Farmer’s Market White Peach Pie Ya’ll!

Hey friends! I know you can tell when the restaurant is on overdrive. There is a lack of blog posts. But it’s not that I don’t love you. I just literally have been slammered. We’ve been running around catering weddings, lunches, breakfasts, showers, and we’ve been really busy in the shop too. All this with our baker gone for a month in the San Juan Islands, relaxing and reading books and magazines, casually flipping pages and sipping coffee while we bake her stuff. La di dah. Just kidding Joannie, we still love you. Get your ass back here now!

So it’s summer here in Reno, and with the hotness comes the sweetness. In the form of tomatoes, basil, corn and of course, peaches. Here’s a shot of the local deliciousness we get to feast on. These lovely little orbs of flavor come from Watanabe Farms (just over the hill in Sacramento Valley), delivered directly by farmer Heidi herself. Speaking of Heidi’s produce, she grows a mighty fine peach, both white and yellow, as well as nectarines. I spied some mighty fine white peaches on Heidi’s truck and bought three cases. Some made their way into salads with local greens, feta cheese, toasted almonds, and cilantro jalapeno dressing. Some found themselves surrounded by yogurt and house-made granola. Some jumped into a crisp with crunchy oatmeal brown sugar topping. Still others were eaten in the kitchen by me and my staff, standing over the sink. juices running down our arms. But what I really had in mind was a pie. I love to make pie, and I wish more people would make them too. A pie is a fine thing to behold, and done well can seal a friendship, heal a relationship or simply convey love on a plate.

So. I decided to make a pie for the restaurant. I was going to do the usual, take a cool picture and give you the recipe, but I’d just gotten my new iPhone and decided to have some fun with my staff and VIDEO the pie making! What? Yes!

Well, it was fun, but I did learn that if you get a text or a call while you’re taping the taping stops. Which only makes sense, since it is a phone after all. So I’ll be working on fixing that for the next time. This explains why there are three segments. Anyhow, here’s the recipe. Watch these little videos in order, and let me know how your pie turns out!!

Nancy’s Deep DISH White Peach Pie

 8-12 ripe white peaches, washed, split, pits removed and wedged into 8ths (leave peels on!)

 1 cup vanilla sugar (I use two or three vanilla beans, split and scraped, submerged in 5 lbs. sugar)

1 lemon, cut in half

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

3 tablespoons corn starch or tapioca flour

pinch of kosher salt

Grab a big bowl and go to town on the peaches. Wash them gently, cut in half and take out the pits. Use a paring knife. Then cut each half into eight wedges. Use a big spoon to gently mix with remaining ingredients and squeeze lemon juice over everything. Set aside while you make the dough.

Nancy’s Best Pie Dough

Here’s what you need to know about pie dough. There are those who use shortening, and those who use butter. By now you should now I am the butter kind. So. Just use it.  At the restaurant, we make about 20 balls of pie dough at a time. This is the scaled back version.

2 1/2 cups all purpose unbleached flour

2 sticks COLD sweet salted butter, chopped up into little bits

ice water

In the bowl of a stand mixer (or just a mixing bowl if you’re working by hand) add the flour. Add the chopped up COLD butter. Quickly mix on medium low speed so the butter is in little bits. With the motor running on low dribble in a bit of ice water. Keep dribbling until the mixture comes together, but isn’t too dry or too wet. Just watch. It will happen. Stop the motor…..if you are working by hand, dribble the water and work the dough until it comes together. At this point, you can make two disks, wrap in plastic wrap and store in the fridge. If you want to make this for the freezer, wrap in plastic wrap, then store in a freezer bag. Defrost on the counter or in the fridge.

To roll out: flour a board or counter with a little flour, and start rolling with a pin from the middle out.  Roll north, south, east, west. Then flip the dough, adding more flour if you need to. Roll again, north, south, east, west, until it’s bigger than a pie plate, about 12 inches across. Spray a glass deep dish pie plate with cooking spray. Lay the crust inside, giving a little room for shrinkage. Roll out the second crust. Fill the first crush with fruit and dot with butter. Lay the top crust over the fruit, sealing and crimping the edges. Score the top and sprinkle with sugar. Bake on a sheet pan lined with parchment or foil for 1 1/2 hours at 375 degrees until the center filling reads 180 on an instant read thermometer and is bubbling.  Cool on a rack and eat warm or room temperature. Enjoy!!

 

 

 

Roasted Summer Vegetables for the Naysayers

 

There are some of you, even those of you who call yourself friends, who secretly hate vegetables. I know you’re out there, and I have a bit of news for you. Vegetables have feelings, and they want to be liked. They prefer not to be boiled for hours or stewed beyond recognition. Yes, there are some varieties who do well boiled or stewed, such as the lovely potato, carrot or turnip. Yes. But other more adventurous varieties want to be loved a different way. So. Do you trust me?

Today I’d like to chat about summer vegetables. The ones who pop out of the ground tasting so fresh, so good, they beg for a simple preparation like sauteing or in this case, roasting. You see roasting coaxes special flavors and even substances from veggies you didn’t even know were hidden inside. Like sugar. What? You thought vegetables were so good for you they’d never cop to containing sugar? But oh they do. When you brown a vegetable by grilling, sauteing or roasting, you’re actually browning the natural sugar in there, which transforms the raw, starchy taste of crudites into glorious caramelization. Caramelization equals flavor my friend.

Last week we took a day trip over the hill to Sacramento with some slowfoodreno friends to see a viewing of Food, Inc. the movie (which is a film that will shock and stun you into obsessively researching everything you put in your mouth), and stopped to meet the slowfoodsac folks at a small cafe for dinner. Their noble and timely mission is to make local, seasonal food, and we were served a divine plate of, you guessed it, roasted vegetables. Essence of early summer roasted on a plate, and just delicious! I expected everything to be room temperature, but these tasty jewels were still warm, perfectly seasoned and glistening with olive oil. Heaven! I roast vegetables all the time at work for caterings, and serve them up in the restaurant, but not at home. I find myself unable to break the salad habit, simply slicing, dicing, dressing, and voila, dinner on a plate, no heat required.

