Cassoulet d'Ann Arbor

I'm not exactly the spontaneous type.  I like to make my plans, and then I like to stick to them.  Before I spent six weeks traveling across France last summer, eating my way through as many different regional cuisines as I could manage in a month (a journey which you can read about - perhaps in excessive detail - here), I had spent months doing my research and had clear ideas of where I wanted to go.  So when, in an internet cafe in Strasbourg, I received an email from my mom suggesting that when she came out to join me a couple weeks later we might make a visit to Carcassonne, my initial reaction was an emphatic, "No."  I had worked out which cities I wanted to visit, and while I hadn't strictly made reservations anywhere, I had decided and that was that. Only, I didn't phrase my response quite so bluntly as a simple "No."  Actually, I think my exact words were, "I would love to eat me some cassoulet, but..."
Here's the funny thing, though: my mom knows I'm not spontaneous (and, in fact, neither is she – sometimes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree...), and she carefully gave me a couple of weeks to turn the idea over in my mind and try it on for size. Once we figured out when the stop might fit into the trip, and how accessible Carcassonne was by train, and how inaccessible other cities might be by train (I'm looking at you, Limoges and Quimper), I decided perhaps my plans just might be mutable after all. We did make it to Carcassonne, where I did, indeed, eat me some cassoulet. And though the city of Carcassonne may have left some things to be desired – decent weather, and functioning laundromats, for example – the cassoulet did not disappoint.

Cassoulet is kind of like chili in the southwest US: it has beans, it has meat, every village (and, for that matter, every mother) has their own variation, and every cook believes her version is the real one. More specifically, cassoulet always contains white beans, and nearly always has goose confit – that is, goose preserved via low, slow cooking in its own fat. From there, the variations of meats used range from pork loin to pork shoulder to mutton to lamb to garlic sausages. Everything is cooked on its own, and then the whole mess is poured together in a large earthenware pot (called a cassole – that's where the name cassoulet comes from), where it cooks in a low oven for another three hours.

When my cassoulet, still bubbling from the oven, was served to me one hot evening last August, I appreciated the depth of the flavor, slowly melded together over hours of cooking, and I enjoyed the fork-shreddingly tender texture of the meats, but the warm weather prevented me from truly enjoying the dish. I might have been happier with a salad or a cold gazpacho, but I was only in Carcassonne for two nights, and I couldn't very well skip over the dish that was so omnipresent in the region, the dish that had been such a deciding factor in coming to visit Carcassonne, just because of a little heat. So I sweated and sipped my water and scarfed down as much cassoulet as I could. There was something great there – but for another season.

This winter, I knew I wanted to make my own cassoulet. But with so many recipes, where to start? And then for the ingredients: when's the last time you saw goose confit for sale on this side of the Atlantic? Or even goose legs and fat, to make your own, other than maybe right around Christmas? Cassoulet is typically made with a fresh pork sausage from Toulouse, creatively called saucisse de Toulouse – where was I going to find that? The beans are supposed to cook in a stock flavored with pork belly rind, which sounds like something of a hassle to acquire and handle. And unfortunately, I don't own a cassole.

Clearly, some adjustments had to be made. Slightly-more-available duck confit was subsituted for traditional goose. Local fresh pork sausage makes a flavorful replacement for the traditional Toulousain stuff. And good quality bacon will just have to suffice in place of pork rind. While this may not qualify for any Languedocienne's authentic cassoulet, I think it's pretty damn good. 

Cassoulet d'Ann Arbor

Most recipes for cassoulet call for more kinds of meat than I list here. The first time I made it, I included some pork shoulder, but I didn't feel it really added anything to the dish. The sausage, on the other hand, which I picked up freshly made from Sparrow Meats, was fantastic, so go ahead and splurge a little there. After all, this is a good winter dish, and we're supposed to be eating lots of fatty foods to help keep the cold out, right?

This is not a quick meal – it takes somewhere in the neighborhood of six hours, start to finish, not counting the time that the beans spend soaking overnight. But the slow process of multiple cookings allows for some incredible flavor development. Plus, it means that your house will smell incredible all day. Also, the many steps involved make me feel like I have a plan, so I know I won't have to make any spontaneous dinner decisions. In my book, that is always a relief.

1 ½ pounds dry white beans, picked over and rinsed
2 legs of duck confit, or 2 fresh duck legs and 2 cups duck fat
1 ham hock
1/4 pound good quality bacon, diced into 1/4-inch strips, width-wise
2 carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1 onion, peeled and quartered
3 cloves garlic: 2 cloves minced, plus 1 more clove peeled and cut in half
5 whole cloves
10 peppercorns
3 bay leaves
herbs as you please (I used a teaspoon or two of dried herbes de Provence, but a bouquet garni or whatever you've got on hand would be fine)
2-3 links (about 1 pound) good quality fresh pork sausage


The night before you want to eat the cassoulet, set the beans to soak in water overnight.

