Home Cooking: A Writer in the Kitchen (Recipe #1)
While waiting for the lemons to preserve, I decided to plunge into my next cookbook: Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin (published by Alfred A. Knopf).
A cookbook cleverly disguised as an essay collection (and vice versa), Home Cooking is, quite simply, one of the best books I’ve ever read. Colwin—who wrote for The New Yorker and Gourmet magazines, penned three novels, earned the moniker “Guggenheim Fellow” and received a grant from the NEA before passing away at a much-too-young age—writes clear, true, quietly confessional prose salted with clever wit and understated humor. She’s the girlfriend I wish lived next door; the kitchen companion I’d love to call in times of culinary distress.
My friend Erin, a fellow home cooking enthusiast, gave me this book—a gently used hardcover copy, wrapped in its original, slightly torn, colorful paper cover—for my birthday. I read the introduction immediately and then got distracted by a few novels and put the book aside.
A week ago, I grabbed Home Cooking as I tucked into bed and instantly succumbed to its powers. I read only a chapter per night, dog-earring recipes as I go.
Because Colwin, while she writes about useful kitchen appliances and hosting dinner parties in her tiny Manhattan apartment, offers plenty of hands-on, beaters-in advice; chapters include Feeding the Fussy, Baking Bread without Agony, and How to Fry Chicken (which even this seasoned vegetarian found fascinating).
Last night’s chapter, How to Disguise Vegetables, couldn’t have been better timed. We’d just received our bi-weekly produce box and unpacked four zucchini, three of which were the diameter of my forearm. I enjoy zucchini, mostly, but spend much of the summer hunting for reasons to not turn it into ratatouille. Most of these experiments disappoint, for which I blame zucchini’s mild flavor and high water content.
Colwin, two pages into her vegetables chapter, provides a recipe for zucchini fritters.
It’s a simple paragraph of text, actually—no list of ingredients, serving sizes or even ordinals appear on the page. But she clearly describes how to turn boring old zucchini into something allegedly irresistible, so I noted the page and vowed to give it a try.
This evening, while preparing Roxy’s dinner, I fetched the book from my bedside table and found the fritter recipe. It begins, “Shred the zucchini—use four small ones—and drain it on a towel.” Four sentences later, the fritters are frying in the pan.
I feel like a pioneer woman when I cook from this kind of bare-bones recipe. The simple instructions and quaint measurements (“more than half a cup,” “ a pinch”) suggest hand-me-down wisdom and no-nonsense tasks. I also feel a bit honored by such a recipe; after all, the writer trusts me to understand and follow through based on only the most basic guidelines. No coddling margin notes or tool tips here.
I pulled the largest zucchini from the fridge, guessed it was likely similar to four small ones, and shredded it with a box grater. This was surprisingly easy. Even better, not a knuckle lost skin in the process. I dumped the inch-long pieces into a bowl lined with paper towels.
The next step reads, “Separate two eggs and beat the whites until fairly stiff.” I messed up on the first egg (and it’s critical to keep the whites free of yellow bits when beating the former), but neatly separated my second and third attempts. Then I whipped the whites with my handheld mixer until they resembled a snowy swoop of pomaded hair.
Following Colwin’s lead, I poured half a cup of milk into the egg yolks and blended them with a fork before dumping in about 3/4 cup flour and blending some more. “Add the zucchini, salt, pepper and some chopped scallion,” she then instructs breezily. This I did, delighting in my freedom to decide S&P amounts and replace scallion (of which we had none) with some kind of stalky, leek-like onion (which we’d received, unmarked as usual, in our produce box).
“Fold in the egg whites and fry in clarified butter (or unclarified butter) or olive oil until golden on both sides,” Colwin writes before adding a few lines about the results really being pancakes rather than fritters (owing to their dollopy nature, I presume). I obediently folded in my gloriously whipped egg whites, pulled out our deepest frying pan, turned the heat to high (a total guess) and poured in a ¼ inch pool of olive oil.
I never fry stuff at home. Maybe it’s a willful ignorance thing (How much oil does it take to make those so crispy? Beats me!). Maybe it’s a mess thing (OY, the splattering). Either way, it’s something I leave to restaurants with their deep, bubbling fryers and skilled, armhair-free chefs. Consequently, I felt less than comfortable as the olive oil started to emit a delicious, I’m-warm-now odor. How would I form these fritters? I wondered. They looked too wet to mush into balls or patties. I unearthed a small ladle and marched toward the stovetop.
I ladled a sloppy pool of the batter into the hot oil. It held its shape! I ladled another. It wasn’t beautiful, but it would do. I ladled two more servings into the pan and then stood back, amazed by the happy, sizzling scene.
After 30 seconds, the edges were alarmingly brown: flipping time in frying land. I held my breath, slid a slotted metal spatula under one fritter-cake, lifted it, and then watched it splat, face-down, into the oil with barely a splash. Relief! I’d neither seared my arm with burning drops nor dropped the item upon its closest brethren (my typical spatula accomplishments). I repeated these steps for the other fritter-cakes; amazingly, I avoided burns and mess once again.
In fact, my only misstep with that first batch was walking away to pull Roxy’s chicken “breast nuggets” from the oven (don’t get me started on how awful that name is). It seemed like mere seconds, but it was just enough time for the bottoms to char. On to Batch 2.
