a little zaftig » Recipes for Spring

Pink Grapefruit Curd with Honey

Laura — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 00:32:52 +0000

This pink grapefruit curd is buttery and silky and pleasantly piquant with a strong note of honey. Eat it smeared on toast, biscuits, or scones; stirred into plain yogurt or oatmeal or porridge; rolled up in a jellyroll or between cake layers; or piped into plain cookies.

Pink Grapefruit Curd with Honey
Yield: 1 ¼ cup

Ingredients:
1 c. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (from about 2 grapefruits), strained through a fine mesh strainer
1 egg
5 egg yolks
½ c. honey
6 T. unsalted butter
a little pinch of salt

Grapefruit Curd Tips

I am a no-net kind of cook, but if you’re wary of curdling, you may do one of two things: cook the curd over a double boiler set-up over barely simmering water, or fill a sink with ice water and plunge your pan into it and whisk madly until your curd recovers.

The points at which you are most vulnerable to the dreaded curdle are when you add the grapefruit juice and as the cooking process reaches its peak. Be sure not to add the hot grapefruit juice until the butter is fully melted and the mixture is quite hot to the touch. Heating eggs gently in this manner is quite fine, but if you shock them with the hot juice you will be tossing out a pan of scrambled eggs. As you near the end of the cooking time, just stir vigorously.

I do not use a whisk, as I feel it adds too much air to the curd.

Focus your stirring towards the center of the pan, working to the outside occasionally. This will help to prevent curdling and burning.

If you have just a bit or two of solid egg protein, fear not, it will be strained out in the last step.

Method:

In a small pan over medium heat, bring the grapefruit juice to a simmer and reduce it by half.

In a large saucepan over low heat, stir the whole egg, egg yolks, honey, and butter together until the butter has melted.

Slowly add the grapefruit juice, stirring vigorously.

Continue to stir the curd until it thickens and a finger run across your spatula or wooden spoon creates a separation that does not close, about five minutes. The curd will continue to thicken as it cools.

Press the curd through a strainer into a medium bowl. At this point you may divide it into a jar or jars with tight-fitting lids and store it in the refrigerator for a month.

Eat it smeared on toast, biscuits, or scones; stirred into plain yogurt or oatmeal or porridge; rolled up into a jelly roll or bewteen cake layers; or piped into plain cookies.

Maple Pudding Cakes (Pouding Chomeur) + Sugarbush Spring

Laura — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 19:44:52 +0000

Spring came in with such a rush this year. By mid-March—mid-March!—the snow had receded, the grass greened, the buds burst, the crocuses bloomed, and people were out swilling cold beer on patios, the smell of charcoal grills in the air. A week later now, the ice on Lake Minnetonka has gone out, the first vinca bloom has appeared, and bleeding hearts and sedum and hyacinth are up from the ground. We are known to have snowfall in late April and even early May here.

I find myself in the market feeling like something of a lost child. I should be making all the dishes in my head: a pork loin roast rubbed with juniper and ginger and stuffed with prunes, a choucroute garnie with the last of the sauerkraut in my refrigerator, or an enormous cassoulet, bubbling in the oven with a hairy piece of pig skin, magret de canard, thick tight-skinned sausages, and white beans. But it’s been 80 degrees, and humid to boot. I’m not ready for salads. It’s too early even for asparagus, and I don’t want the Mexican asparagus they have displayed like daffodils anyway. I stand amid the produce so long, looking charily, that eventually my Sweet Boy asks me what I’m doing. I have cooking cognitive dissonance.

But there are signs of our old winter, of winter’s routine here. The earth is holding back a full bouquet of spring shoots and flowers, and, until yesterday, the trees were waiting, too. And last week the taps began to appear on the maple trees as we drove through neighboring towns. The sap is running and soon people will be boiling down in their sugar shacks and on backyard fires, and about a month from now the year’s new maple syrup will be ready.