If you cannot find duck confit (it's available online here), or you prefer to make your own, I recommend this recipe. Note that this, too, will take some preparation a day in advance: I tried making some without salting the day before, the the taste just wasn't as rich and full as usual.

In the morning, dump out the bean water. Place the beans in a large pot and cover in fresh water. Set the pan over high heat and bring the beans to a boil. Once the water boils, cook for 5 minutes, then remove the pan from the heat and pour out the water. Set the beans aside.

In the mean time, prepare a stock: in a large soup pot, put the ham hock, diced bacon, carrots, celery, onion, two cloves minced garlic, cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves, and herbs. Cover all this with plenty of water: you want at least twice the volume of stock to beans (remember to account for the liquid that will evaporate as the stock simmers) – I used about 14 cups.

Set over high heat until the liquid comes to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium low and let simmer for an hour or so, until rich in color and flavor.

Strain the broth, reserving both the broth and all solid matter.  Once cooled, toss out the ham hock, bay leaves, cloves, and peppercorns, but reserve the bacon, carrots, celery, onions, and any diced herbs.

Return the stock to the large soup pot, and add in the beans.  Let the beans simmer for an hour and a half to two hours over medium low heat, until beginning to get soft, but not falling apart.  After this time, strain the beans, again reserving the stock.

In the meantime, in a large frying pan, heat the duck confit over medium-low heat to melt the fat from the legs.  The skin ought to be easy to detach, and most of the fat will be just beneath the skin, so you can go ahead and peel off the skin and just let that fry up until you've got a nice little mess of duck fat.  Once all the fat has been rendered, remove the legs from the pan, but do not throw out the fat.  When the duck legs are cool enough to handle, shred the meat with your fingers until you have nice, even, bite-size pieces; set aside.

Set the sausage links to cook in the frying pan with the duck fat.  I recommend using a splatter guard, as the duck fat and the fat rendering from the sausages can make quite a mess.  Cook, turning every few minutes to let every side of the sausage get browned, until the sausage is cooked through - about 10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the sausage.  Remove the sausage from the pan and turn off the heat, but do not get rid of the fat.  When the sausage is cool enough to be handled, cut it diagonally into 1/2-inch slices.

Once all of these components are ready, it's time to start thinking about baking.  Preheat your oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit.  If you have a large, deep earthenware pot, this is your opportunity to use it. I don't; I used a couple of deep Pyrex dishes.  One holds a volume of about 1 1/2 quarts, and the other about 2 quarts.  Whatever dish you decide to use, it should be deep.  Take the remaining clove of garlic and rub the inside of the dish with it.

Now we're getting to the fun part: the layering.  Begin with the bacon and vegetables reserved from the stock:

Next, add in about half the beans, and all of the shredded duck meat.

Add in the rest of the beans and arrange the sausage on top.  Finally, pour in enough stock to cover all of the beans, and drizzle the sausage and duck fat over the top.  I never said this was diet food.

Let cook for 2-3 hours, until beautifully golden brown.  Check the liquid level every half hour or so: if it is looking dry, pour in a little more stock.  If you run out of stock, you can use water instead, or use water mixed with the grease stuck to the duck and sausage frying pan.

Serve hot and fresh from the oven with good crusty bread and a nice, tannic, Languedoc red wine.


Serves 6-8 as a heavy main course

'Chokes for all folks

Though you might not guess it from the number of chocolate-related posts I've written lately, nothing gets me excited quite like a new, unusual vegetable. Oh, sure, there's something comforting in the familiarity of broccoli or carrots, but every now and then I want to explore something a little more mysterious and exotic.  What with spring, and therefore, new fresh produce, just around the corner, it seems like time to focus on one of spring's best bounties: artichokes.

I cooked my first artichokes last spring.  I had had marinated artichoke hearts before, but cooking the buds themselves seemed rather intimidating.  As is fitting for a thistle, the bracts are tipped in thorns, just waiting to get a chance to poke your unsuspecting fingers. Once you get past the exterior defenses, the edible heart hides beneath the fuzzy, poisonous choke. And if that weren't enough, once cut and exposed to air, the artichoke is even worse than potatoes and apples with quickly turning brown – a bath of acidulated water is a must. It's the kind of vegetable that makes me wonder why someone picked it up and thought, “I know, I'll have this for dinner!”