The results: I couldn’t help it. I grabbed one of these mere moments after removing it from the frying pan and bit off a sizzling chunk. That’s how beautifully fried most of the fritters looked by the time I was done.
And while it was hot, mostly crunchy outside and fluffy-chewy inside, it didn’t deliver the flavor I expected. It was just too bland. Zucchini bland.
I handed one to Roxy.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A fritter. Try it.”
She sniffed it and took a bite, forehead creasing as she chewed. “It’s not as good as I thought it would be.”
Were I to make these again, I’d add feta cheese to the batter. Or even shredded parmesan. Or pickle juice and a shot of Sriracha. Something to add a kick to an otherwise mild, inoffensive fritter.
The Vegetarian Table: North Africa (Recipe #3 update)
We’re in Week 3 of 6 for the Moroccan-Style Preserved Lemons.
Since placing the Mason jar upon the counter, I have:
* added 2 lemons’ worth of juice
* added 2 more scrubbed, sliced and salted Meyer lemons from my tree
* sloshed and flipped the jar several times, because a wise food friend told me another friend said this is how you make preserved lemons
There’s lots of loose pulp floating around, as well as seeds. Some of the lemons near the bottom of the jar look fairly intact. The more recent additions, which had to be stuffed in over the sink to prevent salty lemon juice from running all over the counter, are a bit more beaten up.
I’m also happy to share that the Mold Report is, thus far, negative.
The Vegetarian Table: North Africa (Recipe #3)
Three-and-a-half weeks ago, we started remodeling a third of our house.
Gone is the original, leaky, 1963-vintage bathroom that once sported mirror wallpaper, a drape as a shower curtain, faux gold accents and an ashtray in the medicine cabinet. Gone is Jon’s closet in the office, our laundry area, the linen closet and the hot water heater’s home. Instead, bare studs, subfloor and plastic sheeting extend in all directions. Plaster dust adds a Christmasy touch.
Other than shop-vac-ing the hallway and gathering the clips for the nail gun into neat piles, I’ve done little in the way of domestic pursuits since the project began. In fact, my sole culinary triumph of the last 40 days involved whipping up a photogenic—and very tasty—kale and mushroom omelet based on tips from Gwyneth Paltrow’s email newsletter, goop.
To pick up where I left off before the three of us decamped to Seattle for a week and demolition commenced, I literally dusted off The Vegetarian Table: North Africa and flipped through the chapters. I needed simple, simple, simple.
And I found just such a recipe at the start of the book under Basic Recipes: Moroccan-Style Preserved Lemons.
Writes Kitty Morse, “To fully experience the authentic flavors of the cuisine of the Maghreb, I urge you to make two basic condiments.” One of these is smen (aged butter, which I have yet to try). The other is preserved lemons.
Morse describes preserved lemons—or l’hamd mrakad—as a critical ingredient in Moroccan cuisine. “Once preserved,” she adds, “the rind turns tender, the pulp acquires an almost jamlike consistency, and the flavor of the lemon is intensified.” I love lemons in almost every incarnation (one exception being the lemon lollipop, a punishing example of something both too tart and too sweet for its own good), so this all sounded quite delicious to me.
Moroccans apparently use preserved lemons in everything from stews and salads to savory pastries, adding chopped bits of the rind before serving or mixing the pulp into sauces. I found only one recipe in the index of TVTNA that calls for preserved lemons: Chlada Felfla, or Pepper Salad with Preserved Lemons. However, I have a friend at work who puts them on her tuna fish sandwiches, so I figured I’d have options aplenty for my homemade batch.
Morse offers a troika of preserved lemons recipes: the Moroccan style, a quick variety that involves freezing, and a spiced version from Algeria and Tunisia that includes ground coriander. I gravitated to the third option, skimmed the instructions and felt I’d found my candidate until I read the penultimate sentence. “If mold forms on the top, remove it with a clean spoon.”
Moroccan style it would be.
The recipe makes 12 lemons, which sounded like a lot of something I have yet to try. Consequently, I halved the recipe and headed outside to pluck 6 smooth specimen from our thorn-infested, blossom- and fruit-covered Meyer lemon tree.
First, I washed and dried the lemons. This was pleasant work, for the Meyer’s satiny peel, like a smooth stone, invites rubbing and polishing. I lopped a thin slice from both ends of all 6 lemons. Then I stood one lemon on its end and cut three-quarters of the way through the fruit, before flipping it over, and rotating it 180 degrees in order to do the same from the other end. I repeated this careful knife work for the entire batch.
At this point, I put a kettle of water on the stove to boil and found my favorite Mason jar. It looked clean enough to me, but Morse emphasizes sterilizing the glass and I didn’t think I should improvise this early in the recipe.
I took a break to read Roxy her bedtime story and say goodnight. When I returned, the water was bubbling, so I carefully submerged the jar and its o-ring with a wooden spoon.
While the jar bounced around in its bubbling pool (reminding me of last year’s adventures in needlessly sterilizing a buttered glass baking dish), I dumped sea salt into each cut of all 6 lemons. This was harder work than it sounds. A salt stalagmite had formed inside the container, which required much vigorous shaking and banging to dislodge a few grains. By the sixth lemon, my triceps were burning.
