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.
Pie: Recipe #1
December was a blur. Too much work. But also lots of good merrymaking, travel, family and friends. I baked quite a bit, but only made a few pies and got behind on this blog. Now it’s time to catch up and dive into the fresh pages and recipes of 2012.
My first pie from Pie was a little weird. Rather than choose a typical fruit or cream pie, I waded into the back half of the book to a section called Rich, Sweet, and Simple: Chess, Buttermilk, and Other Custard Pies.
I’d never heard of chess pie. Would it be sweet or savory? Fancy or humble? Served hot or cold? One thing was certain as I paged through the recipes: 1) chess pie hails from the Southern U.S. and 2) it includes eggs.
Pie author Haedrich turns to another writer, John Egerton, and his book Southern Food for the possible origins of chess pie’s name. According to Egerton, an enterprising Southern housewife whipped up one of these egg-based pies and presented it to her husband. When he asked what it was, she replied with a shrug, “I don’t know. It’s ches’ pie.”
Wary of the vinegar and cornmeal in the book’s Homestead Chess Pie, I settled on the Angus Barn Chocolate Chess Pie. Apparently, the Angus Barn is a popular restaurant in Raleigh, North Carolina, known for its steaks, although the chocolate chess pie rakes in the customers as well.
The ingredient list was short and to the point: butter, semisweet chocolate, sugar, eggs, vanilla and salt. It reminded me of a trip to the Richard Scarry grocery store.
My favorite piecrust recipe is the Cook’s Illustrated version that sneaks in vodka. It’s not only a brilliant bit of science, but a damn tasty crust when it comes out of the oven. I usually try to hew closely to a recipe; however, since I had a leftover lump of vodka dough in the freezer from Thanksgiving, I grabbed that for my chocolate chess pie rather than make one of Haedrich’s Basic Flaky Pie Pastry crusts (sans vodka, with half shortening and half butter).
I rolled out my softened lump of piecrust dough, tucked it into a 9-inch pie pan and sculpted the edges as neatly as I could. Next I covered the dough with tinfoil and arranged my pie weights—essentially a string of ball-bearings that looks like it was borrowed from a biker chick—on top. Then I stuck the pan into a preheated 400-degree oven for 15 minutes of prebaking.
Haedrich makes a big deal out of prebaking one’s crust; his feeling is that it allows the crust to “settle and take on the shape of the pan.” If the homecook chooses to skimp on this part of the process, he warns, she’s more likely to find a shrunken crust when the pie weights are removed. I felt hard-pressed to think of anything that’s improved by shrinking—certainly not my wool sweater that was accidentally thrown in the dryer—so I was happy to oblige.
To make the filling, I melted a stick of unsalted butter in a medium pot over low heat. I pulled the pot from the burner and added 2 ounces of semisweet chocolate, which I’d chopped into oblong bits using our round-edged Alaskan Ulu knife (this thing is amazing: sharp, effective, easy to hold). I let the hot butter melt the chocolate; it took about 5 minutes. Then I whisked the mixture smooth and set it aside to cool just as the oven timer rang for the piecrust. I removed the pie weights and tinfoil, lowered the oven’s temperature to 350 and set the pan on the stovetop for a bout of “parallel cooling.”
Meanwhile, into one of our cheery, colorful Melamine bowls, I dumped 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 1 teaspoon vanilla and a pinch of salt. After whisking the heap into a sandy yellow paste, I poured in the butter-chocolate mixture and whisked until smooth. Then I scraped the filling into the somewhat cool piecrust. I slid the pie into the oven and let it bake for about 15 minutes; after turning it 180 degrees I baked it for another 20 minutes, until the filling had not only set, but crusted and cracked.
I pulled the pie from the oven and set it on a wire rack to cool. It certainly wasn’t pretty—more dried stream bottom than Martha Stewart-perfection. I wondered how it would taste.
The results: After dinner, I sliced pieces of the cooled chocolate chess pie for both me and Jon. The top of the pie cracked and crumbled as I wrestled out the first triangular sliver. Beneath its stiff layer was an air pocket and then a dense, dark layer of filling clinging to the bottom crust. I added a tiny scoop of vanilla ice cream to each plate and brought them into the living room.
