An Ode To The Apple

If only everyday could be full of blue skies with puffy clouds, moderate breezes and me eating an endless supply of freshly baked tart crust and potato salad (separately of course), well that sounds a bit like heaven to me.  Thankfully my afternoon has been just that, and now I can contentedly wait for round two when we have a BBQ later this evening.  No one will miss a stray potato or a scrap of crust, will they???

I had planned on baking something from an old cookbook (dated 1895) my cousin brought over last week, a discovery he made in the cupboard of his mother’s kitchen, but along about Wednesday morning I peeked out into the backyard and “what to my wondering eyes should appear” but apples gently resting in the mounds of sea grass underneath the apple tree. 

I’ve been keeping a steady eye on the apples since their first appearance in late spring.  Last year an ill occurring frost obliterated any chance of blossoms and forthcoming apples, so when I saw the tree in bloom earlier this year I had high hopes for a bountiful crop in which to create yummy pies, tarts and cakes.  Unfortunately, I only ended up with seven apples so that kind of ruled out making shelves and display cases full of apple desserts (because apparently our one, little dwarf Golden Delicious produces bushels and bushels of fruit in my imagination).  Considering the previous year’s production of zero, I’m happy to take seven with a smile on my face.

It’s so much more gratifying to grow your own fruit than to go to the store or even to the farmer’s market.  There is a feeling of pride that comes with knowing you watched and waited patiently for something in your own backyard to develop and become ready for consumption.  Farming is an exercise in longing more than anything (again, not that I’m farming with a single apple tree out back), but anytime you’ve taken the time to plant something with love, water it, feed it and say nice things to it from time to time, watched it grow and kept an eye on it until it’s ready to eat or freeze or even put in a vase…well, then you understand the patience and desire I’m speaking of.  My apples feel like that for me.

September is really the start of apple season.  I’m hoping to get out to a nearby apple farm later in the month or early in October to stock up and work on my traditional pie baking skills, taste some cider and maybe score an apple doughnut or two, but for now I’m satisfied with the Barefoot Contessa’s French Apple Tart.  In fact, it turned out to be a Barefoot Contessa kind of day…now how bad can that be?

Since it’s Labor Day weekend and I have three days to relax and unwind, I wanted to spend at least one of those days in the kitchen.  I know it sounds like work to a lot of people, but to get a whole morning or afternoon in the kitchen without interruption or having to run off anywhere is like a dream.  If it is work, then it’s certainly satisfying with a tasteful payoff.  I often find myself in the most Zen-like of moments when I’m slicing fruit or rolling out dough, nothing matters but the task at hand.  The dough is a living thing that either comes together nicely and rolls out beautifully, or it’s angry, dry, cracked or on occasion soggy.  When you get ”happy” dough, the rest of the day can be a happy one too. 

I’ve really been working a lot on my dough skills…tart crusts in particular as of late.  I think people often over mix and end up with an over-combined mess on their hands.  Particularly with tart dough it’s important to see flecks of butter in your pastry…when the heat of the oven hits those tiny pieces, the puffing begins.  If your butter is too evenly disturbed, you aren’t going to get the flakey rise you are looking for.

It’s also important not to add too much flour.  Flour is something that should never be packed into the measuring cup.  You should always loosen your flour (if it’s stored in a container) with the measuring cup before you scoop it.  Mix it up so it’s not so clumped together and then lightly use the measuring cup, leveling the top with your hand or a knife.  The amount of flour you will end up with is vastly different from a compacted scoop…this excess of flour can really cause you to end up with a dry pastry.

And I know I’ve said this before, but if you are using a mixer or food processor to bring together your dough, stop mixing just before it “comes together”.  Sometimes the dough will look like there are moist sections with crumbly, dry bits of flour still hanging out, but once you turn the dough onto your floured counter top and give it a couple of kneads it will come together beautifully.

What was so nice about this morning, aside from the remarkably cooled off temperatures was the breeze.  I was able to turn off the air conditioner, open up all the windows and turn on the oven without feeling like I was going to melt into a puddle on the floor.  People were out mowing their lawns getting ready for parties and guests; the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the butterfly bushes outside was spectacular.  After finishing my coffee, it was time to bake.

As I said earlier, it was a Barefoot Contessa kind of day.  I not only wanted to make a dessert, but also a side dish of potato salad to take over to our friend’s Izabella and Jonathan’s (and Mia’s) for a BBQ.  I don’t care how many times I make something of Ina Garten’s, I can never, ever find anything wrong with it and most of the time it truly is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.  I assume she really tests her recipes and spends countless hours tweaking and changing things to get the perfect balance of any dish.  I’ve preached about her many times over, and if you don’t have one of her cookbooks in your kitchen yet then you are doing yourself a grave injustice. 