But once you get past the thorns, and you figure out which parts are edible, and you've made sure to soak the buds in a nice bowl of lemon water, artichokes are as simple as half an hour steaming and warming up a good dipping sauce or two.  Once steamed, the 'chokes taste like new greenery and the promise of warmer weather to come.  They may be a tad complicated to prepare, but they're well worth the effort.

While we're on the topic of unusual vegetables, let's not forget about the long-lost, New World cousin to the artichoke, the Jerusalem artichoke, which actually is in no way related to the globe artichoke except for their shared name. While the globe artichoke is the immature flower bud of a variety of thistle, the Jerusalem artichoke (also sometimes called a sunchoke) is a tuber in the sunflower family.  The tubers look something like fat ginger roots.   Now there is an unusual vegetable.

I don't think I had ever even heard of the Jerusalem artichoke until a couple of weeks ago when I began reading Waverly Root's Eating in America. The Jerusalem artichoke was prominent across North America when Europeans arrived and was a staple food for the early settlers, at least until potatoes made their way up from South America and took over as the tuber of choice. (Funny fact – the colonists didn't start eating potatoes until they'd caught on in Europe and then been shipped back across the Atlantic.) So if they are completely unrelated biologically, and originate on opposite sides of the world, why do they share a name? Supposedly, Jerusalem artichokes taste like globe artichokes – though I didn't notice any similarity.  As for the Jerusalem label, theories abound.

After having read about this formerly prominent North American vegetable that I had never heard of, I was thrilled to discover a beautiful little display of Jerusalem artichokes sitting and waiting just for me at the farmer's market last Saturday.  I was particularly enamored of their ridiculously knobby shape, and I knew I had to buy a box.  I brought them home without having any idea how, exactly, one was supposed to eat them; but then, it couldn't be any trickier than eating regular artichokes, could it?

A brief internet hunt brought me some answers.  In many ways, Jerusalem artichokes can be used like potatoes: you can boil and mash 'em, or toss them in soups, or cook 'em in gratins.  But unlike potatoes, they're also good for raw consumption – they're super crisp like radish, but with none of a radish's peppery kick: they have a mild, barely sweet flavor.  Having never cooked with them before, I wanted a simple preparation that would bring out the flavor of the 'chokes without too much muddling.  I went with a simple saute, and the results were pretty excellent, if I do say so myself.  The 'chokes have a delicate sweet flavor with a mild nuttiness that would pair well with roasted meats or cooked winter greens or, really, just about anything.

Though we're just beginning regular artichoke season, Jerusalem artichokes are on their way out.  The tubers first appear in the autumn, and are best after a hard frost.  Like many root vegetables, they keep well for the winter.  With winter's end finally getting close, it's time to take advantage of the remaining Jerusalem artichoke harvest before the regular artichokes – and the next unusual vegetable to capture my attention – take over.

Pan Fried Jerusalem Artichokes

Jerusalem artichokes do not need to be peeled, which is great because with such a knobby surface, I can imagine that peeling would be a huge pain.  The skin helps keep the 'chokes a little firmer and provides good texture.  Do make sure you scrub them well, though: those nooks and crannies are great for storing dirt. 

Though the flavor Jerusalem artichokes is unoffensive, the way the rest of your body reacts to them may be less appealing – you may not want to prepare them for a first date.  I'm just sayin'.

1 pound Jerusalem artichokes, washed well, patted dry, and cut into 1/4-inch width slices
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
salt and pepper

Heat the butter and oil in a large frying pan over medium heat.  When the butter begins to foam, add the sliced 'chokes and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Saute for 20 minutes or so, until the chokes are pleasantly browned and you're satisfied with how soft they have become, turning frequently.  Serve immediately.

Serves 4 as a side dish

A goaty predicament

I may have a problem. I've recently been seriously considering spending more than $60 on less than two pounds of cheese.

It all started a week and a half ago, when I had the pleasure of attending a goat cheese tasting hosted by Zingerman's Creamery. We tasted eleven different cheeses, with selections ran the gamut from fresh and bright to hard and salty, from boldly tangy to mildly stinky, from white and rindless to impressively blue and fuzzy. Now, I wouldn't consider myself much of a true cheeseophile – I shy away from most blues and tend to turn up my nose at appropriately-named “stinky” cheeses. But a there's something about a tangy, creamy, bright, fresh goat cheese that sets my heart a-flutter. And a well-made hard goat's cheese – now that is something to get excited about.