But today Joe wanted to roast a pork loin, even though it’s 92 degrees outside. So I took stock of what we had on hand and asked for beets from the store (ours are too small to be picked yet). I figured since the oven will be on for at least an hour, now’s the time to roast those yummy veggies. I had some baby zucchini and summer squash squirrelled home from work, which were samples from a new farmer, and found some small little baby potatoes, a sweet onion and some garlic to roast with the beets. What follows isn’t necessarily a recipe but more of a flexible method and strong encouragement for you to go ahead and experiment…

All you have to do is roast the ones that take the longest first, in this case the beets, then cut everything else into roughly equal sizes on a baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil and kosher salt and if you have some herbs handy or growing out front, sow those on top. I’ve got some rosemary, thyme, savory and sage leftover from Joe’s roast, so I’m using those. How long do you cook everything? Figure beets (peel after roasting), potatoes, fennel, turnip, winter squashes, carrots, about an hour. Thinner skinned more delicate veggies like peppers, eggplant, zucchini, summer squash, onions, garlic, asparagus, etc. about 15-30 minutes depending on the oven temperature.

Since Joe’s roast is set at 350 degrees (I normally roast at 400-425 degrees), I washed and trimmed the beets and put them in a covered baking dish, drizzled with olive oil and kosher salt, to roast for about an hour. The zucchini, summer squash, baby potatoes, onion and garlic get olive oil, salt and herbs, uncovered on a sheet pan for about 30 minutes. You may need to broil a few minutes to get some darker color. When everything is fork tender, I re-seasoned with salt and pepper. If you like you can add a little balsamic, champagne or tarragon vinegar or even fresh lemon juice for a kick. Enjoy!!

PS If you make extra, you can throw them in a salad, or even fold them into an omelet! Another meal done!

 

Olivia’s Summertime Raspberry Muffins

I was going to give you a recipe for Rhubarb Pie or Rhubarb Crisp, or at the very least Rhubarb something. But I have a story for you instead. I don’t think you’ll mind.

The day after school let out for the summer, one of my very nice, gentlemanly customers who works at the hospital next to my restaurant came in for his usual triple Americano in a 2o oz. cup, with no room for cream. First let me fill you in. Every day for over a year I ask him if he’d like anything to eat. A fresh-from-the-oven scone? A slice of banana bread? A croissant that happens to be oozing chocolate? Some fruit, yogurt and granola? Each time he just smiles in a very quiet and peaceful way, and says no thanks. He leaves with his change, and slips a single into the tip jar “for the girls”. So nice. But never any food.

You with me?

So the day after school lets out, he comes in. Usually we see him ambling toward the door and start his shots before he gets to the counter, but today I was busy with another customer so I didn’t see him coming. When I turned around I saw him standing at the register, I immediately started his shots. I was a little busy and distracted, so this time I didn’t ask him if he wanted anything else.

“I think you could sell me something to eat today,” he said quietly. I whirled around in surprise to see his young daughter standing next to him. “She’s coming to work with me today,” he said. “This is Olivia.” Well she was just about the sweetest thing! I gave her some menu ideas, and after briefly considering her options she decided on a white hot chocolate and vanilla scone. They settled in at the high top near the window, and when I brought her drink out, I asked her about school and what she liked to do in her spare time.

“I like to cook,” she said with a shy smile. “I have 12 recipes!” Well! I asked her about her recipes, and she told me all about the muffins, cookies and pies she and her mother make. Hmmm, I thought as I walked back to the counter. I could not help it. I just got so excited. I went back over to her and said that I’d started baking with my mother when I was very young, and that I used to watch this public television show called “Zoom” which had recipes for kids to try at home. I told her she should keep baking and cooking, even if some of her experiments bombed. Then I had an idea. My restaurant has Oilcloth-covered tables, and we sell aprons, lunch bags and other cool stuff made from Oilcloth fabric. I said I wanted to encourage her to keep cooking and baking by giving her an Oilcloth apron, which made her so excited since her dad told me she was just admiring the tablecloth. I had her pick out an apron to take home. She chose one with white and blue polka dots, which fit her perfectly. She and her dad left, holding hands, walking towards the hospital where he works. She was still wearing the apron, and as I watched them go I remembered all the people who’d encouraged me over the years, and never said I was too little to learn.

A few days later, the quiet, sweet man came in for his coffee, but this time he had something to give me. It was a polka dotted bag, with a note inside from his daughter, and a hand written recipe. He told me she spent a long time writing it, and was worried about her spelling. We both laughed and as I read it with my staff crowded around me, we all giggled and teared up at her thougtfulness. When I gave her the apron, it gave my joy to bless her and encourage her. I had no idea what a blessing she would be to me in return.

On the notecard there is a little drawing of a cafe in the lower right hand corner, with two outside tables. I know she must have chosen it just for me, with my restaurant in mind. I love this note and will treasure it forever. The thought of seven-year-old Olivia, sitting at the kitchen table at her parents house, wearing her apron, carefully writing out her thoughts and recipe in pencil, drawing lines on the back to write out the seven steps straight makes my heart hurt. I just had to share it with you.

And Olivia? I did have fun makin it. Thank you so much, my friend. Keep on baking. The world needs love like this.

Summertime Raspberry Muffins (in her own words)

from Olivia’s Kitchen

What you need:

3/4 cup flour

1/2 cup cornmeal

1/4 cup sugar

1 tsp. grated lemon peel

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp salt

1/2 cup raspberries

1/2 cup milk

1 egg

2 Tbl butter, melted and cooled a bit

1. Preheat to 400.

2. Mix dry ingredients.

3. Mix raspberries and 1 Tbl flour.

4. Mix wet items in sep bowl.

5. Stir wet into dry items.

6. Add berrie and stir.

7. Fill muffin tin bake 14 min.

This recipe made seven muffins. Feel free to double the batch. I sprinkled raw sugar on top before baking.

 

Slider Salad with Caramelized Onions, Blue Cheese and Tomatoes

Hello friends! I’m going to make this quick. Tonight I was hungry for something savory, salady and beefy, something hot off the grill. But I wanted dinner to be quick, grilled and delicious. I scrounged around in the fridge for a few minutes and came up with a small amount of ground beef from Whole Foods, a small bowl of caramelized onions, a wedge of Point Reyes Blue Cheese, a small bag of mesclun and an even smaller bag of spinach from a friend’s CSA basket. Dinner!

