quart-basket of those tasty, burgundy-skinned or creamy pink-mottled variety, heed this warning: Don’t bother making this pie unless you have tart, ruby-red pie cherries.

While those other varieties are just fine for piling in a bowl and grabbing handfuls to munch on and spit their seeds across the patio, only their flashy first cousins will do for this pie.

Here in Lancaster County we have a terrific orchard, Cherry Hill Farms, where you can buy all varieties of cherries – or even pick your own. (Normally, you’d find the Queen perched on a ladder and plucking rosy orbs herself, but you might have heard that we’ve been having a bit of rain around here. . .)

When you do find a source for pie cherries, I advise you to buy a lot of them. Use some for this pie and then freeze the rest. You’ll need to pit them, of course, but I promise you that’s not as grim a prospect as you might imagine. Position yourself on the sofa with three bowls: one containing the pre-pitted cherries and one each for the pits and the resulting pitted cherries. Pour yourself a beer and turn on a baseball game – preferably one involving the Reds, Cardinals, Dodgers, Yankees, or Red Sox (okay, I admit it – I’m polyamorous when it comes to The Boys of Summer)-- or a good movie (In America, or Kinsey if your children aren’t hovering nearby).

And then you pit. And pit. And pit. Use whatever implement you have – the tip of a spoon, a clean hairpin, or an actual cherry-pitter – and be prepared for your fingertips to get stained and sticky pink juice to spill into your lap. You won’t care because you’ll be cheering the Reds crush the Cubs. By the fourth inning, you’ll have gone through several pounds of cherries and will be ready for another beer.

Reserve about a pound and a half of the pitted cherries for the pie and package up the rest into Ziploc bags for freezing. Come January you can make another pie and send me a thank you note.

Cherry Pie
Adapted from The Pie and Pastry Bible

Not only is this a perfectly luscious pie specimen --the tartness of the cherries melding with the sugared cherry juice and buttery crust -- but it’s an absolute beauty. The cherries don’t lose much of their stunning color during baking – although they get a tiny bit shriveled – and they peep up through the lattice of the crust in a most tantalizing way.

For crust:

2 ½ c. flour
1 t. salt
1 t. sugar
1 c. (2 sticks) cold butter, cut into small pieces
½ c. ice water

For filling:

1 c. sugar
3 T. cornstarch
½ t. salt
4 c. pie cherries (about 1 ½ pounds), pitted, with juices reserved
¼ t. almond extract

milk for glazing crust

To make crust, combine flour, salt, and sugar in food processor. Add butter and process by pulsing until mixture resembles meal. Slowly add water and process until mixture holds together. Press dough into 2 balls and then flatten slightly. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill at least 1 hour.

For filling, stir together sugar, cornstarch, and salt in large bowl. Add cherries and their juices, along with almond extract. Let mixture sit at least 15 minutes – or up to 3 hours.

When ready to bake, preheat oven to 425.

Remove pie dough from refrigerator about 15 minutes before rolling out. Roll out first piece and place in pie plate, trimming edges of dough to extend about ¾ inch past rim of plate.

Stir cherry filling well and pile into pie plate.

To make a woven lattice, roll out second piece and cut into 8 long strips, about ¾ - 1 inch wide. Lay four of the strips evenly over the cherries, parallel to one another. Fold back onto itself every other strip (2 strips will be folded back). Then, starting at center, lay new strip at right angle over the 2 strips that aren’t folded back. Unfold the first strips and fold back the other 2. Lay another new strip down. Repeat on other side, starting again from center.

When all the strips have been put down, trim them to edge of pan and then, fold over dough from pie plate and crimp edges.

Carefully brush milk over tops of lattice strips. Set pie on lowest oven rack and bake 20 minutes. Reduce heat to 375 and bake 30 minutes more. (If pie crust is browning too quickly, you may need to cover edges with foil.)

Cool pie several hours.

Serve generous slices topped with vanilla ice cream to good friends who are deserving.

Make New Friends...

2006-06-23T07:19:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time (or, Back in the day, as my students tend to say), I spent hours in the kitchen cooking. I poached, I pureed, I preserved, I pickled. When not actively engaged in cookery, I pored over my collection of recipes or leafed through one of the many culinary magazines to which I subscribed. Sometimes I loitered at the Williams-Sonoma store, lusting after 20-quart stockpots and Le Creuset sauciers as a dipsomaniac might ogle a magnum of Cristal. While all this seemed perfectly normal to my husband and me, most of our friends and family considered my behavior slightly odd. I was often described in hushed tones as A Gourmet.