The French Apple Tart is in her Back to Basics book, and the Old-Fashioned Potato Salad is in Barefoot Contessa at Home.  These recipes were great to make in tandem because while the dough was chilling I could work on the potatoes, and while the potatoes cooled off I could start slicing the apples for the tart, etc…  When one step was complete on one, it was time to do the next thing on the other…and I ended up with constant motion on both, arriving at the peak, deliciously fattening climax of the two recipes at almost the same time.  I like it when a plan comes together.

I won’t go into how to make a potato salad here, it’s rather off topic, but the tart is another story.  As always I started with the dough.  This dough is again made in a food processor, then flattened into a disk, wrapped in plastic wrap and chilled in the fridge for at least an hour.  (Make sure you see the little pieces of butter in your dough).  After the dough has chilled, roll it out to a 10x14 inch (roughly) rectangle, trimming the edges with a knife for a clean presentation…though I think it would look quite nice and rustic if you leave the edges unfinished.  The dough can stay on a parchment lined sheet pan in the refrigerator until you are ready to cover it with apples.

Second, is the apple preparation.  The recipe calls for 4 Granny Smith apples, but my Golden Delicious seemed to work out fine.  The only work is in the peeling and coring, and then it’s a matter of making 1/4-inch slices.  I did toss them with a little bit of lemon juice to keep the oxidation to a minimum.  Lay them out in a nice pattern all along the pastry dough, top them with 1/2 cup of sugar and 4 tablespoons of diced butter.  Bake in a 400-degree oven for about 45 minutes and you will have a glorious apple tart.  Tip:  if you find your pastry rising up forming bubbles while baking, gently pierce them with a knife so the dough collapses once more.

The only remaining step is to heat some apricot jam (1/2 cup) mixed with two tablespoons of rum or water until you can paint it onto the tart as a glaze.  This not only adds flavor but also seals the tart, helping it to retain its loveliness for just a little while longer.  Maybe you will find yourself with some time on your hands over this long weekend and try the recipe out for yourself.  This tart is another one of those things that look a bit complicated, but when you break it down into manageable portions you’ll find it to be quite easy and worth your time…and of course supremely delicious.

We don’t really have any more holidays for a while and the kids are heading back to school next week.  The mums are starting to bloom and a few leaves are already starting to turn near where we live; even the leaves on my lilac bushes have changed to a deep burgundy color effectively warning me of fall’s proximity.  Fall has always been my favorite time of year largely for the quiet it brings along with the harvest and the bright colors painted through the woods and across the mountaintops.  As the chill creeps into the air more apples will begin to ripen, and maybe you’ll find the time to pick a few off the branch or up off the ground, dust them off and turn them into something miraculous.  Or at least give it a shot.  I know I have one or two more apple desserts left in me, waiting to come out.  It’s just who I am.

At Summer's End

It seems like the summer flew by and I can hardly figure out where it went.  I know I’ve been running around a lot, taking day trips and weekend jaunts, but it always comes as a bit of a shock to me when September rolls around once more.  Next weekend is Labor Day and for me summer’s last hurrah. 

I don’t feel particularly melancholy about it this year, maybe because I feel like I’ve accomplished summer, performed the duties of summer, as it were, in taking my excursions to the beach and to the mountains and even the Midwest, but it’s still a little sad to see it go because it’s been so much fun. 

I remember never liking summer too much as a teenager.  I was one of those annoyingly astute kids who kept their nose buried in a book and even enjoyed school for the most part.  The long months of June, July and August were a hibernation period for me because we lived so far out in the country.  I won’t say I didn’t enjoy my time alone, but it was always a thrilling thing for me when it came time to head back to school and rekindle my geekiness. 

I did a bit of reliving old summer and school times with my cousin, Kevin, last weekend.  He came over for a visit bringing me tons of photos he unearthed on a recent trip back to Missouri.  The pictures brought back memories, though some of them I was so young I have no recollection.  And I certainly don’t remember defacing the door to his bedroom (thankfully not in a photo) where we apparently carved obscene images on the door during a summer I lived with him.) 

It’s funny to look over old pictures of your family, especially ones that are now more than 30 years old.  The fashions have definitely changed, though I’m old enough now to appreciate some of the vintage looks my aunts, uncles and mother used to wear.  There was an amazing photo of my mother in her early twenties wearing a full-length fur coat, which was to die for.  She looked amazing, though I’m sure PETA would not have approved.  (Don’t worry mom I won’t be posting that for the world).

Everything seemed so colorful in the seventies.  I imagine it came from all the drugs consumed by fashion designers (just look at the swirling colors man), but I’m not sure this is necessarily the case.  People liked color and pattern, and many of those designs I see coming back today in the form of bedding and curtain panels as well as clothing.  I think folks are trying to get back to the carefree, freewheeling, and free-loving days of times gone by and I can certainly understand why.  Life seems a little too serious sometimes, and I think we could all benefit from a wide, flared collar and a pink and red paisley jacket (or a fur coat).