I pulled the jar from its steaming bath and plunked it onto a towel (unsterilized) to cool. After about 10 minutes, I was tired of waiting and, per the instructions, stuck the salt-engorged lemons, one by one, into the jar, pressing down firmly after each addition (e.g., smushing them with my fist) to release the juice and make more room for the other lemons. This was messy work and “cooking” at its most unglamorous.
In fact, as I worked I realized there’s something of the kindergarten science project in this recipe. Take Simple Item Number One (dried macaroni, an egg carton, lemons). Obliterate it with Simple Item Number Two (gold spray paint, glitter, salt). Crush the results in or onto a prepared vessel (cardboard square, shoebox, jar). Present to parent.
Only my preserved lemons—as they oozed and split their sides, dumping salt into an inch of white sediment at the bottom of the jar—looked like something only a mother would love. And I’m the mother.
The recipe says the home cook should proceed “until no space is left and the lemon juice has risen to the top.” My 6 Meyers barely filled two-thirds of their new home, so I squeezed juice from a few previously harvested lemons into the jar and vowed to add a few more sliced-n-salted lemons in the days to come.
As the recipe wraps up, Morse underscores the need to keep the lemons covered with juice at all times. Peering into my jar, where the dry tops of several lemons jutted upwards like a cluster of sunny island nations, I realized my work wasn’t done. I juiced two more lemons and poured the liquid into the jar, finally submerging all the fruit.
I felt relieved. At least for tonight, I wouldn’t need to remove any mold with a clean spoon.
The results: Results? Not so fast. These are preserved lemons, not marinated or brined or even dried-for-a-holiday-craft lemons.
According to Morse, the lemons are ready to enjoy “when the rinds are tender, in 5 to 6 weeks.” Five to 6 weeks? The last time I calculated time in multiple-week chunks I was pregnant. What month would that be? Would Roxy be finished with school? And (cringe) what would these lemons look like by then?
Well, stay tuned is all I can say. And bring over a few lemons to stuff in the jar if you happen to be in the neighborhood.
The Vegetarian Table: North Africa (Recipe #2)
For my next North African meal, I decided to go to Italy.
Let me explain. I was paging through The Vegetarian Table: North Africa a few weekends ago, hungry and lethargic. A number of recipes looked good—Couscous Belboula, Tarte a la Frita—but they required ingredients such as rutabagas (seriously?) and smen, a “pungent, aged butter,” so I read on.
Finally, I found Spaghetti Kerkennaise.
You’d be forgiven for fearing this dish involves a spicy mayonnaise dressing. I certainly did. But after skimming the recipe’s building blocks—tomatoes, capers, parsley, olive oil, a chili—I was elated to discover that the pasta concoction was, essentially, Tunisia’s Spaghetti alla puttanesca.
I love puttanesca anything, even if it does mean “whore” or “whorish.” The spicy, tangy tomato-caper-garlic-olive-chili flakes-sometimes anchovy sauce is a heady wonder. Why it’s associated with whores is a mystery. A bit of online research reveals that the dish likely appeared after World War II when middle-class Italians pursued tomato sauces with gusto. One possible creation myth: A restaurant owner on the Isle of Ischia created puttanesca when a bunch of friends showed up hungry and demanded he make something with “whatever puttanata (crap) he had on hand.” The resulting sauce of tomatoes, capers and olives was a hit. Stuck for a name—and not wanting to call the sauce a pile of crap—the owner opted instead for the infinitely more socially acceptable pile of whorishness.
Honestly. Leave it to an Italian man to think puttanesca was an improvement over puttanata.
TVTNA’s Kitty Morse says the sauce in her book hails from the Tunisian islands of Kerkennah; hence the mayonnaisey-sounding name. One local restaurant serves the rich tomato topping over seafood (a heavenly prospect), but Morse’s recipe features a substrate of pasta.
To start, I preheated the broiler in our toaster-oven, since I didn’t feel like waiting 2 hours for our crotchety old oven to get up to speed. Then I reached for a bowl of perfectly round, smallish, vine-ripened tomatoes. The recipe calls for 3 large specimen, but this being winter (even in California), I knew most tomatoes bigger than a paperweight would be pale, waxed and flavorless, so I didn’t even bother heading to the store. I created a pile that seemed like a good impersonation of 3 giant tomatoes and washed them thoroughly.
I oiled the toaster-oven’s tiny baking sheet and arranged the fruit (quote-unquote) upon it. Then I stuck the tray under the bright-orange coil. It wasn’t within the recommended 3 inch-broiling proximity, so I positioned two ramekins on the oven’s wire rack and balanced the tray atop them—a rickety endeavor, but mostly successful. In 4 minutes the tomatoes’ skins were split and blackened, with the sides oozing juice. I grabbed some tongs and transferred the tomatoes to a cutting board to cool.
I arranged 8 unpeeled garlic cloves onto the glistening, still uber-hot tray. Under the broiler they went for 5 minutes, until gently browned.
Once the tomatoes had cooled, I peeled and chopped them into messy bits. The recipe suggests seeding them first, but I wasn’t about to try that with tomatoes the size of a golf ball (what would I have left?). I scraped the soupy pile into a colander balanced over a bowl; the tomatoes drained, like a scary science experiment, for 30 minutes.