Slider Salad

1 1/2-2 lbs. high quality ground beef with at least 16% fat (try Whole Foods)

Point Reyes or other blue cheese

Good tomatoes

Mesclun and baby spinach

Caramelized onions (make a bunch and keep refrigerated in a sealed container…they keep for weeks!)

Extra virgin olive oil

Yummy vinegar (I used Champagne Vinegar tonight)

Kosher salt

Fresh black pepper

Slices of good bread and butter

Here’s what to do. Make yourself a drink. I recommend this one. Then go light the grill and leave all the burners on high. This is no time to dilly dally. Form several little patties onto a platter or cutting board, about an inch thick and about three inches around. Liberally season both sides with kosher salt and fresh black pepper. Heat up the onions in the nuker for a minute. Wash and spin the greens. Wash and quarter the tomatoes. Gather up some olive oil and your favorite vinegar (I used Champagne Vinegar today).

When the grill is at least 500 degrees gently lay down the sliders using tongs. Wash the board and the tongs. Cook about 4 minutes each side and remove to the board with clean tongs. Do not overcook! Toast both sides of sliced bread on the grill, then butter. Let the sliders rest while you assemble the salad.

Start with a bed of greens. Add tomato wedges. Add two sliders per person. Top with crumbled blue cheese and caramelized onions. Drizzle the greens and tomatoes with vinegar and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Add your sliced bread. Eat with gratitude. Yum!

 

Pucker Up…Meyer Lemon Ice Cream

After my divorce, I moved away to teach some very at risk kids in East Palo Alto, Ca, at a charter school that hired me over the phone. I’d been driving around Reno as an itinerant art teacher for the better part of seven years, and needed a permanent classroom, somewhere I could keep my markers and brushes out on a counter, rather than rolling around in the trunk of my car. I needed some distance too, some time to be separate from the town where I met and married my college sweetheart, and divorced him when Jacob was just two and a half. I needed some space from people who tired me out, and did not bring out the best in me.

 

So I did what I had to do. I looked in the paper, found an ad for an art teaching position, and dialed. They hired me a week later, and after flying to New York for training, and training three more weeks in a Palo Alto hotel conference room, I packed up my things and my son and moved to the Bay Area, to San Mateo, where I only knew three people. My step sister, her step sister and their friend Linda. They lived in a lovely, quiet town, just off the freeway, which smelled of star jasmine and was blessedly peaceful. I found a small, old house to rent, with a pressed tin ceiling. The house had a porch, friendly neighbors next door and many Meyer lemon trees growing on my palm tree lined street.

 

 

These were my last two years of teaching, in a school where my son was the only white student. I spent some of my best time and energy on those kids. I worked so many hours, and spent so much time in the car, crawling along at 6:30 in the morning with the other commuters on the 101, then crawling back in the opposite direction almost 12 hours later. At times I hardly had any energy to cook a blessed thing. Most nights my son Jacob and I simply drove to Draeger’s market (for the super duper chi chi San Mateoites) and picked up dinner, already made. Jacob, at seven, was still in the throes of only-white-and-yellow-food-please. I hardly had the strength to argue. We’d park the car in the underground garage, take the elevator up a flight (we were too tired to climb the stairs) and make our way to the deli. Jacob would get, you guessed it, macaroni and cheese. The lady who waited on us there night after night became a “friend” of ours, and would kindly top off his dinner with a little more mac than she should have. I would make a salad at their fancy salad bar, loading up on as many vitamin-rich foods as I could. Beets and beans were my friends those two years, and so were the leafy, dark greens the nice man attending this long extravaganza of prepped toppings recommended. I imagine the two of us looked pretty raggedy, dog tired and pale most of our visits.

 

By the time I realized I’d had enough of the classroom I began to dream about moving back to Reno, back to family and familiarity, and back to cooking. I fantasized about standing over the stove, testing out recipes like I used to, and maybe finally opening the restaurant that had, until now, seemed like foolish folly. So I told my principal I could not return the following year, that I had better stop while the kids still liked me, and that it was time to turn back and go home. Also I’d promised Jacob a dog, who appeared at the end of the summer we moved back in the form of Annie, an 11-year old Golden who needed our love, and we hers. She was our angel dog.

 

 

Right before the end of the school year one of my fourth grade students, April, asked me to step outside to talk with her privately. She asked why I was leaving, why I was not coming back in the fall. I couldn’t put it into words, since the truth was I was done teaching, I missed my family and I was beginning to be on my last nerve all too often. She said “you’re gonna go be with your people, right?” very solemnly. I nodded, and tried not to cry. “We’ll miss you, Ms. Moyle,” she said. “Don’t forget us.”

 

When I moved back to Reno one blistering day in July, I found a house to rent on Gordon Avenue, which was how I met a great friend (my TV came hurtling out of a U Haul and crashed face down in the driveway moments before she asked if I needed any help). After unpacking all of the boxes, I made what I thought would be something yummy, comforting and familiar. Ice cream. In a very old ice cream maker I’d scored at a garage sale. The ancient stained and sticky book that came with my newest find had a recipe for basic vanilla ice cream. Only problem was it called for “light cream”. Hmmm. I decided to use what I had on hand….manufacturing cream. With 41 percent butterfat. Let me tell you. The flavor was terrific. Very vanilley. But there was the problem of mouth feel. You see, manufacturing cream, if shaken or whipped long enough, will become some very fat-filled butter. So imagine taking a large spoonful, of say, cold vanilla flavored butter. Very hard to eat. I discovered later that “light cream” is half and half. Makes sense now of course.

 

 

So give this recipe a try. A friend recently gave it to me, from a book I actually had on my own bookshelf. Then I made some lemony changes, much more peel, zest and vanilla bean, and now I believe I can call it my own. Try making some on a warm, breezy day, and think of sprinklers, cool grass and picnic blankets. I took a spoonful last weekend and savored its lemonyness, I thought of all of those things. But most of all I thought of Annie, who lived at our house for two short years. We took her everywhere….waterskiing, on bike rides, to pizza parties and on long walks through the old neigborhood. We will miss her, and think of her often. I raise my spoon to her. And to you. And kids, I haven’t forgotten you. I thought of you too.