I had plenty of time to devote to this obsession because back in the day I was not figuring out how to transport two children to orthodontist appointments, cello lessons, hip-hop classes and swim meets while simultaneously grading 38 freshman essays, trying to complete a novel, and attempting to keep ipods out of the spin cycle of the washer.

These days my life is complex and my meals are simple. While I haven’t yet resorted to instant mashed potatoes and canned tamales, I’d be willing to wager that my friends long ago rescinded my gourmet status.

I do, however, still make pie.

This week’s featured recipe is a byproduct of my Gourmet Period.

The scene: a picnic on the lawn of the Long Beach Museum of Art, a twilight jazz concert underway, the grassy knolls jam-packed with blankets and revelers. Our picnic basket is likely filled with a Silver Palate tarragon chicken salad that I’d made earlier, along with a loaf of homemade bread, and heirloom tomatoes and goat cheese bathed in a balsamic vinaigrette. Nothing you couldn’t have whipped up, say, in a mere 4 hours or so.

Throughout the night, as I gradually unpack the basket, I observe a trio of picnickers adjacent to us staring wistfully at our meal. (I can’t remember exactly what was in their basket, but I suspect it involved The Colonel.) Finally, as I extract dessert -- a blueberry-buttermilk tart -- I glimpse threads of drool hanging from the corners of their mouths.

I am suddenly aghast. One big tart just for the two of us! How greedy. How shameful. How. . .American. Impulsively, I lean over our crumb-strewn blanket and ask the trio if they would like to try the tart.

They would.

And that’s how Robert and Raquel and Jonathan became our good friends and the tart re-christened, “Blueberry Friendship Pie.”

Maybe it will work its magic on you, too. While I can’t say that I’ve made a new friend each time I’ve served it, I haven’t gotten into any fist fights, either.

Blueberry Friendship Pie
Adapted from Gourmet

Although this may appear complicated due to the number of steps involved, the recipe is actually quite simple. To save time, you can make the tart dough and let it rest overnight. Or, you can pre-bake the tart shell several hours ahead. Most importantly, although the presentation of the tart seems more…umm…refined…than that of a pie, it’s easier to make if you take advantage of food processor and blender. And there’s a special bonus for all you crust-a-phobes: Ignore the rolling pin for this recipe, and simply press the dough into the tart pan with the heel of your hand.

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 buttermilk filling:

1 c. buttermilk
3 egg yolks
½ c. sugar
1 T. grated lemon zest
1 T. lemon juice
½ stick (1/4 c.) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1t. vanilla
½ t. salt
2 T. flour

2 ½ c. blueberries

powdered sugar for garnish

Make 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.

Place dough inside 10-inch tart pan with a removable fluted rim. Using the heel of your hand, work dough across the bottom of pan and then, using fingertips, press dough all the way up sides of rim.

Holding a knife horizontally, slice off excess dough from top of rim.

Chill shell at least 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350. Line shell with foil and fill with pie weights, rice, beans, (or in a real pinch, popcorn kernels.)

Bake shell on middle shelf of oven for 25 minutes. Remove foil and weights and bake 5 minutes more. Cool shell.

Make buttermilk filling: In blender or food processor, blend together filling ingredients until smooth. Spread blueberries over bottom of tart shell. Pour filling over blueberries and bake in middle of oven 30 to 35 minutes, or until filling is just set. Carefully remove rim of pan and let tart cool completely on rack.

Sift powdered sugar over tart and serve at room temperature.

Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

2006-06-16T07:05:00.000-04:00

When traveling in the French-speaking province of Quebec, Canada, I suggest you keep three words at the ready. They do not – as you might imagine – form the question, parlez-vous anglais? Rather, the three most important words you’ll utter during your travels to la belle Canada are these: Tarte au sucre.

That’s right, sugar pie.

To explain: The Queen and her entourage are currently on vacation. And while most people tend to relax when they engage in leisure travel, the Queen of Tarts is still hard at work. She knows how disappointed her throngs of readers would be if a Friday passed sans pie, so she’s reporting this week from the road. (la rue) Hopefully, this pie-palooza will keep all three of you engaged until next week.

But back to the tarte au sucre. A traditional Quebecoise dessert, it’s still possible (though a bit difficult) to find the pie on the menu at select Montreal restaurants. The best tarte au sucre I’ve tasted was at La Paryse, a cozy burger-fries-shake shop in the city’s quartier latin. Recommended by new friends Anthony and Michelle at the Montreal-centric food blog an endless banquet, here it is: a lovely, gooey (in the best possible sense of the word) butterscotch-y creation.

In Old Quebec City, the Tatum Café serves a fine version. The gorgeous plate presentation holds a hefty slice, and is best accompanied by a cup of strong coffee.