This was one rich pie! The filling, similar to the goo of a pecan pie, was sticky, chocolatey, almost carmelized in spots. The mellow piecrust helped balance the rich flavor; the ice cream also added a nice, cool note to the heady proceedings. I liked the pie, but I couldn’t imagine eating more than a thin slice at a time—and certainly not for breakfast. This is serious, diet-blowing stuff.
In fact, were I to re-enact the introduction of the chess pie, I’d present Jon with a slice and, when asked for the name, reply, “It’s ches’ a billion calories.”
Pie: Introduction
In early December, with the holidays both afore and astern, I decided to pull out Pie as my next cookbook.
I don’t know why I waited this long. A lover of pie, I could happily eat this crust-based delight every day of the year, no matter the time of day (case in point: my mother’s fresh peach pie makes a killer breakfast). While such pie devotion can seem a bit strange in March or August, it’s commonplace during this season of cornucopias and tinsel.
Written by Ken Haedrich and published by Harvard Common Press, Pie is a single-purpose chunk of a paperback boasting “300 tried-and-true recipes for delicious homemade pie.”
At first glance, I assumed such a dizzying count meant I’d find, along with all the fruit and cream varieties, savory pie recipes, pot pie recipes, pie pop recipes and other pie-phrenalia padding.
Nope.
The book starts with 25 pages of must-know basics, followed by another 25 pages of crust and pastry recipes, before launching into everything from A Profusion of Summer Fruit Pies and Make Mine Apple; to The Notable Nut: Pecan Pie and Beyond; A Plethora of Icebox Pies: Cream Pies, Chiffon Pies, and So Much More; and, somewhat mysteriously, A Pie Potpourri (picturing flakes of pie crust bagged with pine cones and dried seed pods, I flipped to the chapter and discovered Haedrich’s “cubbyhole” of unclassifiable pies — Linzer Pie, Brownie Pie, Tar Heel Pie, etc.).
Nary a page has been devoted to pies that include more salt than sugar.
My dear cooking buddy Jenny gave me this book for Christmas several years ago. I made the Fresh Peach and Brown Sugar Pizza Pie a few months later and it only turned out ok (I blame the early-season peaches).
Pulling the cookbook off the shelf earlier this month, I flipped through the pages and got excited about trying pies I’ve never even heard of (Chess Pie, Slipped Custard Pie, Spiced Pumpkin Indian Pudding Pie), as well as old standbys like blueberry and apple.
Let the pie-a-thon begin!
The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking: The results
I was disappointed in the recipes I tried in All New All Purpose. With the exception of the delicious vanilla pot de crème, each creation was about as exciting as a Hawaiian postcard: perfectly pleasant, but with nary a surprise.
That’s not to say this cookbook doesn’t have its usefulness. Many of the recipes are sure to become household favorites thanks to their reliable flavors and simple preparation (minus the boiling of buttered baking dishes, of course). And I’m sure more gems like the Salmon Chowder lurk within the book’s one thousand-plus pages.
But beware. This bounty of recipes comes at a cost. ANAP’s tidy, condensed layout — mixing ingredients and their amounts into the directions, rather than floating them above; running steps together, rather than breaking them out onto individual, numbered lines — can be a challenge for the busy, easily distracted cook.
Overall cookbook rating: 4.5 out of 10 spatulas.
The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking: Recipes #3-5
I realized the other day that I’ve passed the one-year anniversary of this cooking diary.
And look at that: I haven’t even reviewed half of my cookbook collection.
For this woefully slow progress, I hold responsible:
- my democratic need to give each cookbook a fair shake (3–4 recipes feels like the minimum number I need to try)
- the 400,000 other things clamoring for my time
- “off-blog” cooking when I have a specific craving, request or bake-sale assignment
- www.TheOatmeal.com
Thus, in the interests of time, I’m going to present lean, scannable, Web-friendly snippets for the last few recipes from The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking.
What: Vanilla Pots de Crème
When: Early October
Why: BBQ with friends, offered to bring dessert
How: I whisked 6 large egg yolks with a ½ cup sugar until it was more or less smooth. Then I simmered 2 cups of milk and, whisk again in hand, added that to the sugar-egg combo. The results I strained through our finest-mesh sieve, spooning all foam (yes, foam) from the surface. To finish, I sprinkled in a teaspoon of vanilla.