 

 

 Meyer Lemon Ice Cream

 

3 or 4 Meyer lemons, about ¾ pound

1 cup sugar

1 cup half-and-half

6 egg yolks (save the whites for meringue or make some macaroons)

3 cups heavy or manufacturing cream (ha!)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise and scraped paste

 

Use a vegetable peeler to peel all the lemons, being very careful not to include the bitter white pith.  I had to take a grapefruit spoon and carefully scrape the backs of a few peels to take the pith off. Pull out about four or five peels and set aside.

 

Place the remaining peels in a non-reactive saucepan with the sugar and half-and-half, the vanilla bean, and the scraped vanilla paste.  Using a whisk, stir well and set the pot over medium heat, stirring constantly. Heat the mixture to just below boiling, remove from the heat, and set aside to steep for 10 to 15 minutes. Remove the peels and the vanilla bean. Finely chop the peels you set aside earlier. Squeeze the lemons into a measuring cup. You need about a half cup plus 2 tablespoons juice, straining out the pulp and seeds. If you have less that’s okay.

 

Whisk the egg yolks in a glass bowl until just mixed. Pour in a little of the hot half-and-half mixture (this is called tempering the eggs so they don’t scramble), stirring constantly with a whisk.  Pour the warmed yolks back into the pan with the rest of the half-and-half mixture and cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture coats the spoon, about 10 minutes.

 

Pour through a strainer into the bowl, then add the grated lemon zest.  Let the warm mixture sit for 10 minutes, then stir in the cream and lemon juice.  Add the vanilla and more lemon juice if you’d like a more lemony flavor.  Chill thoroughly, then freeze according to the manufacturer’s directions for your ice cream maker.

 

Makes about 1 ¾ quarts.

 

 

 

 

Smaller than a breadbox…Handmade Biscuits

Biscuit. I can’t really think of a more confusing food word. I mean really. Think of it. A biscuit. What comes to mind? Depends on where you’re from it seems.

If you are a Brit, then a biscuit is a cookie. Any kind of cookie. Like a digestive, that wheaty, crumbly sort that comes wrapped in a cellophane tube, or the kind that’s a jam-filled sandwich treat or even a chocolate studded delight. If you’re Italian, then biscuit means biscotti, a twice-baked treat best eaten when dunked in a hot coffee drink. If you are a dog, the big, fluffy golden retriever kind like the one who lives in our house, a biscuit can mean a dog-type cookie, a dog-type meat stick, or a treat of any kind.

If you are person who lives on the East Coast of this fine country, you might likely mean a drop biscuit, made from a sticky batter gathered quickly in a bowl, then dropped onto a cookie sheet. This batter emerges from the oven with a craggy, crunchy outside, a soft, puffy inside. If you’re from the South, a biscuit would be the kind made in a hot iron frying pan, first coated with a swipe of bacon drippings then filled with eight or ten small doughy disks. These disks transform in the heat, and spring up into light-as-air little cakes, to be split and filled with eggs, ham, even butter and jam. Southern fluffy biscuits are best, in my opinion, as the vehicle for the most totally fattening breakfast ever - biscuits and gravy.

The word can be used as an obscenity swap-out, too, not unlike “fudge” for, well, you know, or “I don’t give a fig” for the same word only more threatening in this form. If you’re a person who like to substitute words when cussing, try “son of a biscuit” on for size.  My prep cook does daily, and I laugh every time.

The biscuit I’m coveting today is a combination of the two. I love to make a quick dough from cold butter, cold milk or buttermilk, a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar, like I saw my mother and her mother make so many times before dinner. In Canada, and Massachusetts, the biscuit is a necessary accompaniment to savory stews, boiled dinners and especially soups. A hot-out-of-the-oven biscuit slathered in butter, then used as a mop to sop up gravy, juices, or the last of something good is what I’m after. So this is what I made this weekend. Soup and a biscuit. My mother used a round cookie cutter to stamp out the circles, once she patted out the dough on the floured Formica counter top. She showed my how to dip the cutter in a little bowl of flour, and starting at the very edge, to twist quickly, re-flouring each time. She showed me how important it was to cut the circles close together, so the dough only needed to be rolled out once. This ensured a tender biscuit.

My grandma Dot, who was so comfortable and almost casual with biscuit dough, simply patted out a square (easier to shape, she said with a slight smile) and used a floured butter knife to cut out squares. Not so precise, but more rustic looking. Dot always said other people’s biscuits had problems because of two reasons. One, they weren’t “short enough”. This I didn’t want to ask her about, because I wanted her to think I was a great baker like her. This, I thought, was something I should just know. So I did the only sensible thing there was to do. I asked my mother in secret. Turns out “short” meant the amount of shortening or butter in dough. It was a pastry term. The second reason Dot gave for an inferior biscuit, is “people just manhandle them”.  Meaning, over handle the dough, like a man. A true fact, I thought at the time. The men in our family manhandled lots of things, like tree trunks that needed to come out to make room for the boat in the driveway at the cottage, raw clams, lobsters, big bags of charcoal briquettes and thick, meaty steaks. I determined then, that it was good to be a girl. Girls do not manhandle dough, I decided. I think I was around eight at the time.

Biscuits are the perfect thing for when you want something homemade, fresh out of the oven, with very little effort involved at all. And the best part? You can add things to biscuit dough. Like what, you ask? Shredded cheese. Toasted seeds. Cracked black pepper. Fresh chopped herbs. Minced caramelized onions or shallots. Roasted garlic. Anything you have on hand you can add to a biscuit dough. Just make sure whatever it is, it’s on the dry side. Adding a softer cheese like, say, goat cheese, might make the batter more moist, so then you’d have to use less milk. Get it?

This weekend there was a chunk of Heritage Ham in the fridge. Also there happened to be the rest of some potatoes I made with caramelized onions, shallots, wine and two cheeses – Emmenthaler and Gruyere. These were leftover from Easter dinner, and sounded like the start of a yummy soup, no? Well, I agree. And nothing goes with a bowl of homemade soup better than a biscuit.