I'm thrilled that fresh goat cheese – or chèvre (meaning, simply, “goat” in French), as it is sometimes more pretentiously labeled – has recently made a splash on the American market. Not only is Chavroux showing up in groceries across the country (that is, if the completely random and unbiased sampling of Baltimore, MD and Ann Arbor, MI, are any indication of national trends), but American-produced goat cheeses are popping up, too.  The Zingerman's Creamery makes my favorite, boasting a bright, almost lemony flavor and a superbly smooth texture that is a real pleasure to eat.

But hard goat cheese is a little more difficult to find. I had my first really memorable hard goat cheese in Amsterdam, when I stumbled upon a cheese tasting at Reypenaer cheese shop. (As an aside, if you ever find yourself hungry in Amsterdam just after noon on a Saturday, I highly recommend hunting down Reypenaer's shop for a tasting of an outstanding selection of naturally-aged cheeses.) The tasting started with two hard goat cheeses – one aged four months, and the other aged ten. And oh, what a revelation that ten-month-aged cheese was: rich and tangy with just a subtle goatiness, firm and a tad crunchy with salt crystals like a good, aged Gruyere.  At the end of the tasting, I absolutely would have bought myself a wedge or two as a souvenir, were it not for the minor detail that I was just beginning six weeks of schlepping myself - and all of my possessions - across France.  There were already too many things to be carried, and too many other foods to be eaten, and besides, at the end of the tasting, they mentioned those magic words: "everything you tasted today is available online, and can be shipped anywhere in the world."

Not that I've actually taken advantage of the online store, of course.  Hard goat cheese hasn't been on my mind much in the past few months - until that tasting last week, that is.  We tasted a fantastic hard goat cheese called Old Ford made by Mary Holbrook near Bath, England.  Mary produces her cheese in small batches, and I learned last week that my potential local supply has sold out for the year, and does not expect to have any more until around Christmas time.  Quelle horreur !  The Old Ford reminded me of Reypenaer's ten-month Chèvre Gris, which I can get shipped directly to my door.  But what do you know - transatlantic cheese shipments aren't exactly cheap, and I have to say, spending upwards of $60 on cheese that I tasted once eight months ago seems a little ridiculous.

It is certainly quite the dilemma.  I better think it over with a fresh goat cheese grilled cheese sandwich.

It may not be fancy enough for a grilled cheese social, but good bread crisp with butter surrounding a warm, decadent layer of outstanding fresh goat cheese, topped with a sprinkle or two of freshly ground black pepper for good measure, is really quite consoling.  I think it may just keep me going until I can figure out what to do about finding a hard goat cheese.

Not-so-thin mints

In the summers, when his college swimmers were off doing internships in big cities or being lifeguards at home, my coach would turn his attention to coaching elementary-aged kids.  He had a lot of fun with his "little guys," and came up with some unusual enticements for good swimming technique.  One of his favorites was to help with holding the head still and looking straight up during backstroke.  He would give each kid a small candy - say, a Hershey's kiss - and have the kid float on their back, place the candy on their forehead, and then kick or swim to the other end of the pool without dropping the candy, where they'd then get to eat it.

Of course, it's not only the little guys who need to work on their technique; all swimmers have room for improvement in their stroke.  So a couple of times a season, we "big guys," too, would kick across the pool with a candy on our foreheads - often a York Peppermint Pattie.  I'm not sure how much that really helped any of us with our head position, but we weren't about to turn down candy during practice. 

There was something about being in the pool that made those peppermint patties so much better than usual - the chlorine flavor already in the mouth brought new complexity to the chocolate and heightened the fresh, cooling sensation of the mint which in turn made breathing - and getting more pool water in your mouth - more refreshing.  It may sound a little strange, but I remember those pool peppermint patties quite fondly.

Take note, Ferran Adrià: chocolate, mint, and chlorine is an inspired combination.

But I'm no molecular gastronomist.  Call me a coward, but I tend to stay away from using toxic gases in my cooking.  For my own purposes, chocolate and mint will have to stand on their own.  Luckily, they're up to the challenge.

My thin mints ran out a few days ago, so I decided to make some chocolate-mint cookies of my own.  But frosting seemed like way too much complication, and I generally prefer a thick, chewy cookie to a crisp wafer, so I adjusted a recipe for double chocolate cookies.  And for once in my life, I actually tested a few different combinations: I made batches with just peppermint extract, with peppermint and vanilla, and with peppermint, vanilla, and a couple of teaspoons of espresso powder.  Just peppermint had the biggest minty punch, while the vanilla brought a nice complete flavor, mellowing the harsher chocolate notes with a subtle minty finish.  The coffee gave the chocolate a toasty aroma but completely overwhelmed the mint. I think the peppermint and vanilla pairing was the most successful - but if you feel like working some chlorine into the mix, be sure to tell me how it turns out!