I pulled out 6 of our 4-ounce ramekins and distributed the custard liquid among them as evenly as possible. Then I molded tinfoil caps tightly over each, arranged them in our 2 largest glass baking dishes and poured several inches of boiling water around the feet of the ramekins. The French call this a bain-marie, or water bath. I call it an accident waiting to happen as I shakily heaved the 15 pounds of glass, liquid and dairy products up and into the preheated oven.
And? This was a tasty pot de crème. Our fabulous foodie friends liked it, Jon and I liked it, and the two 5 year-olds at the table licked a spoonful of it (a minor victory). I missed the deep, rich, chocolate flavor of my mom’s traditional pot de crème. But for a non-chocolate alternative, this was delicious: smooth, velvety, creamy vanilla goodness. We served it alongside my favorite Meyer Lemon granita; the combination — although lacking in color — really worked.
What: Italian Tomato Sauce (Basic Recipe)
When: Sometime in late October
Why: Weeknight hunger abatement
How: Jon and I peeled and coarsely chopped 2½ pounds of your typical, hideously deformed heirloom tomatoes. That dripping red pile was added to some chopped parsley, a diced onion, a minced carrot, a sliced leek (in lieu of celery avec foliage), some minced garlic, and a fresh sprig of thyme, all of which had been sizzling in an olive oil-slicked skillet. We squirted in a dollop of tomato paste, sprinkled salt and pepper over everything and then simmered the bubbling brew for about 10 minutes.
And? Blame the late-season tomatoes, but this was a fairly bland sauce. I suspect if we’d been in the middle of summer, groaning under the weight of 7-pounds of Early Girls, the results would’ve been much zippier. I’d also like to try this with another of the recommended herbs: ½ cup fresh chopped basil leaves, rather than the solitary thyme twig.
For now, I’ll skip this sauce (unless I have a box of POMI tomatoes in the pantry) and grab a jar of pesto instead.
What: Cheesecake Brownies
When: Early November
Why: In-laws in town, “dinner’s dessert” (as Roxy likes to say) needed
How: After whisking together the dry ingredients — flour, salt, baking soda — I melted a pile of chopped bittersweet chocolate and 4 tablespoons butter in a teeny-tiny pan. Once the mixture was cool, I stirred in some sugar, along with a small pool of vanilla. Then I whipped in 2 eggs, followed by several teaspoons of the 1950s tribute ingredient, light corn syrup.
Into the eggy chocolate went the flour mixture and then into a greased, tinfoil-lined baking dish went the batter. I slid the dish into a 350-degree oven for 12 minutes.
The cheesecake topping involved blasting to bits in our mighty Cuisinart: cream cheese, sugar, a bit of melted butter, an egg, vanilla and a touch of lemon zest. When the brownie layer was done, I smothered it with the topping. Then I slipped the dish back into the oven (now at a cooler 325 degrees) for, and I quote, “32 to 36” minutes of baking.
And? I learned a valuable lesson with this recipe. Don’t choose to make something you’re likely not going to enjoy just because you have a key ingredient — in this case cream cheese — on hand.
So yes, I went against my better instincts and made Cheesecake Brownies. Not surprisingly, I found them cloying: oddly textured (akin to firm cottage cheese only more uniform) and way too sweet.
My dream brownie is a showcase for the crunchy, slightly salty delight of a nut. Even better, my dream brownie has a fudgy layer paired with a cakey one, and a tuft of coconut embedded in the surface. Chocolate chips aren’t bad either.
My nightmare brownie is, I can now safely pronounce, a cheesecake brownie. However, I should add that everyone else seemed to like the results just fine.
The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking: Recipe #2
My next All New All Purpose recipe — Scalloped Potatoes of all things — involves one of the strangest cooking processes I’ve yet to encounter.
I can’t even remember why I thought this staple of church potlucks and buckling Easter sideboards sounded like a good idea, except that we had a few spuds in the cupboard and some Gruyère in the fridge.
To begin, I folded back my sleeves and preheated the oven to 350 degrees. Then I read the following instructions:
Butter a 2-quart gratin dish. Drop into a pot of boiling water for 5 minutes, then drain, rinse with cool water, and pat dry.
“Huh?” I said to Jon, who was standing nearby.
“What now?”
I read the directions to him and we both stared at one another, foreheads furrowed.
“Why in the world do they want us to sterilize our baking dish?”