These babies are great with butter hot out of the oven, with butter and jam hot out of the oven or plain hot out of the oven. If you still have some the next morning, which I seriously doubt you will, I suggest splitting and toasting them, then slathering the tops with butter and jam. I just have to warn you. Don’t eat these biscuits in the car on your morning commute. There will be several crumbs. 

To shape these biscuits, I follow the recipe just as it’s written, bringing the dough together very quickly and lightly, then pat out into a square like my grandma Dot. Using a floured butter knife, cut in half lengthwise, then cut into eight rectangles, dividing evenly from the middle.

Here is the trick part to get that ridged folded-over look: you fold the rectangle almost in half, like a little blanket. Then you pat just a bit to keep the dough folded. And that’s it. Nothing is brushed on top. There is no rolling, cutting, then rerolling. Just send these eight little guys into a very hot oven. As you hover they will puff, turn a little bit brown on top, and end up just this side of done. If you like a crunchier, browner biscuit then by all means leave them in the oven a minute or two more. You will love these. Remember, handle the dough as little as possible to make a light, tender biscuit. Don’t manhandle it! Make them soon and let me know what you think!

Mom’s Sunday Biscuits (makes eight)

(I got the recipe from my baker who worked at a cooking school in Seattle.)

2 cups flour

4 teaspoons baking powder

dash kosher salt

1 tablespoon sugar

6 tablespoon shortening (I use Spectrum, which is organic and free of trans fats)

1 egg

about 2/3 cup milk (tonight I used 1/2 cup non fat, the rest shaken buttermilk)

Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Lay a sheet of parchment paper on a cookie sheet or spray the sheet with cooking spray.

Sift the dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut in the shortening with two butter knives. Add the egg to the milk in a glass measuring cup and beat with a fork. Add to the dry ingredients and quickly bring together with a fork. The dough will be quite wet and sticky. Sprinkle flour on the counter or board you’re using for this project. Flour your hands, and scrape the dough from the bowl. Give the dough a very quick turn or two (meaning knead it, but very, very gently). Pat out into a square about 1/2 an inch thick. Cut in half lengthwise with a floured knife, then cut into eight rectangles. Gently fold each rectangle into a square and pat lightly. Place a few inches apart on the cookie sheet. Bake for 10 minutes or a bit longer for a crunchier, darker biscuit.

I have to tell you three were gone within minutes of taking the first batch out of the oven. You try to keep them intact until dinner. It’s not gonna happen.

 

I’m Just Saying….Triple Layer White Cake with Meyer Lemon Curd and Meringue Frosting

Meyer lemons. Spring. Triple layer cake. Meringue. Curd. Laughter. Tears. Gratitude. Forgiveness. Family. Easter.

Whew. After a whirlwind weekend, I thought I’d share a few things with ya’ll since I was thinking of you all weekend anyway. It’s true. First off, let me say that Easter holiday is very special to me. It’s a time of year when I count my blessings and give all the praise to the One who deserves my thanks. For me the world would be a very dark, dismal and downright scary place to live, and I do not for one minute forget what He has done for me. I know, there are those of you who are not believers, and you might not understand all of this or even want to, but this I know for sure. He Is Risen. He is Risen Indeed. And oh, how He loves us so. Whether we want Him to or not.

So. Easter. The mere mention of it sets me in a mood for something most definitely sunny. And that thing is lemon curd. Meyer lemon curd, to be precise. Have you ever had a Meyer lemon?

Oh sweet thing, if you have I’m sure you are changed forever. I am. If you haven’t, then let me tell you a story so you understand. Years ago I lived in the San Fransico Bay area, when I was an art teacher for a charter school. I’d taken a teaching contract in East Palo Alto, California, and had to move from Reno, where my family was, to San Mateo, where my step sister lived.

She so very nicely said I could stay with her while I did my training (the corporate kind, where you basically sit on your ass in a hotel conference room for eight hours a day while a corporate trainer places transparency after transparency on an overhead projector, as if you’ll remember any of it when a kid throws a chair on your watch, while you flip through your matching corporate binder with your “team”. All of this while eating bagel after cookie after Diet Coke for three weeks straight. None of us pooped for a month. Really. But that’s another story.) And I did stay with her for a little while, in the basement laundry room, on a fold out couch, and paid her laundry money for my spot. She was kind to do it, and I learned to sleep with the sound of the dryer as my white noise.

I moved three blocks away into a house with a porch, and blue hydrangeas in the garden. It was in San Mateo that I discovered these bright orangish lemons. When I would walk at night (remember the caloric bagels?), inhaling the heavy perfume of star jasmine that hung thickly in the fading summer sun, I would spy several bushes just laden with these lemons, which at the time I thought were small oranges. Upon closer inspection, which had to be accomplished by trespassing, really, into someones yard (sorry!) I discovered the two thin skinned orbs I slid ever so casually into my sweatshirt pockets on one of my walks were not oranges at all. No.

When I laid them on the cutting board and sliced one in half, the most invigorating aroma filled the air. The fragrance was fascinating, at once orange and lemon, and the taste was completely mind blowing. I later found out the Meyer lemon is a cross between a Mandarin orange and a lemon and was cultivated by the Chinese. In 1908 a man named Frank Meyer, who worked for the USDA, brought one back to the States from a trip to China. Hence the name. The fruit  became the super foodie rage when Alice Waters and Martha Stewart got a hold of one or two back in the 80s.

So there I was, living in the Bay area, surrounded by all of these neighbors who planted Meyer lemon trees as decoration. That’s right. They hardly used these lovely lemons in their kitchens! Yes! They let these beauties fall to the ground and rot. I know! Which made me feel less guilty about boldly walking to a house the next block up one Sunday afternoon, giant Mervyn’s bag in hand (think of a bag that would hold a queen-sized comforter or lots of beach towels) and rapping on the metal door. The generous man who lived there, in that small little house flanked by two fruit laden trees, said I could have ALL of the fruit, if I wanted. Well my eyes were just bugging out of my head! Encouraged by a welcoming wave of his hand, I started to pick those lemons. And pick. And pick. And pick. Until that bag was straining, so that the word Mervyn’s looked more like this:

M        E        R        V       Y        N        ‘        S

I was running out of room. So I did what I had to do. I stuffed some lemons into my pockets. I stuffed more into the hood of my sweatshirt, which by this time was wrapped around my waist, since I was starting to sweat with the effort of all that picking. And when all of the lemons were secured either on my person or in my overstuffed sack, I started to walk towards my house. Which was now very far, it seemed. So I did what any sensible person would do. I left the bag in his driveway, and sprinted home, the lemons in my sweatshirt hood jiggling and almost falling overboard. I started laughing with heaving breaths, bending over and holding my knees. Then I got into my car, careened around the block and drove those lemons home. I spent the next weekend juicing and zesting, freezing my treasure into little one-cup sized bags.