One of those neighbors is Marsha Wilson Chall, in theory anyway. We haven’t met, but I know we live in the same town, and according to the dust jacket of her storybook, Sugarbush Spring, she grew up keeping this tradition. The book is a lovely way to connect with the rituals of sugaring: the snowy woods, the perfume of the fire and its wood smoke and the sugared steam of the syrupping pan, the first syrup poured into the snow and eaten as sweet streams of maple candy, the long hours tending the fire, the woolen filtering stockings, the glow of the first jars filled. If you have a maple tree, you can make your own maple syrup at home, too. Taps are inexpensive, if you don’t go in for the whole kit, and available at the charming Egg Plant Urban Farm Supply store, if you live within driving distance of St. Paul, Minnesota. Or you can order online here. You may read more about the process of maple sugaring in my article for Honest Cooking here.

Maple pudding cake, or pouding chômeur, was originally a poor man’s dessert, first made in Canada during the Depression era with brown sugar and water, but it has evolved to ubiquitously include pure maple syrup, thus upending its humble roots. It’s still a homey dessert, but one that’s rather dear. I bake my nutmeg- and vanilla-scented cakes in a bath of maple syrup and heavy cream and finish them in a hot oven until they are bubbling and caramelized. They’re a nice way to make a bridge at the table from winter to spring. And a cure, for now, for my cognitive dissonance.

Maple Pudding Cakes (Pouding Chômeur)
Yield: 4 servings (or more if you’re willing to share)

Ingredients:
½ c. unsalted butter, softened but still cool
½ t. freshly grated nutmeg
1/3 c. sugar
1 egg plus 1 egg yolk
½ t. vanilla extract
another pinch of salt
½ t. baking powder
1 c. cake flour
…
1 c. pure maple syrup (Don’t substitute the fake stuff here.)
¾ c. heavy cream (Cedar Summit Farms’ is fantastic if you live locally.)
pinch of salt
…
a spoonful of unsweetened softly whipped cream or crème fraiche or sour cream for serving, if you wish

Method:

Make sure your oven is free from drips and char from past baking and wipe it out if necessary. This recipe finishes at a high temperature, and your oven will smoke if it is not clean. Place a rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat it to 400 degrees F.

In a large bowl, or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar and grated nutmeg until they are well combined and smooth. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

Add the egg and egg yolk and vanilla and beat to combine. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

Scatter the pinch of salt, and the baking powder evenly over the butter mixture and beat to combine.

Add the flour and mix gently until just combined. Do not overmix.

Divide the dough into four even portions and pat them into four buttered ramekins (or into a buttered small glass or cast iron baking pan about 8 inches in diameter).

Place the ramekins onto a baking sheet.

In a large bowl, whisk together the maple syrup, cream, and pinch of salt until they are combined.

Pour ½ c. of the maple cream into each ramekin (or pour all of it into the baking dish).

Bake the cakes until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean, about 20 to 25 minutes. (I rotate the pan halfway through baking for more even results.)

Increase the heat to 450 degrees and bake the cakes until the maple tops are caramelized, about an additional five minutes.

Serve hot with a spoonful of unsweetened softly whipped cream, crème fraiche, or sour cream, if you wish. The pudding cakes are also delicious unadorned.

If you wish to make the cakes ahead of serving, don’t caramelize them. You may keep them at room temperature for about an hour or so and then finish them in the oven at 450 degrees.

Italian Cream Cake

Laura — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 00:09:02 +0000

Work is so engrossing for me that, when my Sweet Boy is away, I often realize I am sitting in total darkness, the sun has set, the black sky has swallowed up the day, and the moon has appeared out my window. The television set in my neighbor’s window flickers across the way and lights up the bare branches as they sway in the wind. It’s time to cobble together a dinner for one, tonight tuna with olive oil and mayonnaise, picholine and nicoise olives, little cubes of feta, whole pink peppercorns, thyme, and a little lemon zest. And then to bake a cake, for when the house is full and lively again.

This cake has made so many appearances at our table in the last 14 years since I first made it that I couldn’t count them. My friend Diane made it for my 30^th birthday party and shared her recipe, but it always brings to mind my Honey Girl now, who loves it best. And since I’m missing her and anticipating our quiet week together in Ireland, I’ve been thinking about it, and about her smiling face across the table, at all of her ages, eating it, with and without front teeth. This is for you, my Honey Girl.