While I waited, I squeezed the garlic cloves from their crispy skins and smushed them into a creamy, pungent paste. It took about a day to erase the smell from my fingers.
When the tomato buzzer rang, I dumped the colander’s contents into a bowl. Then I stirred in the garlic mash, plus 2 tablespoons of drained capers, 2 teaspoons of caper juice, 7 fresh parsley sprigs I’d pulled from the back garden and minced, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, 1 tablespoon harissa, a chopped jalapeño (also from the garden), and salt and pepper. The results made my eyes water.
I boiled a pot of water and dropped in a handful of spaghetti. The gangly splay of the dried noodles always reminds me of a game of pick-up-sticks. Once the pasta was al dente, I drained it and tossed it with the tomato-caper-et al sauce. I added a final tablespoon of olive oil, tossed everything a few more times and then heaped the slippery meal into bowls.
The results: Ay! What a mouth-tantalizing, breath-busting, heart-pounding blend of flavors.
While I initially found the room temperature-nature of Spaghetti Kerkennaise unappealing, I quickly got over it, enjoying the brine of the capers alongside the smooth tomato tang, the bite of the jalapeño beneath the squawk of the garlic. But be warned: This is most definitely a dish everyone—including the neighbors three doors down—should eat when it’s served. The garlic may be roasted, but it’s still stink-ay.
Or, as they say in Italy, a little bit whorish.
The Vegetarian Table: North Africa (Recipe #1)
Last month, I chose as my first recipe Chorba el khodra. This means, somewhat disappointingly, “vegetable soup” in English but still, I was excited. My refrigerator and countertops were crowded with vegetables, so what better way to dent the pile than by chopping up great handfuls for an aromatic soup?
And aromatic it would be. Not only does Chorba el khodra include harissa, it adds 2 whopping tablespoons of tabil, a spice blend featuring coriander, ground caraway, garlic powder and New Mexico chili powder that is, per Morse, “to Tunisia what curry is to India” (and sounds like it could launch a canon if ignited).
I shopped for the missing ingredients one bright Sunday afternoon at Gelson’s in Silver Lake. Once I returned home, I spread the vegetables on the counter, grabbed my knife and a cutting board, and went to work, sous-chef style, prepping all the ingredients.
First, I diced one large onion.
It would be boring to mention how much I loathe chopping onions. How much my eyes smart, then sting, then tear, then gush great gobs of liquid usually reserved for stories about intrepid animals on a journey, or Gandalf’s death. How I’ve tried every folk-remedy known to man—holding a match between my teeth, burning a candle close by, slicing a lemon before slicing the onion, avoiding the onion’s core—to no avail. So I won’t go there.
Next I minced 3 cloves of garlic, which meant opening my beloved jar of Trader Joe’s chopped garlic—dubbed jarlic in our home—and dumping a teaspoon-plus atop the still-fuming onion pile. To say this is an improvement over the sticky, papery battle of peeling one’s own cloves would be a mammoth understatement.
I peeled and diced 3 thin carrots (the recipe calls for 2, but I assumed Morse meant welterweights and upped my count); chopped a handful of small tomatoes (again, the recipe specifies 2 large ones but in the middle of winter the only ones I’ll buy are the little vine-ripened jobbers); peeled and diced a small acorn squash, plus the bottom of a butternut (to get 8 ounces); hacked 4 stalks of celery into teensy bits; and peeled and cut into cute little cubes 1 plain old potato. Oh, and I shredded half a small, purple cabbage into impressive ribbons. Man-handling squash can be a bit of a chore (that rind!), but otherwise the chopping was meditative and, in the end, quite satisfying (all those colorful piles!).
I opened an almost 15-ounce can of chopped tomatoes and lined it up on the crowded counter top to the right of the stove. Then I poured 7 cups of broth (a blend à la fridge of leftover veggie and mushroom varieties, plus water) into a large bowl and dumped in 3 tablespoons of tomato paste, 8 shredded fresh basil leaves, a handful of minced parsley I pulled from the backyard garden and 2 teaspoons harissa. The cloudy, speckled, red-brown brew looked like drinks we used to concoct during 5th-grade bouts of Truth or Dare.
I was, finally, ready to cook!
I grabbed our medium soup kettle, heated 2 tablespoons of olive oil on medium-high, and tossed in the chopped onions and garlic. Much spitting and sizzling ensued. After 6–7 minutes and a few stirs, I added the carrots and sautéed those for about 3 minutes until browned at the edges. Next up: the celery, fresh tomatoes, potato, and scary stock. I stirred until the mélange became uniform, placed the lid on top and let the soup come to a mellow boil. Then it cooked, bubbling like a beaker over a Bunsen burner, for 20 minutes (when the potato chunks were soft I knew we were done).
At this point I lowered the flame to medium, removed the lid and poured in the chopped squash and cabbage. I re-covered the pot and let the contents bubble away for another 18 minutes, before sprinkling in 2 tablespoons of homemade tabil, two pinches of salt and ¼ cup orzo. After 10 minutes, the orzo was tender and the soup officially finished. Jon and I grabbed soup bowls, ladled generous servings into each and topped with a few squeezes of fresh lemon juice.
The results: Delicious!