They also do a tasty caramel pie (which, come to think of it, is just another form of sugar pie).

Lest you worry that the Queen has done nothing but consume pies during her sojourn, let me assure you that there have been many other merry moments, including a visit to the Contemporary Art Museum to see an exhibition of Brian Jungen. Jungen, a Vancounver-based artist, creates tribal masks from Nike Air Jordans and re-creates whale skeletons from plastic lawn chairs. Need I say more?

And then there was the pilgrimage to the incredible Jean Talon market, where we gawked at the bounty at the fruit and vegetable vendors and gorged ourselves on crepes, blue-cheese stuffed olives, and. . .pies. (Lemon and maple flavored tartlets, to be precise, from Les Sucreries de l’Erable)

Bike-riding through the Parc Jean-Drapeau and hiking up to and around Mont-Royal allowed us a guilt-free trip to the superb Premiere Moisson bakery, where, having temporarily misplaced our James Bond secret camera, we had to obtain permission from the manager to photograph the pie counter.

A la prochaine. . . Bon appetit!

A Brief Pie-ography (and a promise to avoid pie puns in the future)

2006-06-09T07:03:00.000-04:00

My grandmother, a good Ohio country cook, always had pie on the table waiting when I came to visit her. My favorite involved any form of berry, and sometimes we’d go to Boone Lake and pick the blackberries ourselves, lacing rubber bands around our well-wrapped wrists and ankles to stop the chiggers’ offensives. I wish I’d paid more attention to Gran’s pie-making technique, but by the time I was old enough to appreciate such things, I was a teenager and far more interested in imagining My Exciting Future.

Years later, after all that excitement, I got married. Lots of good things accompanied my journey into matrimony, but for the purposes of this blog, I’ll stick to one: I started making pies. My first attempt took place on an unusually muggy Thanksgiving morning in southern California. Eleven people were coming to our house for the big dinner later that day and for some reason (probably because no one else offered) I was the designated baker.

Things did not go well. The kitchen was hot and the pie dough sticky and resistant. Although I finally managed to roll it into something that resembled a circle, each time I tried to transfer it to the plate, it fell apart in crumbly pieces.

There was nothing to do but cry.

Fortunately, my husband had been handily engaged in a project of his own: mixing up a batch of festive cranberry cocktails. And being the good and wise partner that he is. . . Two cocktails later, I tried again, patching and pressing the dough into a crazy-quilt that suddenly seemed more than acceptable. Besides, my mate assured me, no one would ever notice.

He was right, of course. It was Thanksgiving and everyone simply seemed thankful that I’d persevered. (And thankful for the cranberry cocktails, too.)

These days, I bake lots of pies -- and I hardly ever cry. At least not about the pies.

This week’s recipe is part of my Past.

Reader, last weekend I attended my college reunion in St. Paul. Surprisingly enough -- and contrary to all my dour expectations -- it was fun. Although there was far more beer consumed than pie during the idyllic four years I spent at Macalester College, one pie memory lingers, involving late-night jaunts to the restaurant called Poppin’ Fresh Pies. Over slices of the trashy-sounding “French Silk,” we’d moan about the horrors of our college existence: the lecherous economics professor, the Twin Cities’ persistent subzero temperatures, the roommate who’d erased our favorite party tape.

We also moaned about the mysterious lusciousness of the pie before us. Now that I’ve deconstructed it, I see that the saucy French Silk pie is nothing more than a heap of rich chocolate mousse tucked into a sweetened cracker crust.

Truly, with age comes wisdom. . .

French Silk Pie
Adapted from W.A. Frost & Company and MarthaStewart.com

For the crust:

1/3 c. butter, softened
2 ½ oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted
1 ½ c. Ritz or Townhouse crackers, crushed
1 c. powdered sugar

For the filling:

¾ c. butter, softened
1 c. sugar
3 oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted
1 ½ t. vanilla
½ t. salt
3 large eggs

For the topping:

8 oz. whipping cream
1 t. sugar
bittersweet chocolate, for decoration

Make the crust by creaming together butter and sugar. Add chocolate and cracker crumbs, combining well. Press mixture into a 9 in. pie plate. (Don’t worry if mixture seems wet. It will firm up as it chills.) Chill crust while preparing filling.

Using an electric mixer, cream butter and sugar until very light and fluffy – approximately 2 minutes. Gradually add melted chocolate, vanilla, and salt. Add eggs, one at a time, beating at medium speed for 4 minutes after each addition. Spoon filling into chilled pie crust and refrigerate for at least 3 hours.