Now what, you may be asking yourself, did I do with all of that citrusness? Oh you would be amazed at the uses. How about a little Meyer lemon vinaigrette over roasted asparagus with tarragon? Or what do you think of Meyer lemon butter with grilled salmon? Or how about some Meyer lemon scented shortbread cookies? Meyer lemon pie? There are many, many Meyer lemon lessons I could teach you. But this Easter weekend, I decided on a white layer cake, filled with Meyer lemon curd and covered in meringue frosting. I had to. I wanted to taste the flavor of spring, to feel the lightness airiness of the meringue on my tongue, and to celebrate. Laughter. Family. Forgiveness. And the King.

You can find Meyer lemons at Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods or the yard of your neighbor. Of course you can make half a batch, but then you won’t have any leftover for toast after you’ve filled the cake.

Meyer Lemon Curd

12 local egg yolks (save the whites for the cake frosting)

2 cups granulated sugar

1 cup Meyer lemon juice (zest all the lemons before juicing)

1 1/2 sticks sweet salted butter

pinch of kosher salt

In a non-reactive saucepan, add the yolks, sugar, zest and juice. You’ll need about 8-9 lemons for this recipe. Stir with a whisk and heat over medium heat, stirring constantly, until you can coat the back of a wooden spoon with the curd. It will be the texture of heavy whipping cream. Remove from heat. Chop the butter into small pieces and add to the curd, stirring to melt. Transfer to a glass bowl, cover and put in the fridge until chilled. The curd will thicken as it cools.

White Triple Layer Cake with Meringue Frosting

3 1/2 cups cake flour (if you don’t have cake flour use all purpose, but take out 2 tablespoons per cup and replace with cornstarch)

2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoons kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1 3/4 cups sugar

1/4 cup butter, room temperature

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 eggs, room temperature

1 2/3 cup whole milk or half and half

1/2 cup plain yogurt

3 teaspoons vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350. Spray three 8-inch round cake pans with cooking spray and line the bottoms with parchment paper rounds. Sift all of the dry ingredients into a bowl. In a mixing bowl beat the butter and sugar on medium speed until fluffy and light. Add the eggs and blend. Measure the milk, yogurt, oil and vanilla in a measuring cup. Add to the mixing bowl, alternating the dry and wet ingredients, and blend until smooth, about a minute or two. There should be no lumps, or just a few. Divide the batter into the three pans. The easy way to do this is to use an ice cream scoop, counting the scoops into each pan, starting with six scoops each, then measuring the rest out evenly. Know what I mean? Bake for 22-25 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool in the pans on a wire rack.

Meringue Frosting

2 cups sugar

1/2 cup cold water

1/2 teaspoon cream of tarter (this stabilizes the frosting so it stays on the cake)

pinch of kosher salt

8-9 egg whites (use the rest for a pitcher of gin fizzes)

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Place all but the vanilla in a large glass bowl and set it over a larger pot of simmering water (you just need a few inches of water). This is your new double boiler. Hooray! Use an electric hand mixer to whip this all together on low, then on high speed until the whites are stiff. Add the vanilla. Remove from heat.

Now you will frost. Find a cake plate or a pretty platter. Start with the flattest cake. Remove from the pan and spread with the cooled curd. Add another layer. More curd. Add the third layer. Make sure the cakes are centered. Start piling a big blob of meringue on the top of the cake, and using a flat spreader, lightly frost the top and sides with a generous amount of meringue, swirling as you go. Cover the whole cake. Finish by decorating with Meyer lemon slices, cut in half then twisted, for added drama.

This cake will sit patiently all through a big Easter dinner, or any other dinner, until you slice into it and serve up big lemony slabs to your family and friends. And the best part? This cake is so light you can have another slice in a hour.

 

Who Doesn’t Like Coffee Cake?

 

 

To me there is nothing better than coffee cake. For one, it makes your house smell like a bakery. The other thing is coffee cake, at least in our family, means it’s family time, and a time for celebration.

When I went to visit my grandparents in Massachusetts and later in Southern California, my grandfather made us feel especially welcome by having a white box of Entenmann’s Crumb Coffee Cake on the kitchen counter. Sometimes he would get their Cream Cheese version, but always the white box. We would never get there in the morning, since we lived in Canada and had to drive a million miles in a sweltering car packed with kids, pillows, blankets, luggage, puzzle books, snacks and of course a giant box of Cheeze Its. Which we would fight over. Loudly. For 16 hours (Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario to Billerica, Mass. is a LOT of miles). Anyway, the coffee cake.

 

So when we would arrive, all tired and sweaty, my grandfather would have something really savory lounging in the oven, like a roast. The house would smell so welcoming, and I imagined him there, seasoning the meat, patting it confidently, smiling and loading the pan into the oven. He was waiting for us, listening for our car. When we got there he would grab us so tightly, hugging us to himself as if to imprint his body with ours, to see if we’d outgrown our last hug. We always had. Then he would clap his hands and rub them together, slap his thigh, and let us have a whole can of soda (from the outside fridge!) and of course, a slice of coffee cake. Even if dinner was just around the corner. He was lovely that way.

I taught a Brunch Delights cooking class yesterday to a nice bunch of folks. We make Joe’s Strata, Strawberry Salad with Goat Cheese, a Fresh Fruit Platter and Jacob’s great grandfather Arthur’s Gin Fizz. And this coffee cake. The reason I love this recipe is it’s simplicity, it’s richness and it’s almost silky tender crumb. Make it this weekend for Easter Brunch. You won’t be sorry. In fact one of the boys came in here as I type this and said I’m good at torturing people with smells. Luckily they’re my tasters, and they are brutally honest. Jacob and Randy ate two muffins each before dinner. So should you.