Italian Cream Cake
Yield: one three-layer 8-inch cake, about ten to twelve servings
From Dianne Libero, Tokyo, 1998

Ingredients:
1 c. buttermilk
1 t. baking soda
5 eggs, separated
½ c. unsalted butter
2 c. sugar
½ c. shortening
2 c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur.)
1 t. vanilla extract
7 oz. angel flake coconut
1 c. pecans, chopped (optional)
additional coconut or white chocolate shavings or whole pecans for garnish (optional)

Method:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Lightly butter and flour three 8” cake pans.

Mix the buttermilk and the baking soda in a small bowl and set it aside.

In a large bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff and glossy and set them aside.

In another large bowl, cream the butter, shortening, and sugar.

Add the egg yolks one at a time, beating each thoroughly.

To the butter and sugar, add the flour and the buttermilk alternatively, mixing gently.

Add the vanilla, the coconut, and the pecans if you are using them.

Fold the egg whites in gently with a spatula as not to deflate them.

Divide the batter evenly between the three cake pans and smooth the tops.

Bake until the cakes are golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out nearly clean, about 35 minutes. I rotate the position of the cakes halfway through baking so that they bake evenly. This cake is incredibly tender and moist, a real charmer, when it’s perfectly baked, so don’t wait for a perfectly clean toothpick. You don’t want wet batter, but don’t be afraid of a few moist crumbs clinging.

When the cakes are cool, make the frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting

Ingredients:
12 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
¾ c. unsalted butter at room temperature
1 ½ pounds confectioner’s sugar, sifted or whisked to remove any lumps
1 ½ T. vanilla

Method:

Beat all of the ingredients together until smooth and creamy.

To frost the cake, place a dab of frosting on a cake plate and place the first cake layer on top, flattest side up.

Smear about ½ c. of frosting on the layer and spread it evenly. An offset spatula works best here, though any knife will do.

Continue stacking and frosting the next two layers, always placing the flattest side of the cake up.

When your stack is finished, put a very thin layer of frosting on the top and sides of the cake and place the cake in the refrigerator for 15 minutes. Keep the remaining frosting at room temperature.

Remove the cake from the refrigerator and frost the sides generously.

You may cover the cake with coconut or with shavings of white chocolate or stud it with whole pecans if you wish. A combination is also nice.

The cake should be refrigerated. You may bring it towards room temperature before serving if you wish, but don’t let it sit out too long. It cuts best if it’s cool.

Braised Lamb Shanks

Laura — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 00:16:43 +0000

My grandma was a letter writer. I have sheaves of her letters, all typed and on thin, pale green paper. They detail the buses she took, and in what weather, to the bank, to Mass, to help with the church rummage sale; the breakfasts and lunches and dinners she ate—toast with butter or peanut butter, an egg over easy, a half sandwich, coffee with sugar. I can see her at her desk in my grandparents’ little den, typing quickly and with erect posture, slipping in a piece of correction paper for a letter mistyped, sipping weak coffee from a Corian cup. It seemed natural to me, then, to begin writing letters when I was 18 and starting college. I wrote to my extended family here and there, and then, with some gusto, to my husband’s after we met and married, to friends, and then to my daughter when she went away some eleven hundred miles to college. In the years we lived in England and Japan there were sometimes pages and pages, unopened and sitting on the coffee table when I visited my parents-in-law months later. I didn’t mind. I was happy to record those details, to remember, and to send them off. And sometimes, over years collected in order and tucked away, the letters have become such a lovely record. I have a friendship in letters with my dear friend Susie, another letter writer. We lived in the same building in England for four short months, but we’ve written to each other for twenty-five years. In our house, now, I have a file of my grandma’s letters, and one for Susie’s, lined up like paper soldiers, and a box of all the correspondence between me and my husband—from the first birthday cards we exchanged 27 years ago to long letters written while we were apart: funny, romantic, newsy, the details long forgotten until I open one and am surprised by them and by our youth. And last year my Honey Girl published a book of the letters I wrote to her during her first year of college, more than 200 pages of long-distance love, equally surprising in its bound state. I started this blog as a kind of letter, too.