The make-up was as strong as the fashions, and I do love a good blue eye shadow on a gal from time to time.  The looks were dramatic, sometimes sexy, but definitely fun and I don’t know that things are too different these days.  I know lots of people coloring their hair in all different shades, wearing outlandish outfits in an attempt to be different and all in the name of individuality.  I appreciated seeing my family in just such a light.  Maybe they weren’t trying to be so daringly different and the fashions were very "of the times", but I like to think I can see a little personal spark and flare in the photos revealing a wilder side hidden below the surface.

The other great thing Kevin and I got to talk about was food.  We lived about five miles from each other while growing up, him in town and me out in “the sticks”.  We attended the same school, which was kindergarten through senior level of high school…needless to say it was a pretty small town.   I only had twenty-four people in my class, but he beat me with only twenty-three.  When you are in that sort of situation with the same kids for so many years, going to school is more about seeing an extended family everyday…a family you eventually want to kill because they are driving you absolutely insane.  But I digress…as I was saying, the food.

Our school cafeteria served lunch in two shifts (from what we could remember).  The elementary school went first, and then the junior high/high school kids ate at the second shift.  Most of our food was surprisingly “homemade” (as much as could be at the time).   We were such a small school with not as many mouths to feed, so it was feasible that the cooks could make something tasty that amounted to more than simply opening up a jar or can.  Kevin was very, very fond of the cinnamon rolls we used to get as well as the peach cobbler.  I too remember those desserts quite fondly along with some other choice items like the peanut butter/honey sandwiches, the rice pudding I always doused in cinnamon sugar and for some reason the taco boats.

In hindsight, we were pretty lucky to have people caring enough about our school lunches to try and make them enjoyable.  In the same vein, I wanted to create something enjoyable to commemorate not only Kevin’s visit, but also his fond “school lunch” memories of growing up.  I decided to make a cobbler, mainly because he’d attempted one recently without the best results and because it sounded really good to me. 

Cobblers and crisps always seem to be a favorite no matter whom you ask.  A mom or a grandma usually has some secret recipe that their kids or grandkids find to be the best.  Sometimes there are pastry toppings, sometimes biscuits and in the case of crumbles there are often oatmeal, butter, brown sugar or other delicious goodies which brown nicely and give a crunchy topping.  I found a recipe in the June issue of Everyday Food for a cherry cobbler and retooled it to work with raspberries (because that’s what I was craving) and with the use of a food processor to speed things up. 

Making a Raspberry Cobbler is really quite simple, it comes in two parts:  a) berries mixed with sugar, cornstarch and vanilla.  b) a pastry related topping…in this case sweet and savory biscuits.   The recipe is as follows:

3 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling out the dough

4 teaspoons baking powder (not 4 cups, Kevin)

1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt

1-cup sugar

3/4-cup (1 1/2 sticks) cold unsalted butter

2 cups of cold heavy cream, plus more for brushing on the biscuit tops

2 1/4 pounds fresh raspberries

4 teaspoons cornstarch

1-teaspoon pure vanilla extract or vanilla paste

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  In the bowl of a food processor combine flour, baking powder, salt, and 1/2 cup sugar.  Pulse a few times to incorporate.  Cut your sticks of butter into small pieces and add them to the flour mixture.  Pulse a few more times until the butter turns into “pea-sized” pieces.  Add in the cream and pulse just until the dough comes together.  Turn the dough out onto a well- floured surface and knead it a few times to make sure all the ingredients are incorporated.  Flour your rolling pin and roll the dough out to 3/4-inch thickness.  Take a biscuit cutter or a knife and cut the desired shapes you want for the top of your cobbler.  You should end up with 8 to 12 biscuits.

Next, in another bowl combine the raspberries, 1/2 cup of sugar, cornstarch and vanilla.  Divide the mixture among 1 to 1 1/2 cup ramekins (or put it into 1 big baking dish or two smaller baking dishes…it’s up to you how you want to present this).  Top each of your baking dishes with the biscuits and brush the tops of the biscuits with cream to give a nice golden color while baking.  Bake for about 40 to 45 minutes, rotating your cobblers halfway through, until they are bubbling with juices and your biscuits are golden.  Serve with ice cream!!!

Cobblers are very easy and a comforting thing to make, and I have to say the biscuits in this recipe are truly out of this world.  I know Kevin had several choice expletives for the leftovers I sent home with him, and that made me feel really good.  It isn’t often I get to share my baking with flesh and blood family, it’s usually given out to coworkers and good friends…not that I’m complaining, but it was a real treat to eat cobbler and walk down memory lane with someone who has known me since I was a tiny little whipper-snapper and grew up in the same place I did.  A shared family memory about childhood is hard for me to come by these days (mainly because I live so far away from everyone), and I realized I wasn’t the only one who remembers things a certain way.  It confirms that I’m really not crazy after all…or am I?