Yes, it takes an hour to chop all the veggies, but once they’re lined up on the counter the home cook can plow through the simple soup-prep steps.
And the flavors! The slight sweetness of the carrot and squash pair perfectly with the spicy bite of the harissa and tabil. The tomato-y base is rich and satisfying; the bountiful chunks of potato, sliced celery and beribboned cabbage hearty without being heavy.
Without question, this is a perfect soup for a cold, damp night. Yum, yum, yum.
The Vegetarian Table: North Africa (Introduction)
After months of sweet, strange pie, I was more than ready to return to the Land of Savory. I craved spicy stews, crunchy salads and cheesy appetizers. I craved salt.
To satisfy this urge, I grabbed the first cookbook that screamed Robust and Flavorful: The Vegetarian Table: North Africa. This attractive, slim hardcover, which I’ve had for years and can’t recall from whence or whom it came, belongs to a series published by Chronicle Books that includes vegetable tables in Italy, Mexico, Thailand (also in my cookbook collection) and France.
Published in 1996, the North African volume was written by Kitty Morse, who, according to her website, hails from Casablanca and has taught the finer points of Moroccan cooking for over 30 years. Sadly, TVTNA is out of print, but a number of her other books, including The Scent of Orange Blossoms: Sephardic Cuisine from Morocco and Cooking at the Kasbah: Recipes From My Moroccan Kitchen are still available (I couldn’t find the Vegetarian Table series on Chronicle’s site — they’re officially out of print — but bargain and used copies abound on Amazon).
Chronicle always does a beautiful job with its books, whether they’re travel guides, children’s tales, design manuals or, yes, cookbooks. TVTNA doesn’t disappoint. The glossy photos are beautifully art-directed, with honey-colored light, wooden spoons, rich textiles and traditional, chipped pottery providing background. Even a simple salad of quartered hard-boiled eggs, olives, sliced peppers, tomatoes and onions looks grand against such a set-up.
After an introduction and a short essay on entertaining Moroccan style, Morse lists special ingredients and equipment the North African-bound cook will need. I was pleased to see a few items I usually have on hand: capers, couscous, ground ginger, mint, nuts. Also recommended: barley grits, a hulless cracked barley similar to coucous that Morse says is available in the cereal aisle of natural food stores; bharat, a Tunisian “seasoning blend made from dried rosebuds, cinnamon and black pepper” (thankfully, Morse provides a recipe); and, of course, harissa, a Tunisian hot sauce that’s gotten so trendy it’s only a matter of time before Jack n’ the Box rolls out a bacon and harissa burger.
I paged through the book, marking recipes I hoped to try. These included Moroccan-Style Preserved Lemons, because they appear in so many North African dishes; Cheese Mantecaos (otherwise known as cheese puffs); pretty much the entire soup chapter (Garbanzo Bean and Pumpkin Soup and Bean, Chard and Noodle Soup sounded particularly yummy); and, because one can’t have enough puffs in her life, Loqma (fried honey puffs).
Chronicle published one of my previously reviewed cookbooks, the 9.5 spatula-winning Il Fornaio Baking Book. This fact alone quickened my pulse when I plunged into my first recipe of The Vegetarian Table: North Africa.
Pie: The results
Sigh.
I really wanted to love this book. After all, I adore pie. All kinds of pie!
Ah, but there lies the problem. It turns out I don’t love all kinds of pie. I love the peach pie that my mom makes in the summer and the cherry pie my aunt makes at Thanksgiving. I love my friend Aileen’s blue cheese pie (yes, it’s savory) that always has a place at the New Year’s Day buffet. I love my sister’s apple pie bursting with fruit and cinnamon. And I love the pumpkin chiffon pie, another Mom Specialty, that I now make in the fall when the holidays come knocking.
These are simple, flavorful, even elegant, creations.
What these pies are not is inventive or experimental (although you could make the case for the blue cheese pie). In fact, many of them are recipes handed down and honed over time until they’ve reached perfection.
Consequently, a cookbook with recipes like Cranberry Kool-Aid Crumble and Rhubarb Onion Mango Pie with Melba Toast Crust makes me want to hide behind my new Day of the Dead apron.
Granted, the Classic Lemon Meringue Pie was tasty. But meringue itself, which I hadn’t ever eaten until I made it myself two weeks ago, didn’t win me over. Especially once it started to sweat on Day Two.
I think I’ll pass this cookbook on to a friend who will appreciate it. And then write thank you notes to all the sources of great pie in my life.
Overall cookbook rating: 3 out of 10 spatulas.
Pie: Recipe #4
Even though I’d made three unimpressive pies under Haedrich’s command, I felt compelled to give my Pie tome one, final try.
“I chose weird recipes,” I said to Jon one night last weekend, trying to justify yet another attempt. “Plus, I have a Marie Callender’s crust in the freezer.”
He was unconvinced.
Nonetheless, I plunged ahead, paging through the book in search of a recipe as benign and normal as possible. Since our Meyer lemon tree is once again covered in fist-sized, yellow globes, a lemony something seemed particularly appealing. And since I’ve never in my life made a meringue pie of any kind, I chose, as my final Pie hurrah, Classic Lemon Meringue Pie.
The ingredients for this “American diner standard,” as Haedrich calls it, are likely lurking in your kitchen cupboard and crisper: sugar, cornstarch, lemon, eggs, cream of tartar, vanilla. That’s a huge plus in my book.