It occurs to me that letter writing is an old fashioned thing now. I suppose my style of cooking is, too. These lamb shanks are in our regular rotation and one of my favorite things to cook and eat, but it seems they have gone out of fashion, despite the seeming trend in countrified food styling and farmer-centric cooking. When I made these most recently, I had to go to three butchers to gather five shanks. “No one buys them anymore,” all three butchers told me with varying degrees of sadness. If you have never braised lamb shanks, bookmark this and drive wherever you need to to procure some. They are some of the best eating, relatively simple to cook, impossible to spoil, cook largely unattended until you are ready for them, and reheat beautifully.

Because I’m loath to interrupt my life for the blog, I don’t often post savory recipes. Once dinner is ready, I don’t want to wait to share it. I can’t imagine puttering around while the food gets cold. Cooking, for me, is an act of service. It’s pleasurable, sure, but in the end it’s about the people I love. And food photography is a tinkery little beast—a quarter inch here, a quarter inch there—and I don’t have a permanent set-up. I lug a little table in from the backyard, wipe off the snow or rain or dust, and pull out my tripod and camera and mat boards from the office whenever I want to photograph something. I can make breakfast while my family are sleeping or fry up a handful of pancakes after we’re done eating together. And I can bake up a dessert while everyone is away at work and at school or in the evening while homework is tended to. A stack of crispy French toast or a coffee cake already photographed and ready as you walk in the door after school? Well, that’s usually greeted with a certain amount of glee. And I never have to delay shared pleasure for the tedium of photography. So I feel I should offer a little apology to this lamb, which is so poorly represented by these photographs, and to you. These shanks are beautiful when they emerge from the oven. But I ate most of my shank and what remained sat, lonesome in the pot, until I photographed it today. All of the gorgeous brown bits of meat have been picked off and eaten greedily. It looks rather sad today. So imagine a lovely, browned shank with lots of tender meat. In short, don’t let these photographs put you off the dish. Like old letters, it’s a keeper.

Braised Lamb Shanks
Yield: 5 generous servings if you serve the shanks whole, or about 8 servings if you separate meat from bone and serve the dish as a soup; both are equally nice, though the soup makes for a more casual meal

Ingredients:
5 lamb shanks*
3 medium fennel bulbs, diced
4 medium carrots, peeled and diced
2 medium leeks, white and pale green parts diced and rinsed thoroughly
5 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 medium fresh tomatoes (in late summer) or 14 ounces drained whole plum tomatoes, seeded, and diced
28 ounces great northern beans, drained and rinsed or 2 c. dried beans soaked overnight in cold water and drained
6 c. chicken stock (homemade or Swanson’s organic)
salt and pepper

*If you can find pasture-raised lamb, it’s worth the price.

Method:

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees F.

Dry the lamb shanks well and season them fairly generously with salt and pepper on all sides.

Heat a large enameled cast iron pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat.

When it is hot, drizzle in a bit of olive oil.

Place the lamb shanks into the pan and allow them to sear and brown. If they do not fit without crowding, you will need to sear them in batches. Do not crowd the pan. Do not disturb them or be tempted to peek at them as they brown. They will pull away easily when they are ready.

Rotate the shanks, allowing them to brown well before turning again, until all sides are nicely seared and deep brown. This will take about 30 minutes. Time invested in browning enriches the broth and adds tremendous flavor.

Remove the shanks from the pan and place them on a large dinner plate. Allow them to rest at room temperature.

Pour off almost all of the rendered fat from the pan.

Add the fennel, carrot, and leek and season them with a bit of salt and pepper. Saute the vegetables, stirring them occasionally, until the fennel has given off some liquid and the liquid has evaporated, and until the vegetables are beginning to soften and take on a bit of color. As they sauté use a wooden spoon to scrape the browned bits from the bottom and sides of the pan.

Add the garlic and stir for one minute.

Add the tomatoes and beans and stir them into the pot.

Nestle the lamb shanks into the vegetables. This works best if they are placed in a tight row with the narrowest side up.

Cover the shanks with stock. It’s okay if a couple of inches of meat remain above the line of the stock. Season the stock with a bit of salt and pepper and cover the pot.

Allow the stock to come to a simmer.

Transfer the covered pot to your oven. Braise the lamb shanks in the oven until the meat is extremely tender and pulls easily or falls from the bone, about two hours.