Now you have a choice….you can eat all of this cake right now while it’s hot, you can wait until it cools and eat it all, you can give some to someone you love, or you can cool completely, wrap tightly, and freeze until another time. A time when you really need some coffee cake. Or a time when you have company but no strength to make anything. Or a time when you hear family pull into the driveway, and you open your arms to pull them in tight, checking their measurements.

Cardamom Coffee Cake (modified from vintage Moosewood)
1 pound butter, softened
2 cups packed light brown sugar
4 large local eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 cups unbleached flour
2 teaspoon baking powder
2 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon ground cardamom
2 cups sour cream or full fat yogurt

Topping:
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
2 tablespoons ground cinnamon
1 cup chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Now here you have another choice! You can make one 13×9 inch cake, one 12 inch springform pan (mine is square which I love) OR you can do something great and use different sized pans so you can have what I had tonight! One 12 count pan of muffins, one loaf pan and one mini loaf pan. Yes, they all have different baking times, but you can get over that. Whatever you choose, spray well with baking spray.

In a large mixing bowl, beat butter with brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each. Mix in the vanilla.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and cardamom in a separate bowl.

Add the flour mixture, 1/3 of it at a time, to the butter mixture, alternating with the sour cream. Mix and, if using a stand mixer, scrape down the sides and up from the bottom with each additon.

In another, smaller bowl, combine the additional brown sugar, cinnamon, and pecans. Reserve for the topping.

If you are using just one pan, add half the batter, then half the topping, the rest of the batter, then sprinkle with the rest of the topping. If you’re using muffin tins, mini loaves, etc. use an ice cream scoop to scoop the batter into the muffin tins, filling about two-thirds of the way full. Do the same for the mini loaf pan, and the loaf pan. Sprinkle all of the topping on top of all of the batter.

Baking times…. about 1-1/4 hours (60-85 minutes) for the springform pan, about 23 minutes for the muffins and about 40 minutes for the mini loaf, about 50 minutes for the loaf…..this is all dependent on how deep the pan is and how much batter is in there. With all pan sizes bake until a toothpick inserted all the way in comes out clean. Also this will depend on your oven. DO NOT SLAM the oven when you’re checking on things. Unless you like flat cake.

 

This side of done….Soft Boiled Local Eggs in a Cup, Ciabatta Toast and Niman Ranch Bacon

First off let me say an egg is just about my favorite thing to eat, and I feel its preparation is oh so very personal. There are people who can sit down and order a Grand Slam, along with a cup of watery random coffee, and then, well, slam it. They are out the door fast then, scraping their chair, no thought or regard for the egg or where it came from, the chicken who so nicely laid it, the pig who was even more committed as the saying goes, the hand who made the bread to be toasted, and the set of hands who prepared the entire dish to be consumed. They are not looking back or considering, not really tasting or enjoying, the egg, the bacon, the toast, the butter, the color of the plate  it all sat on, waiting, waiting to be enjoyed, to be honored.

No this is not going to be a diatribe on conscious consumption, just a gentle reminder that food comes from somewhere, and that somewhere is not the supermarket. No.

There are those souls who raise the chickens, sing to them as they scatter their feed, people who muck out the pens of those rooting, muddy pigs, chatting with them as they work, people who so very carefully select the ingredients to make a fine, fat loaf, just out of the oven. These people are passionate, these people love what they do, and the animals and their offering must be honored. Whew. Okay. I said it. Yes, sourcing, preparing and eating can be an act of worship, a thing of holiness, and includes the animal, the baker, the cook and yes, the eater. In the beginning, God handed it all to us, saying “I’ve given you every sort of seed-bearing plant on Earth. And every kind of fruit-bearing tree, given them to you for food. To all the animals and all birds, everything that moves and breathes, I give whatever grows out of the ground for food.” And there is was. (Gen 1 :29-30).

I’ve always had an awareness of the source of what went into our fridge, freezer, cupboard shelves and ultimately, our mouths. When we were small we lived in a small town on the Great Lakes, Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. My parents bow-hunted deer and pheasant, my dad and his buddies fished the frigid waters, my mother made our bread every Friday night, and she and her friends canned and baked enough to stuff a big chest freezer apiece each summer. We had a garden, which blows my mind now that I think of it, since summer in Northern Ontario lasted for about three weeks it seemed.

Each spring our family piled into a white and rust colored Jeep Cherokee and drove to St. Joseph’s Island to see the sap running, swill the fresh maple syrup, and lug home the heavy cans, enough to last for a year. We got our first taste of raw milk from a family friend who had a dairy, and squealed at the fat white layer of cream, which became the prized crown of our steaming Cream of Wheat. The corn we boiled for dinner came from another friend’s land, farther down Second Line, quickly picked just before dinner and shoved into a brown paper grocery bag. While my mother made dinner, my sister and I would head outside to shuck on the front steps, the concrete cool beneath our bare feet.

We knew our meat did not come from a Styrofoam jungle, our fish from plastic bag land, and our milk from a place where rows and rows of cartons sat, waiting for someone to buy them. We knew. We knew an animal gave up its life for us, as we watched our dad pluck feathers off a bird in the basement, or clean a fish with his boning knife. We knew. And we were grateful. And we said as much when we held hands at the table each night.

So when I get to make an egg from my friend Tom’s chickens, I try to honor the hen by preparing her egg the way I think eggs taste best. Just this side of done, with the creamy golden orange yolk still a bit loose, the whites cooked through. My mother used to make us eggs like this, served in a pink egg cup. We felt like princesses. The bacon I love most right now comes from pigs raised with dignity, at Niman Ranch. The smoky aroma smells like a campfire, the taste is unlike any bacon I’ve ever eaten. It is a joy. My toast is from bread we’ve made ourselves, or bread from a local bakery, like Truckee Sourdough. All of these things I prepare, with care and love. And all of it I eat with gratitude, hands open and thankful.