I got started Saturday afternoon. To prepare the store-bought piecrust, I combined the pre-baking instructions on the back of the Marie Callender’s label with those in the front of Pie (this seemed like the smart approach when presented with slightly different information). The result: I baked the crust in the center of a cookie sheet for about 12 minutes at 400 degrees (per Marie) and then lowered the oven to 375 degrees for 10 more minutes of baking (per Mr. Haedrich). Unfortunately, I skipped the Pie tip about using pie weights during the first round; as a result, the shell floor buckled impressively, a faux pas I hoped I’d be able to mask with extra filling and meringue.
As the crust cooled, I whisked together 1-1/3 cups sugar, ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons cornstarch and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a saucepan. Into that powdery cloud I poured 2 cups water, ½ cup lemon juice and 1 tablespoon lemon zest, followed by 4 egg yolks. I put this bright yellow goop over medium heat and whisked for 8 straight minutes until it boiled and my finger blistered. After 1-1/2 additional minutes of unrelieved, arm-burning whisking, I was permitted to stop. I pulled the saucepan from the heat and stirred in 2 tablespoons of sliced, unsalted butter, piece by piece, until they were completely incorporated, like ice floes swallowed by a warming sea.
At this point, the home cook must immediately pour the finished filling into the cooled piecrust. Even after much jiggling of the pie pan and cursing of the laws of physics, I was left with a half cup of the dense goo. I stuck a finger into the dregs to give it a try; the results were tangy, smooth and quite tasty, although not as good as the Meyer Lemon curd I make for my favorite tart (a recipe I found in the Los Angeles Times a thousand years ago).
I spread Ye Olde Annoying plastic wrap over the surface of the filling, tried my best to smooth out all air pockets, and perched the pie on a wire rack to cool. Thirty minutes later, I stuck the pie into the fridge for a night of chilling.
The next afternoon, after Jon and Roxy returned from the playground, I made the meringue. I was supposed to kick off this effort by beating the leftover 4 eggs’ worth of whites into a foamy puff. However, I’d apparently separated the yolks from their clear, gelatinous skirts with all the finesse of a toddler in mittens, for no amount of beating would turn these whites into anything other than a bubbly soup. Jon even came into the kitchen to try his hand.
Finally, we both gave up, tossed the bad whites, and separated four new eggs into bowls of pristine, shining yolks and cloudy, quivering whites (which, I’m happy to report, turned into “stiff white peaks” as quickly as one can say “Julia Child told you so”). I added cream of tartar and salt to the snowy scape, along with a tablespoon of vanilla and, finally, ¼ cup superfine sugar that I’d pulverized into a fine dust using my ancient coffee grinder. The resulting meringue was as glossy and white as a luge track.
I pulled the chilled pie from the fridge, peeled off the plastic wrap and piled the meringue onto the filling, creating a dome in the center. When I was done, the Mt. Rainier of pies stared back at me.
All this time, our broiler had been preparing for its moment in the culinary sun (honestly, the only other time we seem to use the thing is when making frittatas). As instructed by Haedrich — who says, simply “It will take a very short time, so don’t walk away from the oven”— I slid the pie into the heat and briefly let the top brown. This involved some serious cooking magic: one minute the pie was as pale as mayonnaise, the next it sported an impressive tan and was on its way to a serious burn.
“Don’t walk away from the oven!” yelled Jon as the scent of light smoke hit our noses. I grabbed a towel and yanked the pie from under the broiler, balancing it on the island for assessment. We were relieved. Save for one dark-brown spot, the pie had broiled pretty evenly.
The results: Classic Lemon Meringue Pie was one handsome dessert. Fresh from the oven, it looked ready for a Martha Stewart closeup with its white-and-tan, crisp-edged peaks. And I tell you: store-bought piecrust looks a lot nicer than my own Frankenstein concoctions.
I cut two slices of pie and handed the first, neater piece to Jon. We both took a few bites.
“I feel like I’m at the ladies’ auxiliary club,” I said, tapping my fork on the plate. “It’s good, but—do you really need the meringue?”
“I don’t think so. Plus, once you’ve had Meyer lemon curd,” Jon added, “this kind of filling seems undistinguished.” It was true. I wondered if the cornstarch was to blame, since lemon curd—with its lemon juice, zest, butter and eggs—just isn’t that different ingredients-wise.
I warmed up to this pie the second night I had a slice. Although there was an alarming puddle—of what? juice? pie sweat?—in the bottom of the pie pan, the meringue and the filling seemed more like pie partners, rather than separate elements lying one on top of the other.
This was my most successful of the Pie recipes by far. Even so, I wasn’t a convert. Lemon meringue pie looks and tastes like pie from another era, an era of diner specialties and church suppers, when Jello, mayo and cornstarch ruled the cooking roost. I’ll take the rich, deep flavors of curd in a slim tart crust any day over baked fluff and good, but not great, filling.
Pie: Recipe #3
We had plans to spend Sunday afternoon of MLK weekend with friends. I offered—surprise!—to bring a pie.
I was ready to try a fruit pie from Pie’s pages and settled on apple. How could one possibly go wrong with this staple of the pie-niverse?