Taste the stock and adjust the seasoning, if necessary.

At this point you may either serve the lamb shanks whole or as a soup.

To serve the shanks whole, place a shank on a soup plate for each diner and ladle over some of the stock, beans, and vegetables. To serve as a soup, allow the dish to cool a bit until you are able to handle the meat without getting burned. Transfer each lamb shank to a large cutting board; one with a well at its edges is most convenient for this task. Pull the meat from the bone, pull away any sinew and fat, and cut or pull the meat into smaller pieces. Transfer the meat back to the pot and stir it into the soup.

This dish may be prepared a day or two before you wish to serve it. Warm it on the stove over low heat until the stock comes to a simmer before serving.

If I prepare this for the family, we inevitably have leftover lamb on each of our shanks. I pick the meat from the bones and add it to the soup for the next day.

Violet Tea Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting & Candied Wild Violets

Laura — Sun, 05 Jun 2011 16:08:13 +0000

I’ve been holding back this post. The moment for wild violets has passed, at least in the woods and marsh banks near our home where I gather them. Perhaps there are still a few beneath the greenery that has grown up seemingly overnight, tempestuous, lush, aggressive. I spied two violets waving together amongst the wood chips near our garage yesterday, which makes me think it might be so. But I am not much in the mood to forage for them in recent days to recreate this recipe, even though wild violets have such an irresistible sweetness about them. Perhaps all things fleeting seem so. Though rhubarb pushes up and leafs out with such dramatic splendor, so I suppose this is not really true. As pretty as these cupcakes are, they were a flop. The ground violet tea was a nice idea, and the frosting and sugared violets were perfect, but we are new to gluten free baking, and the cupcakes were gummy and off-putting, doubly disappointing with new restrictions which raise fear about the future of our baking and eating pleasure. I should develop another recipe and practice with patience, but the moment has passed for me. I am onto pea tendrils and apricots and herbs nearly ready. So if they strike your fancy, take your favorite cupcake recipe, gluten free or otherwise, and adapt it perhaps with these ideas, the violet tea ground in a mortar and pestle and stirred into the batter, and the pretty candied violets to perch on top. Next spring I’ll work on a better version, when I can barely wait to see the first violets again, when spring is yet a whisper.

Violet Tea Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting & Candied Wild Violets

1 recipe for plain or vanilla cupcakes
1 T. violet tea, ground to fine powder in a mortar and pestle and stirred into the batter before baking
1 batch cream cheese frosting to decorate the cupcakes (recipe below)
½ c. fine sugar and 1 or 2 drops lavender food coloring placed in a plastic bag and rubbed together for sprinkling on top if you wish
candied wild violets to perch on top (recipe here)

Cream Cheese Frosting

Ingredients:
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
½ c. unsalted butter, softened
sifted confectioners’ sugar, about 1 1/3 c.
1 t. vanilla extract

Method:

In a medium bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the cream cheese and butter.

Add the confectioners’ sugar gradually until the frosting tastes good to you and has a smooth, creamy consistency.

Add the vanilla extract and beat until well combined.

Rhubarb Compote-swirl Cornmeal Coffee Cake

Laura — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 16:17:42 +0000

The specter of spring cleaning has filled me with a certain dread this year, but I am coming around slowly and with much coaxing. The days when our home was deeply clean and organized feel like a phantom life to me. I still open closets with expectation, a clear vision of their former lives. But they are now in chaos, crammed and choked full with items jammed and shoved in or tossed on top. There is luggage teetering on top of a pyramid of canning jars in the storage room, and so much dust surrounds the 1990s collection of children’s VHS tapes huddled at the back of our armoire that I cringe at the thought of disturbing any of it, the old cameras, the chintzy mementos, presents bought too early and forgotten. Where did this cast plastic angel—Good Lord!—even come from? I stand akimbo peering into one closet and then the next, not sure whether to throw any energy at all into these lost causes, and entertaining silly fantasies of the Rube Goldberg devices they might make, these helter-skelter and precarious arrangements. I know that as soon as they are gleaming, veritably twinkling with order, grinning back at me in gratitude, someone will upend their organization, and by this time next year, oh the horror. But I am proceeding in the hope that rescuing our home from one year’s worth of shoving is certainly better than two. How did it get so bad? When did we stray so far from a place for everything and everything in its place? I used to deep clean one room per month, such a civilized plan in retrospect. But it feels so far gone now that my Honey Girl, someone who has a rather casual relationship with personal organization, suggested a kind of purging fire would be more manageable and appealing than trying to sort through it all.