He shrugged, shot me his most baffled look and left the kitchen.
Feeling that it was important for me to follow carefully the directions provided — what did I know about the finer techniques of potato prep? — I filled a large soup pot with water and plunked it down on a burner. While the water heated, I buttered our square, glass baking dish. Then I scrubbed and peeled 1½ pounds of mismatched fingerling potatoes (not the Yellow Finn or “all purpose” potatoes called for in the recipe, but I didn’t think that would make a huge difference) and sliced them into thin coins.
Meanwhile, the water in the soup pot was heaving and bubbling like the chop behind an outboard motor. Dutifully, I grabbed the baking dish and lowered it into the pot. After a few minutes, I found some tongs, pulled the dish out and stuck it under the cold tap for 30 seconds. With a clean towel I patted it dry.
“I still don’t know why I was supposed to do that!” I yelled toward Jon, who was helping Roxy brush her teeth.
I placed the greasy, slightly damp vessel onto the counter and, per the instructions, carpeted it with 1/3 of the sliced potatoes. Jon appeared with our freshly showered, PJed child. Since this is my cue for Nightly Reading Aloud With Roxy, I pointed out where I was in the recipe and left my fearless cooking partner to finish things up.
This involved adding salt and pepper to the potato layer, sprinkling 1/3 cup grated Gruyère plus 2 tablespoons diced onion and 1 teaspoon flour atop the pile — and then repeating until the potatoes ran out.
The recipe’s penultimate step is to pour 2 cups of warmed milk over the layered ingredients (**shudder** The idea of “warm milk” makes me think of grandmothers who use the world “colicky” and wear bonnets to bed.) before covering the baking dish with tinfoil and sliding it into the oven for 45 minutes. This, presumably, is what Jon did, for when I returned from Roxy’s bedroom the potatoes were nowhere to be seen and the sink full of cutting boards, peelers and measuring cups.
After the buzzer rang, I removed the tinfoil blanket from the scalloped carbs and let them bake until the liquid had disappeared and the top had browned, about 30 minutes.
The results, plus two epiphanies: Our Scalloped Potatoes were, sadly, a bit blah. We were hoping for cheese-tastic comfort food and got tired side dish: potato pablum more suited to gumming than chewing. Even the smell scooting out of the oven overpromised a pungent baked goodness that never translated to robust flavor.
Is this the nature of scalloped potatoes? Have our palates simply moved on from this tried-and-true classic? We weren’t sure, but both of us agreed we didn’t need to make the recipe again, especially with its bizarre sterilization ritual.
It wasn’t until later, when I sat down to write this post, that I noticed the following game-changer:
A colon.
No, not the body part. The subtle, symmetrical, easy-to-miss, but absolutely essential punctuation mark used two paragraphs ago.
Butter a 2-quart gratin dish. Drop into a pot of boiling water for 5 minutes, then drain, rinse with cool water, and pat dry:
Following the colon were the instructions for the potatoes — the quantity, the recommended types, and, yes, the treatment.
In other words, that baking dish wasn’t supposed to be boiled, rinsed and patted dry; it was those damn potato coins.
I’d become a cautionary punctuation tale à la Eats Shoots and Leaves. Or worse: Amelia Bedelia, the children’s book character famous for her earnest, mess-making literalism. (Fans of A.B. will likely agree that there’s a short, straight path from boiling the baking dish to dressing a chicken in socks and pants.)
And yes, there’s more! When I reread the instructions for layering the ingredients I remembered that Jon had complained about the cheese and onion running out long before the potatoes did. Once again the scales fell from my eyes. He’d divvied up the 1/3 cup Gruyère, 2 tablespoons diced onion and sprinkling of flour into 3 equal but pitifully inadequate parts, rather than heap those quantities bountifully upon each layer.
No wonder there wasn’t any flavor!
Anyone could’ve done it. The spare, oversimplified instructions and subtle use of indentation to indicate related steps is easy to misread.
“Did we do anything right in this recipe?” he laughed, when I shared my theory.
I snorted.