Triple chocolate not-so-thin mints
Adapted from the fantastic New Best Recipe

These are rich, chewy, toothsome bites.  The melted chocolate and cocoa powder bring an intense chocolate flavor, while the mint brings a bright freshness, particularly in the finish.  Peppermint extract is strong stuff - a quarter teaspoon gives plenty of minty kick.  Cookies keep well tightly covered on the counter for a few days, or frozen for a few months - just pop them in the microwave for 20 seconds to reheat.

16 ounces bittersweet chocolate
2 cups all-purpose flour
heaping 1/2 cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 eggs
1/4 teaspoon peppermint extract
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
8 ounces chocolate chips (about 1 1/4 cups) (optional)

In a double boiler, melt the bittersweet chocolate, then remove from the heat.

In a small bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt.

In a second small bowl, lightly beat the eggs with the peppermint and vanilla extracts, then set aside.

In a large bowl, beat the butter until fluffy, then mix in the sugar and brown sugar, beating until well combined.  Next, beat in the egg mixture until smooth, then stir in the melted chocolate, mixing until homogeneous.  Finally, use a spoon to gently mix in the chocolate chips (if using) and flour mixture, beating until just combined.  Cover the batter tightly and let rest 20 minutes.

In the meantime, preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and line two cookie sheets with parchment paper.

Roll balls of dough in your palms, using about two tablespoons of dough per cookie.  Place cookies about two inches apart on the baking sheet.  Bake for 10 minutes, rotating the sheet and switching from the top to bottom rack after 5 minutes.  Cookies may appear undercooked, but they will continue to set as they cool.  Let cool 10 minutes before removing from the sheet.

Holding on to pasty season

The days are getting longer again.  Last night, when I drove to swim practice at about 6:50 pm, the sky was still decidedly light.  A dull, greyish, cloudy light, but light nonetheless.  This weekend it will be daylight saving time, and then it will be light out until nearly 8 pm - I'm so excited I can hardly stand it.  Just around the corner after that is the equinox and, according to the calendar, the start of spring.  In Baltimore, the trees will start to sprout little green buds around March 21st, and the whole city will erupt in glorious, fragrant white blossoms just a week or two after that.  For the first time in five years, I won't be there to witness it, and it breaks my heart just a little bit.

 

Here in Michigan, it will take a little longer for spring to show up.  Though temperatures are slowly beginning to creep up, we're still getting an occasional inch or two of snow - our trees are carpeted in white, too, but it's not quite the same.  But we Michiganders are tough - our motto is, who needs cherry blossoms in April when you get oodles of fresh cherries all summer long?  So we'll hold out for the strawberries - which are probably already showing up fresh from the Carolinas in my old Baltimore farmer's market - and rhubarb for a few more weeks.  After all, we've still got plenty of root vegetables, and who wouldn't want to extend pasty season on as long as possible?

Pasties (pronounced past-ees, not paste-ees) are something like simple Cornish savory pies.  They're also popular up the U.P. (that would be Upper Peninsula for all you non-Michigan folk out there).  Traditionally, they're made from beef, potatoes, rutabaga, and onions, all wrapped in a pie dough crust.  Back in the not-so-good old days of U.P. copper mining, pasties were a lunch and a lunch box all in one: the crust was made tough and unpalatable to keep dust and dirt out, and to keep the fragrant filling in.  Today, they're usually wrapped in a flaky, delicious crust.  In my house, seeing as how we're just having pasties for supper at the dinner table, rather than in a mine shaft, we typically bake the pasty in a pie plate under just one layer of crust rather than wrapping the filling like calzones. 

I've gone back and forth about writing about pasties, because let's face it: without that fancy-shmancy pie crust, it's just 4 ingredients.  There's no real ratio of how those ingredients should be combined, and if you wanted to toss in other root vegetables, you can do that too.  With its roots in the British isles, there's no crazy seasoning going on; I don't even add in salt and pepper.  Once the pie crust is cut, there's nothing to hold the filling together, so serving a pretty piece is all but impossible.  There's a lot working against pasties, but luckily, they've got a lot working for them, too.

Without heavy seasoning, the ingredients themselves are the stars.  After an hour in the oven, the rutabaga softens and sweetens to have an earthy tang that is an excellent foil to the fluffy potato.  The onion contributes with a mellow sweetness throughout, and the beef adds a little bite, while the flaky crust adds another layer of interest and a superb buttery counterpart to the rich wholesome vegetables.  And the traditional accompaniment (at least in my house), ketchup, brings some sweetness with a touch of acid to the party.  The pasty may be humble, but the whole is much greater than the sum of its parts.