Soft Boiled Local Eggs with Niman Ranch Bacon and Toast

2 local eggs (not as hard to find as you think…ask around)

2 slices Niman Ranch bacon

2 slices ciabatta

butter

kosher salt and fresh black pepper

fresh fruit for garnish (I love raspberries)

Make your bacon the easy and best way, by baking it like Joe suggests. Less mess and less shrinkage. Place the eggs in a small pot (I have my grandfather’s little copper pot for this use). Cover with cold water and set over high heat. Bring to a boil, then set a timer for eggsactly (had to!) 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Meanwhile, toast and butter the bread. When the timer goes off, remove the hot eggs from the boiling water and rinse with cold water. Crack the shell in the middle and scoop out the egg with a spoon into a small dish. Salt, pepper and butter the eggs. Eat right away. If you want to make someone feel better, show them you love them or just want to share, make them this dish. They will be grateful.

 

Make It Green….St. Paddy’s Day Pasta

Growing up you would not catch me dead in anything pink. No pink tights, barrettes, dresses, shoes, coats, turtlenecks, nothing. Nothing pink. Ever. I preferred red. It seemed so much more exciting. While the neighborhood girls cooed at dolls, changed their clothes a million times a day, and swaddled their babies in dish towels, I had bigger fish to fry.

In her yellow kitchen my mother and I made dessert every afternoon, mixing up batters and puddings in the last golden rays of the day. At five I had a rad red two wheeler with a banana seat and streamers, which I felt the need to ride at top speed so the shiny strands would fly straight out in the wind. I learned to skid out like the boys, and not to cry when I took a digger. I liked the boys. They showed me where the minnows were, how to whistle grass between my flattened thumbs, and how to find the best worms under the big flat rocks in the ditch at the end of our street. We would top each others stories of major diggers, hands shoved deep into dungaree pockets, legs splayed wide, spitting out sunflowers seeds and squinting in the sun.

My dad took me fishing when I was just eight for smelts, showed me how to catch them with wide nets like the men in tall galoshes and how to gut them with a small pocketknife in the shed. My mother dredged their little bodies in flour and fried them, tail on and bone in. When dad split wood in the smoky fall air I followed him around with a cardboard box and picked up the splintery shards for kindling. Sometimes he let me take a chop with the red-handled little axe. I was not afraid, and I loved all things red.

My red fascination has led me to lots of cool adventures. A breathless ride on a ruby-colored motorcycle, the acquisition of a cherry-hued Francis Francis espresso machine, wearing out multiple pairs of crimson Chuck Taylor’s, a shiny shock of a scarlet stripe painted on my teenage white bedrooms walls, and when I started to go gray (it started when I was 11 believe it or not) a fellow teacher insisted in helping me transform my mousy mane to it’s current auburn hue. Which inspired the logo for my restaurant in Reno, DISH Cafe.

 

 

But I’ve noticed a shift to something less brash the last few years. Maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s my stress level, but I find myself increasingly drawn to a new soothing color. Green. It started innocently enough with a cheap summer purse and matching flip flops, both cool emerald, and has turned into a bit of an obsession, I have to admit. To be fair, green is an easy color to become addicted to. There’s the cool soothing celery, the refreshing mint, the mossy avocado, the vibrant lemongrass and of course, the deep piney color of rosemary. See what I mean? So easy to succumb. My newest hue is taking up residence everywhere, from the lime street sign at the cafe, to the minty new kitchen walls at home, to the celery and black checkered antique quilt scrounged at a garage sale last summer, to my Ikea office chair, to the Hobo pocketbook from Joe as this past Christmas’s splurge, green is everywhere I look.

So when we arrived home from errands yesterday, famished for dinner and not at all inspired, I did what my husband hates. I started pulling a meal together from what we had on hand. No recipe. No plan. He is a plotter, you see. Nothing makes him happier than deliberating for a few hours at least, sometimes for days, then choosing a recipe, reading the reviews, driving to Whole Foods, snuffing out the ingredients, carting them home in reusable bags, starting a slow-cooking braise, and setting the timer for four or five hours. And waiting. Patiently. I like grabbing what we have and throwing something together, and hoping for the best. At the last minute. It’s an adventure.

So seeing as it’s St. Paddy’s Day Tuesday, I thought I’d go for something, you guessed it, green. We had some lovely organic spinach from a local farm in the fridge, some pine nuts in the cupboard, some angel hair pasta (Joe and Jacob’s favorite) and nutty Parmigiana Reggiano in the cheese drawer. Of course we made this from what we had on hand, which means the basil which normally grows in the front porch planters is not ready yet and I was too lazy to crush fresh garlic, although I had some. Turns out we made dinner in 15 minutes flat. The plate of pasta we each ate ravenously, at first standing up (starving!), then sitting down, was creamy, fresh tasting, and a rich vibrant green. And it was grand.

St. Paddy’s Day Pasta

1 pound box angel hair pasta (I like Barilla)

6-8 oz. organic washed baby spinach

3 cubes frozen Dorot Basil, defrosted (Trader Joe’s)

1 cube frozen Dorot Crushed Garlic, defrosted (Trader Joe’s)

4 oz. pine nuts, toasted in a dry pan first (this just takes a minute)

good olive oil

kosher salt

fresh black pepper

1 cup Parmigiana Reggiano cheese, grated on microplane and more for garnish

Bring a large pot of water to boil. Add a handful of salt.

In a blender or food processor add the spinach, basil, garlic, toasted pine nuts, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Drizzle in some olive oil, and start blending or processing. Slowly drizzle oil until the sauce is smooth and is a liquid. Stop blending and add the cheese. Blend. Taste. If you need to add more salt, pepper or olive oil. The sauce is done! Heat a large serving bowl and pour in half the sauce.

Cook the angel hair about three to four minutes, tasting for doneness. Remove from the pot with tongs, leaving a little pasta water and transfer to your bowl. Gently mix with the sauce, adding more if you like. I used all of the sauce, which absorbed into the hot pasta. I added a little pasta water too, to make the sauce a bit more saucy and flavorful. Serve right away with more cheese and pepper. We stored what we didn’t eat in the fridge and I just ate some cold. So good!

ps. Joe and Jacob think you should try topping this pasta with a fried egg and bacon crumbles, for a riff on pasta carbonara. We will be making this again this week, and if we make this version we’ll share a picture!

Happy St. Patricks’ Day!