For distracted, multi-tasking cooks like ourselves, All New All Purpose presents a minefield of potential cooking disasters.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you:
The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking: Recipe #1
There are several problems with baking in the morning:
1. Cold ingredients that are supposed to be at room temperature are anything but.
2. The home cook isn’t at her sharpest.
3. The home cook is hungry.
I wasn’t distracted by any of these hurdles, however, as I started the Pumpkin Bread recipe from All New All Purpose. Rather, I was thinking “seasonal yumminess” and “what a great way to use that can of pumpkin” and “I’ll be able to bring the empty pumpkin can to Roxy’s school on Monday for the recycling program.”
As Rox munched her Rice Krispies nearby (is there a five-year-old on the planet who doesn’t like this classic cereal? and an adult that does?), I turned the oven to 350 degrees and pulled from the fridge the ingredients that were supposed to be at room temp : 2 eggs, milk, butter.
Oh, that butter part killed me. On this cool fall morning I might have room-temperature butter by dinnertime. To speed things up I decided to balance the stick on the top ledge of the oven right above the door, similar to the way I used to perch sodden socks over the heater after a few hours of sledding in upstate New York.
Next I poured 1/3 cup of milk into a small Pyrex measuring cup and lifted 2 eggs from their cardboard-carton nest. Without thinking, I put the first egg butt-down on the kitchen island. I then watched as the egg wobbled, tipped and rolled right up to and over the edge…and onto my bare foot.
Having cold egg ooze between my toes and then puddle beneath made me think, at least momentarily, of a fancy spa treatment. Is this what a mud wrap feels like? It also made me realize how very cold my supposed-to-be room temperature egg was.
Roxy stared at me for a few seconds and then yelled, “Mom!” Reverie interrupted, I hopped to the closet for a rag and started to sop up the mess, dumping the broken shell bits and egg-white blobs into the compost bin.
“There!” I said to Roxy. “All better. Where was I?”
Roxy shrugged, pushed her sleep-smushed curls out of her face, and returned to her cereal.
I whisked together the dry ingredients: flour, cinnamon, baking soda, salt, ginger, nutmeg and baking powder. In another bowl, I stirred together that 1/3 cup of milk with ½ teaspoon vanilla.
I lugged the Big Red Honker out of its cupboard and set it upon the counter as gently as one would expect a 26-pound appliance to be set (i.e., with much crashing and banging). Then, holding my breath, I tested the stick of butter I’d balanced on the oven’s brow. Slightly squishy, but not exactly pliant. I glanced at the clock as my stomach rumbled. Not-quite-room-temp would have to do.
Into the BRH’s mixing bowl went 6 tablespoons of the butter. I turned the power to 4 and watched the porcelain wand bat and fling the stick around, while the mixer screamed its high-pitched death scream (the KitchenAid definitely wins the prize for Appliance Most Likely to Star in a Horror Movie). Eventually, the butter looked beaten, if not exactly creamy.
I added 2 eggs, one at a time, to the butter, followed by 1 cup pumpkin puree. Once the ingredients were blended more or less together, I prepared to add the dry ingredients when I realized I’d forgotten the sugar. I skimmed the recipe until I found the lines I’d missed: gradually beat into the mixture on high speed, for 3–4 minutes, 1 cup sugar plus 1/3 cup packed brown sugar. It was a splashy, ugly affair, since the eggs and pumpkin puree were already in there, but I managed to get most of the sugar incorporated before giving up and moving on.
I dumped in quarter-cups of the dry ingredients, interspersed with the vanilla milk, until I ran out of both. Once again, the addition of those floury, powdery items made the sins of poorly blended butter and sugar fade away. The batter was coming together. It would taste ok. I’d even have a mixer wand to lick!
I sprinkled in ½ cup chopped walnuts, along with 1/3 cup currants (the recipe calls for raisins or dates, neither of which sounded particularly tasty), and “folded” these oblong bits into the smooth batter (honestly, it was more of a tucking-in maneuver). Then I coaxed the goop into a buttered 9 x 5-inch loaf pan and stuck it into the oven for a heart-sinking, stomach-disappointing, solid hour.
The results: Actually it took about 1 hour and 20 minutes for the Pumpkin Bread to completely bake. And then the loaf needed to cool in the pan, on a rack, for about 10 minutes. By that point, I felt like eating the kitchen towel. You can see why people just shrug and buy those Entenmann’s Danish Log Things.