Another advantage is that making a pasty is as simple as turning on the oven - there's nothing to it.  Oh, except the chopping.  There's lots and lots of chopping.  But once you're past that, it's as easy as pie.  And though it'll be a little while yet till we see our first robins and eat our first rhubarb crumbles, we'll keep eating our pasties as the daylight lasts later and later and be quite content.

Pasties

Rutabaga, also sometimes called swede or yellow turnip, shows up in the grocery as a large (between the size of a softball and a small bowling ball), heavy, unpromising-looking vegetable.  The skin, coated with wax to help it keep longer, needs to be removed before cooking.  Once peeled, it is hard to cut through - make sure you've got a good, sharp knife for this one.  While pasties are traditionally filled with rutabaga, potatoes, beef, and onions, any root vegetables can be used: sweet potatoes, carrots, and parsnips would all be great.  I've left amounts intentionally vague, since the ratio of ingredients isn't too important.  Salt and pepper can also be added, of course, during cooking or at the table, but I don't miss it.

Making pasties takes quite a while by oneself with all of the chopping, but it makes enough for many dinners - it keeps well in the fridge for several days.  If the pasty hasn't been cut into, just stick the whole pie back in the oven and reheat at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes, until warmed through.  Slices can always be microwaved, too, but the crust will lose its lovely crisp texture this way.

For three 9-inch pies-worth:

1 good-sized rutabaga
4 pounds or so of potatoes
1 medium onion
1 pound beef

First, make your pie dough (a basic recipe follows).  Let the dough rest while you chop everything else.

Chop everything:
The rutabaga should be cut into strips about an inch square, and then diced into 1/8-inch slices.
The potatoes should be cut into pieces about the same size as the rutabaga, and put into a bowl of water until ready to be baked so as to prevent browning from air exposure.
The onion should be diced.
The beef should be chopped into bite-size pieces.

Then, assemble the pasties: drop a layer of rutabaga in the bottom of the pie plate, then add in a layer of potato, then onion and beef.  Repeat once more, until the pie plates are full.

Roll out your pie dough into thin sheets, and cover the pie plates.  Poke the dough with a knife to let steam escape.

Bake at 350 degrees for one hour, or until the crust is lightly golden brown, the filling is bubbling, and the potato and rutabaga are cooked through.  Serve immediately with plenty of ketchup.

Serves 6


Pie dough

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
10 tablespoons (5 ounces) cold unsalted butter, diced into small bits
5 tablespoons ice water

Sift together the flour and the salt, then cut in the butter using a pastry cutter, two knives, or your fingers, until the butter is pretty well incorporated - there can still be some pea-sized chunks left.  Add a few tablespoons of the water and stir together with a fork, then keep adding the water little by little until the dough will hold together.  Divide the dough into three balls, then wrap each ball in plastic wrap, flatten each ball into a thick disk, and let rest for at least half an hour on the counter.   If you're not making three pies-worth of pasties, the extra dough can be frozen for use at a later date - just let it thaw out for a few hours before rolling.

When you're ready to roll out the dough, do so on a well-floured counter.  Keep the dough as round as possible, and roll until quite thin and large enough to cover the pie plate.  After covering the pasty filling, fold in any extra dough to form a loosely crimped crust, or rip pieces off to be coated in cinnamon sugar and baked for a quick dessert.

Anti-boring brown cake for Mom

When I turned three, I knew it was time for a new order in the house. I informed my parents in no uncertain terms that I was done sleeping in the crib for babies and ready for the big kid bed. And for my birthday party, I told my mom I didn't want brown cake. Brown cake is boring, I explained (you have to explain everything to grown-ups). I wanted something with as much pizzazz and personality as I had. I wanted pink cake.

Mom agreed, but with one condition: while the cake would be pink, the frosting would still be brown because she “didn't know how to make any other kind.”  Wise woman that she was (and is), it never occurred to her to buy white canned frosting and add a few drops of red food coloring. I acquiesced, and at my birthday party my friends and I happily gorged ourselves on decidedly unboring homemade-from-scratch pink cake.

I'm sure my pink cake was delicious (especially if my frosting-smeared chops and not-so-subtle staring in the cake's direction are any indication), though I confess I do not remember what it tasted like.  That could be due to the fact that since that one errant year, practically every other birthday in my family has been celebrated with the classic brown cake, which eventually took on the grown-up, multisyllabic title of “chocolate.”  Maybe in my old age I've lost track of my exciting, colorful, three-year-old self and become boring.  But what can I say – at heart, I'm less interested in trendsetting than tradition. And chocolate.