Choosing a recipe from the Make Mine Apple chapter proved difficult. Brown Sugar Apple Pie? Golden Delicious Apple Pie with Oatmeal Crumb Topping? Caramel Apple-Pecan Pie? Or how about Love Apple Pie featuring one-third cup ketchup (gag)?
Years ago, at a dinner party in Oxnard, we finished our meal with slices of apple pie flanked by chunks of cheddar cheese. The memory of that tasty dessert steered me, finally, to Apple Pie with Cheddar Cracker Topping. It sounded a little weird, but frankly, so did most of the recipes. So I shrugged and jotted down a shopping list.
Around noon on Sunday I drove over to the Silver Lake Gelson’s with Roxy and my mom, a phenomenal pie-maker who was visiting from Northern California. We’d memorized Haedrich’s list of recommended pie apples—Baldwin, Cortland, Gravenstein, Jonathan, Northern Spy and Winesap, plus the more familiar McIntosh, Fuji and Red Delicious—and were ready to get creative with our fruit choice. Sadly, even at Gelson’s the variety of apples has dwindled over the years. After glancing over the neat piles of Galas, Golden Deliciouses, Pink Ladies and organic Fujis, we decided on the Fujis and filled a bag with 8 large specimen. Then we grabbed our remaining ingredients: frozen, premade piecrusts (yes, I cheated and bought a 2-pack of Marie Callender’s singles); sharp, white cheddar cheese and a box of Cheez-Its®.
It was at this point in my culinary journey that I started to worry. Buying Cheez-Its for anything other than an emergency Roxy snack felt…unfamiliar. Partly, that’s because I’m not a card-carrying cracker enthusiast (aside from the occasional Trader Joe’s rice cracker). And partly that’s because I tend to shy away from purchasing products in Day-Glo colors with ingredient lists as long as my forearm. Would baking with such a familiar product even work? Or would I have a Pillsbury Bakeoff-esque disaster on my hands, in which flavor x tramples upon its humbler brethren? I shook off my concerns and tossed the box into the cart.
When we got home, I preheated the oven to 400 degrees, scrubbed my hands and got to work. As my mom peeled and sliced 6 cups of the Fujis, I measured some sugar, salt, lemon juice and lemon zest into a large bowl. After the final apple was sliced, we tossed the fruity pile with these dryish ingredients and allowed the results to “juice” for about 10 minutes. Then I added a bit more sugar, along with a few tablespoons of cornstarch, tossed anew, and dumped it all into the store-bought piecrust. This baked for 30 minutes in the 400-degree oven and then another 10 minutes in a slightly cooler 375 degrees.
To make the cracker topping I poured a honking pile of Cheez-Its into the Cuisinart, pulverized it into near powder, added ½ stick of sliced butter, pulverized some more, and then scraped in a mound of shredded cheddar cheese before a few final pushes of the power button. You’d have thought I was making canapés from the 50s.
After 40 minutes, I pulled the pie from the oven, balanced it on a wire rack and carefully spread the cracker topping over its surface, as if giving the pie an exotic facial. Then I stuck the pie back into the oven for a final 20 minutes of baking.
The results: We packed up the pie, along with vanilla ice cream and emergency strawberry mochi (ostensibly for Roxy), and headed to our friends’ house in La Canada.
When it was time for dessert, I cut slices of pie for the adults, crowned them with vanilla ice cream and set them upon the table with a flourish. After a few weak “No, you first”’s, we each took a bite.
Everyone finished most of their pie. Comments ranged from “not bad” to “fairly tasty.” One person mentioned the unsettling saltiness of the topping. Another said the apples could’ve baked longer. I agreed with both assessments. In fact, my favorite part was the store-bought crust.
As we cleared the plates from the table to resume our dominoes game, my mom said it best, “Why would you want to mess with a basic apple pie? It’s all you really need.”
Hear, hear. And please pass the mochi.
Pie: Recipe #2
On New Year’s Eve Day, I decided to make a pie for my friend Marvin. He’d spotted me eating the final slice of chocolate chess pie and dropped a not-so-subtle hint that he’d really like some pie, thanks, whenever I felt like sharing. (In order to protect the innocent, I’m using a pseudonym for my friend. You’ll see why later.)
I paged through Pie, hunting for a tasty gift pie candidate. Because I knew Marvin liked chocolate, I decided that would be a key ingredient. After much skimming and scanning of the “Plethora of Icebox Pies” chapter (it was about 78 degrees outside), I settled on Black Bottom Pie.
I wasn’t sure what was in Black Bottom Pie, but after reading Haedrich’s introduction —which features words such as “ganache,” “butter,” and “whipped cream-lightened pastry cream” — I decided to give it a whirl.
Because the pie involves a number of steps, I tied on my new Day of the Dead apron and got to work that afternoon. First, I made the Nutty Graham Cracker Crust. This involved pressing a mixture of pulverized pecans, graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon and salt into a pie pan and baking the sandy concoction for about 7 minutes.
Next I tackled the ganache. I cooked butter and cream in a small saucepan over a low burner. Once the butter melted, I poured in ¾ cup chocolate chips and, per the very specific instructions, removed the pan from the heat as I swirled the creamy butter over the lumpy pile of chips.