Finally, it was time to spring free the loaf. As I thumped the pan, the spicy heat filled my nose and lifted my spirits. Slicing the bread was a bit challenging — it crumbled into large, steaming chunks which made me wonder if my not-room-temp butter was to blame. Beyond caring, I scooped the crumbs, large and small, onto my plate, carved off a wad for Jon and a smaller one for Roxy, and carried breakfast to the table. It was 11:15.
I’m pleased to report that the bread was mighty tasty, even if a tad over-sweet. Jon gulped it down and even Our Picky Daughter, after a skeptical first lick, downed half a slice.
I think the recipe’s cup of regular sugar could be reduced, although I wonder if that would damage the integrity of this fragile breakfast bread even further. Those classic spice-cake spices — ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg — did their job well, adding plenty of zip and flavorful warmth to the smooth, almost creamy pumpkin flavor. And the currents’ mild chewiness, next to the hearty crunch of the walnuts, kept the bread from feeling too cakey.
Overall, this is a great, simple pumpkin bread to make when you don’t feel like any surprises. Every ingredient is expected, the preparation is predictable and the end result is enjoyable in the manner of a favorite Italian restaurant after years of Sunday night visits.
Just be sure to give yourself a few hours to prepare — and have breakfast before you start.
….
The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking: Introduction
The Joy of Cooking. Were there a Pro Bowl in the culinary world, this cookbook might be quarterback — or at least wide receiver to teammates Julia Child, Ruth Reichl, the non-stick pan and that mouse from Ratatouille. It’s that iconic.
According to a Joy page on Amazon.com, author Irma Rombauer self-published the first edition in 1931 with $3000 received after the passing of her husband. She was 56. After 5 years of hectoring publishers, she managed to get the first commercial edition printed. The retail price: $2.50.
There’s more, but I’ll cut to the chase. In 1962, the year Irma died, the book saw its 6th printing. Judging by its rankings on Amazon (the 75th anniversary edition is #662 in the entire Books category) and its ever-presence in kitchen cupboards, it’s still going strong these 50 odd-years later.
There are oodles of Joy facts and, yes, odes to Joy from chefs known and lesser known on the Internet. I was delighted to learn that one of the most requested recipes from past editions is the Golden Glow Gelatin Salad. I’m not sure whether the salad or the diner is supposed to radiate, so I’ll definitely have to check out this classic.
Jon and I received our copy, or at least the updated 1997 version, as an engagement gift from his parents. The 1000-plus page tome bears the awkward name The All New All Purpose Joy of Cooking, which sounds a bit like it found religion during the 20-year break between editions. As I recall, ANAP, edited by Irma’s grandson Ethan, got roundly bashed by reviewers and the public alike. “Where’s my favorite XXX recipe?” “Why did you cut the sugar in half for that cake?” With nothing to compare it to, we quickly fell into the book’s small, but mighty Fan Camp.
[As a side note: We received a 1967 copy, called simply The Joy of Cooking, from Jon’s mom a few years ago. Her Norwegian mother-in-law inscribed the fly-leaf in careful script: “Christmas 1971 — Karen, with my Love, Dammer.” This is the Joy of how-to-skin-a-squirrel fame. It includes such olde-thyme nuggets as suet pudding, tuna fish balls, cracklings (!), Leftover Noodle Dish (there’s a recipe for this?!) and eggs in aspic. Needless to say, I’ll review this cookbook separately.]
Many of my household’s favorite recipes come from the pages of All New All Purpose. The salmon chowder knocks our socks off every time we make it. The roasted vegetable “lasagne” graced our Christmas Eve buffet last year. We can make the basic pancakes in our sleep (and probably have).
In keeping with the spirit of my cookbook project, I’ll try three or four new recipes rather than regale you with stories of old successes. I can’t wait to taste what will hopefully join the holy pile of All New All Purpose favorites.
Lemon Zest: The review
The fact that I didn’t want to stop cooking from this modest paperback is indication enough that it deserves great applause (and multiple spatulas). Every recipe I tried — from the Lemony Tomato Soup to the lemon-thyme-parmesan cracker things — was at least tasty and at times downright delicious.
In fact, I’ve already returned to several of the recipes. I made a second batch of the Lemon-Fennel Sorbet for a dinner party last weekend, and it was received by the over-5 crowd with much enthusiasm (I didn’t bother giving it to our daughter, Miss Picky). Jon and I made the Basil-Nectarine Lemonade several weeks after the first, math-challenged attempt, and it was scrumptious yet again.