Though I must say, after all these years of the same chocolate cake, I am anything but bored - quite the contrary.  My mom first clipped the recipe out of a magazine years ago and pasted it into a book filled with empty pages titled My Favorite Recipes.*  I'm not sure I remember ever making any of the other recipes pasted into this book, but the cake is a perennial favorite indeed.  It never feels like it's really a birthday until that moist, rich, dense, impossibly fantastic cake is served.  If eating this cake is boring, I want to be bored for the rest of my life.

Ever the helpful child, I assisted my mom in baking birthday cakes for years. Then, when I was maybe 14 or 15, a serendipitous snow day kept me home from school on my mom's birthday. I seized the opportunity to make the cake all by myself as a surprise for my mom, and didn't call her for help even when I had doubts about the recipe.**  When the cake was done, I hid it in the microwave and then carefully washed all the bowls and pans and tucked them back in the cupboard before she got home. All through dinner I couldn't wait for dessert (actually, that sounds like most of my dinners...), and when it finally came, I proudly carried my cake out to the table for a perfect birthday present.

These days, it's no surprise that when I'm home I'll be the one to bake the cake, but I hope the gesture is just as meaningful. So thanks, Mom, for teaching me to bake, for clipping that magazine cake recipe so many years ago, for supporting me when I go off in my own directions, and for not saying “I told you so” when I see that maybe, just maybe, you had it right in the first place.

Oh, and happy birthday!

*Coincidentally, my roommate of three years Kate's mom Theresa clipped the same recipe out of the same magazine for her (Theresa's) 16^th birthday cake – clearly, Kate and I were meant to be long before we ever met each other.

**The recipe called for two cake pans, whereas we had always used three - quite the dilemma!  I decided the solution was to make half again as much batter.  Turns out my mom always used three pans because she'd had the batter overflow when only using two.  But I'm pleased to say I averted cake spillage disaster and, in my first attempt, baked a perfect, enormous cake. 

Chocolate Fudge Cake

I wish I could credit the magazine that originally printed the recipe from which ours is adapted, but that little detail has been lost to history over the years.  Be sure you've got a tall glass of milk to chase down your slice or three of cake. Also, a word to the wise: no matter how tempting it looks, try not to stick your fingers in the frosting on the cake before it's been served – somehow, my parents knew that the dogs hadn't done it. They must have had one of those sneaky teddy bear cameras in the kitchen.

3.5 ounces unsweetened baking chocolate
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick, or 4 ounces) unsalted butter at room temperature
2 1/4 cups brown sugar
3 eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup (8 ounces) sour cream
1 cup boiling water
One batch of Chocolate Fudge Frosting (recipe below)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease and flour 3 9-inch round cake pans.  If you want to ensure a clean removal, cut a circle of parchment paper to fit in the bottom of the pan, and after greasing the pan, place in the parchment paper and grease that, too.

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler.  Set aside to cool.

Sift together the flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.  Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream the butter and brown sugar, then mix in the eggs, beating until fluffy.  Beat in the vanilla and cooled melted chocolate.

Set the water to boil and then stir in the dry ingredients alternately with the sour cream, beating well with a wooden spoon until the mixture is smooth.  Once all combined, pour in the boiling water and mix well to incorporate.  The batter will go from being stiff and difficult to work to quite thin - this is to be expected.  Pour the batter into the cake pans and bake immediately until set (a toothpick inserted into the cake should come out clean), about 25-30 minutes.  While the cake is baking, grab a rubber spatula and scrape out your chocolate bowls until your lips are smothered in chocolatey goodness.

Cool the layers on wire racks until they can easily be handled, then run a knife around the outside edge of the pan and flip upside down.  Carefully jiggle the cake to help it come out cleanly.  (If they don't come out cleanly, that probably means you're going to have an incredibly moist cake, so rejoice and remember that frosting can cover a multitude of sins.)  Leave the un-panned layers on the racks to cool completely.  When cool, frost, stick in some candles, sing a rousing version of Happy Birthday, and enjoy.  Leftovers should be wrapped tightly with saran wrap and can keep a few days - if they last that long.

Chocolate Fudge Frosting

This super simple frosting is also super delicious on cake, on a graham cracker, or on a spoon.  You have been warned.