It’s my Honey Girl, too, though, there to help. And I’ve realized that sometimes all you need is a helpmeet, someone on the sidelines saying, “So, what’s next on your list?” or, “Yes, donate. No, keep.” Someone who says, “Time for a break!” when you would keep pushing and should stop. Or who chirps, “Almost done!” when you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed. I can hear her, keyboard clicking, as she catalogues old games and DVDs and too-small coats online, and wrapping items sold in brown paper; a tall stack of them waits near the back door now to be mailed off. We’ve made a good team, balancing practicality and emotion. And it’s so effortless with such an aide to move forward when you might otherwise be stalled by memory or doubt: is keeping something because it triggers a memory a good reason to hold onto it, or has the item has so clearly outlived its useful life that it is time to pass it to someone who would find it useful now? I drift off often. But when I am motionless in indecision or dallying or lingering in memory, she stirs me, and I return the favor when she is at a standstill. Together we’re making our way through the house, closet by closet, cabinet by cabinet, room by room, one small decision at a time. When we’re finished, the house will be clean and smiling a house kind of smile. And for those ten minutes I want to eat this coffee cake and relish our work.

This coffee cake is gluten free. There is the little grit of the cornmeal in each bite softened by the lushness of the rhubarb compote, it’s impossibly light from the egg whites, and it is moist with a soft almond note. We have a coffee cake in our repertoire which is stellar, but since our Honey Girl has begun eating gluten free, this was an out-of-the-park first attempt at creating a coffee cake that she can enjoy too. That’s almost as exciting as the prospect of finishing our spring cleaning. Well, maybe not quite.

Rhubarb Compote-swirl Cornmeal Coffee Cake
Yield: one eight-inch square coffee cake; six to eight servings

Ingredients:
½ c. unsalted butter, melted
1 ¼ c. confectioners’ sugar
¾ c. whole blanched almonds
½ t. baking powder
¾ c. cornmeal
6 egg whites
1/3 c. sugar
¾ c. rhubarb compote (recipe here)

Method:

Butter an eight-inch square baking pan and preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the butter.

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the almonds, cornmeal, confectioners’ sugar, and baking powder. Process until the almonds are finely ground, about one minute.

In a medium bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until they are quite stiff, about three minutes.

Ever so slowly add the sugar. Beat for one additional minute.

Add the tepid melted butter and beat gently to combine.

Add the almond and cornmeal mixture in two batches and mix gently only until combined. Do not overmix.

Spread the batter in the baking pan, and dollop the rhubarb compote on top. With a spoon, press down through the rhubarb compote gently to swirl it into the batter. Be gentle, as you do not want to deflate the egg whites. It only needs a little coaxing partway down into the batter.

Bake the cake until it is golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean, about 30 to 35 minutes.

Serve warm with more rhubarb compote.

Rhubarb Baked Oatmeal

Laura — Thu, 26 May 2011 13:17:39 +0000

It has rained and rained and then rained some more here this spring. So it’s put us in the mood for something warm and comforting for breakfast. I sweetened my version of baked oatmeal with rhubarb sauce, and then a couple of days later with rhubarb conserve, and scattered the top with diced rhubarb, which roasts as the oatmeal bakes up. If you don’t have rhubarb sauce or conserve, substitute an equal amount of sugar or any other sweetener you like.

Rhubarb Baked Oatmeal
Ingredients:
butter for the baking dish
2 c. rolled oats
1 t. baking powder
½ t. salt
½ c. milk
½ c. half and half
1 egg
½ c. rhubarb sauce (recipe here) or substitute rhubarb compote or conserve or an equal amount of sugar
¼ c. melted butter
1 c. diced rhubarb
2 T. sugar

Method:

Generously butter an eight-inch square baking dish and preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Toss the oats, baking powder, and salt together in the baking dish.