The fact that Longbotham’s recipes are across-the-board simple and packed with flavor are huge plusses in my book. Even better: they include surprise ingredients — lemongrass, fennel, basil — that kick them into Interesting Territory.
To Lemon Zest I therefore give 9 spatulas.
Lemon Zest: Recipe #5
One Cooking Truth I’ve come to learn over the years is that some recipes pose a danger to life and limb — or at least to one’s exposed, jiggly fleshy bits and limb. The steps to blanc your beurre or puff that pastry may appear calm and straightforward. But the results can surprise: searing-hot mustard seeds shot from 500-degree oil. Noxious fumes. A saucepan engulfed in flames (Note to self: Don’t try to brown sage leaves in anything but an Easy-Bake Oven ever again).
As I got to work making Lemon-Fennel Sorbet last month, I feared no such ill effects. I wanted something tasty for dessert. I had a bowl of freshly-picked Meyer lemons on the counter. A 3-step recipe stared back at me. What could be simpler?
I started by mixing 1½ cups water with an equal amount of sugar in a pot over medium-high. Once the solution boiled and the sugar dissolved, I relocated the saucepan to a cool spot on the stove.
Next the recipe says to add the zest of 1 lemon. Easy enough. But reach not for your microplane, home cooks. Longbotham specifies that this zest should be removed with a vegetable peeler.
I grabbed the ergonomically smug hunk of black plastic that is our peeler, scrubbed clean one medium-sized Meyer lemon and scraped away as if unteasing a knot from a head of long hair. I assume that Longbotham’s intent was to have elegant, skinny curls of lemon peel rather than the pile of pungent fluff produced by a microplane. My peeler zest, however, was chunky, fat and oblong with bits of pith sprinkled about.
I tossed the peeler into the sink and rinsed my hands.
“Yikes!” I yelped.
Looking down at my hand, I noticed a third of the nail on my pointer finger, plus a wedge of flesh, was gone.
“Ow,” I said to Jon, who had walked in to the kitchen to refill his glass. “I just sawed off my fingernail.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“I think it was that crappy peeler,” I said, blaming my tool like any good carpenter. “I needed to zest this lemon and got a little carried away.” To my credit, it’s difficult to get any purchase on the slippery, smooth exterior of a Meyer lemon with a 10-year-old ergonomic peeler. I’m surprised I didn’t shear off my nose instead.
Envisioning lopped-off digits bobbing in Wendy’s chili, I started to paw through the tangle of misshapen zest. Finally, I discovered the offending shards of keratin and flesh and plucked them out, holding them against the tip of my finger like missing puzzle pieces.
“Well, that’s that,” I said and went to find a band-aid.
Wound safely wrapped, I returned to the kitchen and finished the recipe. I sprinkled the zest into the sugar water, along with 1 teaspoon fennel seeds, and let the solution “stand” (why can’t it simply sit?) with a lid on for 10 minutes.
Next I poured the liquid through a strainer (a smart move considering the peeler incident). Then I stirred 1½ cups lemon juice, plus ¼ teaspoon salt, into the clear syrup. Once the potion was cool, I transferred it to a container and stuck it in the fridge for the afternoon.
That evening, as we were preparing dinner, I pulled out our Cuisinart® ice cream maker and readied it for sorbet duty. When everything was snapped into place I poured the now very cold lemon-fennel syrup into the frozen bowl-cylinder-thing and hit go. The cylinder started to slowly spin; along with it came a pleasant, mechanical whirring I now associate with hot summer days and hanging out in still-damp swimsuits.
Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang and I checked on dessert. What had been ho-hum, clear liquid was now frozen Slurpee exciting. I found a spoon and stuck it in for a pre-dessert test.
The results: Holy Lemony Snicket, that’s good sorbet!
Longbotham writes in the recipe’s introduction that the fennel adds a mysterious twist to the citrus proceedings. I couldn’t agree more. The earthy, brown note from those humble seeds pairs wonderfully with the tart, crisp, lemony flavors courtesy of both zest and juice. And the texture of the sorbet is a knockout — icy, yes, but also smooth in an almost creamy way. I could’ve eaten gallons had my tongue not started to freeze.
I think this would be delicious with grapefruit or using other spices like thyme.
The fingernail, however, I think I’ll skip.