4.5 ounces unsweetened baking chocolate
1/2 cup (1 stick, or 4 ounces) unsalted butter
1 pound powdered sugar
1/2 cup milk
2 teaspoons vanilla

Melt the butter and chocolate together.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the powdered sugar, milk, and vanilla, stirring until smooth.  Add in the chocolate mixture and whisk until homogenous.  The frosting will be loose, but it will set quickly so it's best to hold off on making the frosting until the cake layers are fully cooled and ready to be frosted.  If the frosting gets too stiff to work, try mixing in a few drops of boiling water.

To frost a three-layer cake, I start by setting down the first layer on the serving platter and giving it a good layer of frosting.

Don't worry about getting the sides at this point - just cover the top.  Then set down the next layer and give it a good layer of frosting, too.  

Finally, put the top layer in place.  Now comes the fun part: the sides.  I go all the way around the cake twice, getting frosting into all the nooks and crannies between layers.  I would have taken pictures, except that today I was distracted by how quickly the frosting was setting up and the fact that - for the first time ever in years and years of making this cake - I ran out and had to make extra frosting.  So you'll have to imagine the cake frosted all around its sides but bald on top.

Finally, finish by spreading the last of the frosting on top.  For a super smooth surface, try dipping your knife in hot water before gently scraping across the surface.

Stick in a candle and dig in!

Overcoming fears, and associated benefits

I have a confession to make.  I don't like cereal.

I know, that makes me one seriously weird American.  What can I say - the idea of taking something hard and dry and then pouring milk over it just makes me feel rather squeamish.  I would never dip a cookie in milk - not only are you making it soggy (ew), but you'll also probably get crumbs into the milk (ew again).  When I'm served crackers with soup at a restaurant, I eat the crackers and soup separately - if I bother with the crackers at all.

There are a few exceptions to my rule.  I admit, I do like a nice croûton, preferably smothered in rouille, with my bouillabaisse.  But then it's only dropped onto the spoon at the last minute, just before popping into my mouth to maintain the perfect crunchy texture in contrast to the velvety broth and toothsome bite of fish.  A mucky, soup-saturated croûton has no place in my mouth, or, if it were up to me, in the world.

By the same logic, for a long time I was averse to the idea of bread pudding.  Why would you want to drown your bread in milk and egg?  Won't it just get soggy and unpalatable?*  Luckily, eventually I considered that bread pudding is essentially baked French toast, and suddenly it took on whole new possibilities.  I started making bread pudding a year or two ago, and it's now one of my favorite winter desserts.

Perhaps someday I'll decide to try cereal again, but I rather doubt it.  Breakfast is such a wonderful meal, with oatmeal, pancakes, scones, muffins, bread (and toast [and french toast (and therefore, why not bread pudding?)]), and so many superb offerings - why waste it on something as pedestrian - and potentially soggy - as cereal?

*The answers are, of course, respectively, because it turns into custardy delicious goodness, and no. 

Bread pudding

Bread pudding really is best made with a bread with a light, fluffy crumb and a soft crust like challah, brioche, or a good-quality American white bread.  Save your crusty European-style loaves for scraping the bottom of a bowl of chicken soup.

I made two kinds of bread pudding this week.  The first was a standard bread pudding with dried cranberries, seen in the photograph just above the recipe.  The second, seen at the bottom of this post, was a maple pumpkin bread pudding with chocolate chips.  It's a tough call to say which I prefer - the maple pumpkin is superb, but probably better in the fall when I crave pumpkin.  It's nice and custardy, but the standard recipe feels more like bread pudding, all light and fluffy and impossibly delicious.  But really, either way you can't go wrong.

8 ounces (or about 8 cups) stale challah, brioche, or fluffy white bread, cut into 3/8-inch slices and then chopped into 1-inch cubes
4 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
2 cups milk (I use Calder Dairy skim)
2 cups heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
handful dried cranberries (about 1/2 cup or so)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees fahrenheit, and grease a 13x9-inch baking dish or large, deep casserole.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs with the sugar, then add in the milk, cream, vanilla, cinnamon, and salt.  Toss in the bread cubes and cranberries, then fold to combine.  Let rest 20 minutes.

Pour the bread into the greased dish and bake until lightly browned on top and the center is puffed and firm, about 40-50 minutes.  Let cool for 5 minutes, then dig in.

Maple Pumpkin Bread Pudding
Based on the recipe above, reduce the sugar to 1/4 cup, increase the cinnamon to 1 teaspoon, and eliminate the cranberries.  Add in 1/2 cup maple syrup with the sugar, and add in 1/2 cup pumpkin with the milk and cream.  Mix in 1/4 teaspoon each of ginger and nutmeg, as well as a dash of allspice if you have it on hand.  After resting 20 minutes, stir in a handful of chocolate chips.