In a medium bowl, mix together the milk, half and half, egg, rhubarb sauce, and melted butter until they are well combined.

Pour it over the oats and toss them together.

In a small bowl, toss together the diced rhubarb and sugar.

Scatted the rhubarb over the oats.

Bake until the oatmeal is toasted on top and creamy in the center, about 30 minutes.

Serve warm with a pour of cold cream, half and half, or milk.

Potato & Fiddlehead Fern Gratin

Laura — Wed, 25 May 2011 12:24:31 +0000

Thin slices of creamy potato and tender fiddlehead ferns baked in a bath of cream and topped with a crust of melted Emmenthaler.

Potato & Fiddlehead Fern Gratin
Yield: about 8 servings

Ingredients:
3 pounds waxy potatoes, such as Yukon Golds
1 ½ c. fiddlehead ferns (or substitute asparagus)
2 cloves garlic, minced
butter for the baking dish
¾ c. heavy cream
1 ½ c. grated Emmenthaler cheese, or other Swiss-style cheese

Method:

Butter a medium baking dish and preheat your oven to 400 degrees F.

In a large covered pot over high heat, boil the potatoes until they are tender, about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large skillet over low heat, sauté the fiddleheads until they are tender and taking on a bit of color. Add the garlic and stir for one minute.

Drain the potatoes in a colander and slice them thinly.

Layer the potatoes and fiddlehead alternately in your baking dish, adding a tiny pinch of salt and pepper to season each layer.

Pour the cream over the top and scatter over the cheese. (I smear the top of the gratin with the cream plug that rises to the top of the bottle before I scatter over the cheese. If you get fresh cream, use it here in this way.)

Bake until the gratin is bubbling and the cheese is nicely golden brown, about 30 to 40 minutes.

One-pot Rhubarb Cordial, Sauce, & Compote

Laura — Tue, 24 May 2011 13:05:44 +0000

I really should have posted this as the three-in-one it is in the first place. So here it is, in all its glorious simplicity. You start with a three and a half pound bouquet of rhubarb. Once you have it diced, 15 minutes of cooking yields three cups cordial, three cups compote, and two cups sauce. Your refrigerator will be stocked for just about any rhubarb dessert you might fancy in the next couple of weeks. And you will find yourself reaching over and over again for these three condiments, bright yet soft, sweet and softly tart.

One-pot Rhubarb Cordial, Sauce, & Compote
Yield: 3 cups cordial, 2 cups sauce, 3 cups compote

Ingredients:
3 ½ pounds rhubarb, diced into ½“ cubes to yield 9 c.
4 ½ c. water
3 c. sugar

Method:

Place the diced rhubarb, water, and sugar in a large pan and bring it to a simmer over high heat, stirring briefly until the sugar is dissolved.

Reduce the heat to low and simmer until the fruit is breaking down and any remaining pieces are very soft, about 15 minutes.

Allow the rhubarb to cool in the pan.

Reserving two cups, strain it over a large bowl or pan. Be gentle here and allow the rhubarb to drain naturally. If you smash or try to rush it, you will end with rhubarb pulp rather than rhubarb compote. Stop the draining process when the rhubarb remaining in the strainer is still appealingly juicy. This is your rhubarb compote. The liquid that has drained is your rhubarb cordial. If you would like an especially clear cordial, strain it again through a jelly bag.

Using an immersion or conventional blender, puree the two cups of rhubarb that you reserved before draining. This is your rhubarb sauce.

Using a funnel, pour the cordial into clean bottles or jars with tight-fitting corks or lids. Spoon the sauce and compote into clean jars with tight-fitting lids. The cordial, sauce, and compote will keep in the refrigerator for about two weeks.