After 5 minutes I was supposed to have a lake of creamy, chocolatey butter. Instead, I had a pile of wet chips. Figuring Haedrich’s low heat must be a lot warmer than my low heat (the story of my life), I put the saucepan back over a slightly toastier flame and, whisking constantly, melted those chips. Finally, a beautiful wood-brown soup appeared. I stirred in some vanilla and poured the brew into the cooled piecrust. When this “black bottom” reached room temperature, I put the pie into the fridge to chill.
Later that night, I decided to skip the sequins and heels and make the pie’s topping. I dumped sugar, cornstarch and salt into a medium-sized pot and then whisked in 2 cups whole milk (yes, I actually bought a quart of the full-fat stuff at Trader Joe’s) and 4 egg yolks. I placed the pot over a medium flame and brought the contents to a boil, whisking it every now and then to avoid black-bottom milk. Once the eggy puddle started to bubble, I grabbed my whisk and furiously stirred for almost 2 minutes until — poof! — the liquid suddenly thickened.
I pulled a shallow baking dish from the cupboard, scraped in the cooked topping and then added a chunk of butter, sliced, followed by some vanilla. Then, muttering “Serenity now,” I yanked the box of Evil Plastic Wrap from its lower cupboard hollow.
I can’t stand this stuff. Forget the unavoidable fact that plastic wrap, née cling wrap (for obvious reasons), sticks to itself with the shrieking fervor of a tween fan to a boy band. Plastic wrap’s box presents to the world a saw-tooth edge capable of slicing open fingertips but genetically unable to puncture actual plastic.
The crazy thing is: I’ve never actually purchased plastic wrap. When we moved into our house seven years ago, we discovered two lower kitchen cupboards crammed with every conceivable form of food wrappage: tin foil, wax paper, sandwich baggies from the early 70s, and yes, box after box of plastic wrap in an array of Easter-friendly hues (clear, pink, Gatorade yellow). We ended up donating most of the largesse to a school’s art program.
When I had my oblong sheet of plastic yanked free, I pressed it directly onto the cream topping, avoiding air pockets and gaps, per Haedrich’s instructions. This was to prevent a skin from forming, an idea I heartily applauded. I let the dish cool to room temperature and then stuck it into the fridge, along with a mixing bowl and my mixer’s two beaters, for a full night of chilling.
With only one step to go, I reviewed the recipe for the next day’s work. “Marvin is going to love this,” I thought, imagining the look on my six-foot-tall, African-American, gay friend’s face when I presented him with the Black Bottom Pie.
I froze.
What had I done?
“Jon!” I yelled. “I think I have a problem.”
Jon poked his head into the kitchen. “What happened?”
I pointed to the open cookbook. “So I decided to make this, um, black bottom pie, for this friend of mine. I know him, but I don’t know him well and, um, he’s uh…well, he’s black.”
I paused.
“And gay.”
He let out a huge guffaw and grinned at me. “That’s funny.”
“No, really. I don’t think I can hand him a Tupperware and say, ‘Here’s a Black Bottom Pie I made…specially for you!’ I just can’t.”
The next morning — Happy New Year! — I got up early and headed to the kitchen for the final step. Using my chilled beaters and mixing bowl, I whipped ½ cup heavy cream until it was stiff. Then I folded the cream into the chilled topping “until evenly combined.” Only “evenly combined” never happened. The chilled topping was so firm that gently mixing in the whipped cream resulted in a lumpy, unappetizing goop. The more I folded, the lumpier it got. Finally, knowing the pie needed to set for another few hours, I spread the topping over the ganache, patting and smoothing it in vain. Crossing my fingers, I slid it back into the fridge.
The results: Two hours later, right before leaving for a New Year’s Day gathering, I unveiled the pie for Jon.
“How does it look?”
“Oh!” he said recoiling from the lumpy white heap. After a moment, he added, “I think it’s going to taste delicious.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I decided to bring the pie anyway.
I spotted Marvin socializing in a corner soon after we arrived. Too embarrassed to display the pie for anyone and everyone to gawk at, I hid myself in the kitchen, found a plate and cut a messy, sloppy slice. “Good lord. This looks even worse,” I muttered as I went in search of my friend.
When I found him, I motioned him toward me, held out the plate and whispered, “It doesn’t look great, but it should taste okay.”
“My dear, what did you make me?”
I smiled widely. “It’s basically a cream pie. With a chocolate layer.”
His eyebrows went up and his fork hit the plate. “You did this for me?” He stuck a bite in his mouth. “Ooo, it’s delicious.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Just delicious.”
I was grateful for his kind words, but I still couldn’t muster the courage to unveil the pie for strangers. I returned to the kitchen, snapped the lid back on its container and hid the entire thing under my coat for the remainder of our stay.
When we got home, I cut a slice for me and for Jon. We agreed the custardy top and the smooth ganache worked well together: one cool and creamy, the other dense and rich. But the pie, even with all that chilling, needed more time to set.
And, in fact, this Black Bottom Pie, like a hearty soup, did get tastier in its second and third days. The top, while still lumpy, was much firmer, which made cutting it less of a messy chore (and the overall appearance less of a fright). The flavors, too, gelled even further. If I made this again, I wouldn’t chill the custard layer for so long and would beat, rather than fold, the whipped cream into the custard.