Before serving, whip cream with sugar until soft peaks form. Spread top of pie with whipped cream and using a vegetable peeler, shave chocolate onto top of cream to form curls or confetti.

Note: People in the know still advise against serving food containing raw eggs to pregnant women, individuals with compromised health, and young children. So, to be safe, don’t pass this pie around at baby showers, infirmaries, or birthday parties where clowns are the featured attraction.

Why Pie?

2006-06-02T05:00:00.000-04:00

Thank God It’s Friday. Really. I’ve been waiting all week to launch this blog and say hello and welcome, Reader. What can you expect to find at Pie Day Friday? Well, pie of course -- and perhaps recipes, stories, and a little chit-chat, too. I won’t promise anything else, but that’s plenty, don’t you think? So pull up a fork and come visit with The Queen of Tarts.

Or…Why Not Pie?

Many people tell me they would never dream of making a pie. Too daunting, they say, although when it comes to other scary endeavors – visiting their accountants, sleeping in tents, raising children -- they rarely lack for nerve. Just mention pie crust, though, and you’ll see them start to tremble. And don’t bring up that mysterious implement known as the rolling pin (they won’t have one), or suggest that pie-making is just a matter of taking the time to practice (they don’t have that, either). Pie-making, to them – and perhaps to you, too? – ain’t gonna happen.

Well, in my new role as The Queen, I feel compelled to quell these concerns. First, no self-respecting person should ever feel intimidated by a lump of dough. Second, an empty wine bottle has been the salvation of many pie bakers lacking proper tools. Third, you made time for the season finale of Lost, didn’t you?

Or perhaps you simply need to be convinced that pie-making is a worthwhile endeavor. If so, allow me this: When you make a pie, many good things will happen: Ordinarily-sullen fifteen-year-olds will lick crumbs off their plates and plant a kiss on your cheek. Women in size 4 dresses will abandon their diets and beg for seconds. Compliments will be tossed at you with more gusto than Frisbees at a college coed. I’ve even had a musician promise to write a song in tribute to my pies. (BTW, Steve, I’m still waiting.) Take a pie to a party and you will leave with many new friends.

That, you see, is the power of pie.

Strawberry-rhubarb pie is my family’s favorite. Everyone seems to like the combination of sweet and tart fruits; it’s gobbled up even by people who claim they don’t like pie. (Alert: Be wary of those kinds of people! Why would anyone want to reject an entire category of cuisine?)

Spring is the best time of year to find rhubarb, although I’ve spotted it at the grocery well into the summer. You might want to carpe diem: buy a bunch, chop it up, and freeze it for later use. And try to use locally-grown strawberries, if possible. These little ugly ones are usually much tastier than the large trophy-wife berries encased in their plastic prisons.

I recently toted three of these pies to a party hosted by our friends John and Follin. Besides hanging out with some of our very favorite people, we had the pleasure of meeting John’s big extended family – enthusiastic pie-eaters, all. When it came time to serve dessert though, I discovered that the pies were very juicy. Very, very juicy. (Less-charitable people might even say “soupy,” but they wouldn’t dare try that around me.) And while this…um….liquidity factor…didn’t affect the taste, it did hinder the presentation.

So the next day, I made yet another strawberry-rhubarb pie, thickening it this time with quick-cooking tapioca instead of the flour I’d always used before. The resulting filling had significantly more body, although it was still not overly jelled. So that’s what I recommend in this recipe. If you, however, are a fan of juicy pies, omit the tapioca pearls and substitute flour as noted.

If you don’t know much about making crust, just do the best you can (or buy a refrigerated crust). I’ll talk more about making pie crusts on future posts.

Finally, when it comes to baking pies, you might want to consider the philosophy of Kurt Vonnegut: “We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”

So abolish that Fear of Flying, Reader – and prepare to soar. . .

Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie

Pastry for a 9-inch two-crust pie
4 cups rhubarb (about 4 large stalks), cut into 1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces
2 1/2 cups strawberries, sliced
1 1/2 cup sugar
1/3 cup instant tapioca (or 1/3 cup flour)
pinch salt
2 T. butter
2 T. milk
1 t. sugar

Preheat oven to 450.

Line a 9-inch pie plate with half of pastry dough. Combine the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar, tapioca (or flour), and salt in large bowl, making sure all fruit is coated. Let sit 10 minutes. Pour fruit mixture into pie plate. Cut butter into small pieces and lay on fruit. Roll out remaining dough and place on top, crimping edges to seal. Using a pastry brush -- or your finger -- paint entire crust with milk and sprinkle with sugar. Make several cuts in top of crust to allow steam to escape. Bake the pie for 15 minutes, then lower heat to 350 and bake 35 minutes more.