Savory Breakfast Bread Pudding with Fiddlehead Ferns, Sausage, Caramelized Leeks and Red Spring Onions, & Gruyere

Laura — Mon, 23 May 2011 14:05:45 +0000

One pan, some pork sausage browned, caramelized leeks and red spring onion tossed in behind to caramelize, then in go fiddlehead ferns to sauté with some garlic. All of this is tossed into a buttered baking dish over a cubed loaf of crusty country bread. It’s topped with grated Gruyere, and eggs and cream are poured over top. Then you’re just half an hour from crusty, custardy, savory goodness. Ever since our good friend Apur introduced us to the idea, we’ve been hooked. I suspect you will be, too. Substitute asparagus if you don’t find fiddleheads.

a basket of fiddleheads

Savory Breakfast Bread Pudding with Fiddleheads, Sausage, Caramelized Leeks and Spring Onions, & Gruyere
Yield: about eight servings

Ingredients:
butter for the baking dish
8 c. cubed crusty country-style bread
1 pound pork sausage
1 small leek, diced and rinsed thoroughly
1 large red spring onion (or another small leek), diced
1 ½ c. fiddlehead ferns, rubbed to remove their brown papery bits and washed thoroughly (or asparagus)
2 cloves garlic, minced
4 ounces Gruyere, grated
5 eggs
2 c. half and half (or 1 c. heavy cream and 1 c. whole milk)
salt and pepper to taste
¼ t. freshly grated nutmeg

Method:

Butter a large baking dish and preheat your oven to 375 degrees F.

Place the cubed bread in the pan.

In a large skillet over low heat, brown the sausage, breaking it into bite-sized pieces with a wooden spoon. When it is golden brown, remove it from the pan, and distribute it across the baking dish. No need to worry that it’s cooked through, as it will continue to cook in the oven.

Wipe the excess fat from the skillet, leaving a bit behind. Add the leeks and spring onions and allow them to brown, stirring occasionally. When they are ready, distribute them in the baking dish.

Add the fiddlehead ferns to the pan and a pinch of salt and pepper and sauté them until they are softening and taking on a just bit of color. Add the garlic and stir for one minute. Distribute the fiddleheads and garlic in the baking dish.

Scatter the grated cheese across the top of the baking dish.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, half and half, salt and pepper, and nutmeg. Pour it evenly over the baking dish.

Bake until the top of the bread pudding is golden brown and the inside is set but still moist, about 35 minutes.

Stinging Nettle Soup

Laura — Sun, 22 May 2011 15:19:55 +0000

Spring has come to Minnesota, hesitantly and then with a rush. This week the trees have leafed out, apple and plum trees have blossomed, and the lilacs are ready to burst into bloom. Winter is a barren season in Minnesota, and spring comes begrudgingly. When it finally arrives, seemingly overnight, from dim gray to shades of green, barren places are filled with color and softness. The grass is suddenly long and in need of mowing. Shoots push through the earth without notice until they are high or in flower. Owl babies peek from the tops of dead trees, goslings toddle across the road, mallard couples waddle across the lawn. After the long winter, it’s nice to wander and gather wild and green things to eat. Use caution as you collect nettle, as even a light brush against your skin can be painful. If you wear gloves whenever you handle it you needn’t worry. And a brief boil neutralizes the stinging formic acid. If you’ve never tried it, grab a guidebook and search it out. Then simmer a pot of this simple soup, softened by cubes of potato and celery and leek.

Stinging Nettle Soup
Yield: about four servings

4 c. loosely packed stinging nettles
Olive oil for the pan
2 small leeks, diced and rinsed thoroughly
2 ribs celery, diced
1 clove garlic, minced finely
4 c. chicken stock (recipe here)
1 small waxy potato, such as Yukon Gold, peeled and diced into very small cubes
salt and pepper

Bring a large covered pot of water to a boil over high heat. Meanwhile, fill a large bowl with ice water and place a colander in your sink.

Wearing gloves, pick the leaves and tender stems from bunches of stinging nettle. Discard the thicker stems.

Boil the nettle leaves for one minute.

Drain them in the colander and place them in the ice water.

Over medium heat, warm the same pot that you used to boil the nettles. When it is hot, drizzle in a few turns of olive oil around the pan.

When the oil is hot, add the leeks and celery and a bit of salt and pepper. Saute until tender and taking on just a touch of color, about five minutes.

Add the garlic and stir for one minute.

Add the chicken stock and the potatoes. Raise the heat and bring the soup to a boil. Then lower the heat and simmer the soup until the potatoes are quite tender, about ten minutes.

Squeeze out the moisture from the nettles and give them a rough chop. Add them to the soup. Simmer for a few more minutes.

Taste the soup and adjust the seasoning if necessary.