So as the days of sitting in the garden, eating cobblers and sipping mint-juleps officially wind down I can be appreciative of all the season has brought my way:  sunny days of planting in the back yard, hunting for seashells by the seashore, antiques excursions and care-free trips to the farmers market are all little things that brought some joy to my life.  

I’m a firm believer we can use more joys in life.  Crazy paisley and fur aside, I think things are going pretty well.  In another 30 years someone may look at the pictures and the things I’ve written on this blog and think I really was “far out” or downright ridiculous, but it is and always will be a sign of what’s going on at this exact moment and I like it.  It’s just who I am.

You Can't Take It With You

Relax, unwind, and let your mind float gently away on the breeze as the sound of birds softly chirping in the forest lull you to slumber.  There are crickets too, and waterfalls splashing down on rocks in the riverbed.  The river moves through a silent nighttime jungle, and resting along the surface is your mind.  Become one with nature and all your worldly cares will be removed…or at least that’s the promise of a good massage soundtrack.

Brian and I found ourselves in this very predicament last weekend while being salt scrubbed and gently worked over with hot stones on our mini vacation.  As I mentioned the previous week we had been planning a stay in Sharon Springs at the American Hotel for a long weekend, but when we found out they were booked we immediately began looking for another place to run away and hide from the world. 

It isn’t very often we get to take a trip together, just the two of us, and it was something we’d been meaning to do for awhile but kept getting caught up in the rat race of life.  We settled on a place known as Barley Sheaf…or The Sheaf as we took to calling it.  It’s a bed and breakfast not far from Doylestown, Pennsylvania (an amazing old town full of charm and shops.)  They refer to Barley Sheaf as an inn with spa services, but I never quite figured out what the difference is between an inn and a bed and breakfast.  I don’t really suppose it matters much. 

Neither of us had ever stayed at a bed and breakfast before and truth be told we might not have stayed there if we knew that an inn was the same thing, but in this case ignorance is bliss.  I never realized staying in someone’s home could be so comfortable and relaxing…but I think this place had a little more going for it in the privacy sector than some may have.  I always thought at a bed and breakfast you had to share a bathroom with other people or feel compelled to make polite conversation at communal dinners.  Happily, this was not the case at all and we found ourselves in a pleasant room decorated in 1930’s décor in celebration of a onetime inhabitant by the name of George Kaufman.

Kaufman was a playwright engaged in making a lot of work from the 1920’s – 1950’s and in fact had either written or directed a play on Broadway every year during this time period.  There was George Kaufman memorabilia all over The Sheaf and each of the rooms were named for one of his famous plays.  Our room was aptly called You Can’t Take It With You…and isn’t that the truth? 

You Can’t Take It With You won both a Pulitzer Prize for the play and an Oscar for the film version, no small feat.  Though I have never seen either staging, the name is what struck me when I was looking online at the list of rooms.  I was also drawn to the spa tub and steam shower if I were to be completely honest.  Our room was billed as having been Kaufman’s former writing room and I would like thinking a little creative genius might have been leftover in the space.  There were copies of playbills, photographs of George Kaufman and his famous friends all over the place.  Apparently the Marx Brothers were frequent guests along with Irving Berlin and Gershwin.  

The historic feeling was what I enjoyed most.  I know it has been renovated from top to bottom, but the owners managed to keep the charm going strong, choosing period furniture for the main spaces, but still having modern amenities for those of us inclined to like indoor plumbing (and steam showers).  But I think it was the outside setting that was most spectacular for this city escapee.  Working farms, fields of Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod, geese soaring high overhead and that wonderful fresh country smell I often go on and on about, surrounded the area.  This is the kind of place where you go to sit in an old wooden swing and rock the afternoon away with no feelings of guilt.

It all had a very English sensibility to me.  There were lots of old stone and bronze statues dotting the landscape, a lovely rose garden and tons and tons of butterfly bushes (my favorite).  I swear I could have planted the gardens there myself for their content was so similar to our backyard it was kind of scary.  I just need a little more space to have some winding paths and a pond out back, and then I would be in good shape.

I miss wandering around a field with no place to go.  I did it quite often as a kid growing up in the country.  There were several stands of woods not too far from my house and I used to go and get lost in them for hours on end.  At first it was scary and exciting because I didn’t know for certain where I was, but as I got older and continued to explore a little more I realized they weren’t nearly as vast as I thought and could navigate them pretty well in the end.  The mystery of an unknown path in the woods is still magical for me, and Barley Sheaf had several paths (mown in this case), leading to places unknown.  They didn’t go very far once I started hiking, but the feeling I used to get as a kid was still there.  I like that.

With all the stone décor and English inspired flowers, I ended up with my baking inspiration taking a somewhat European bent.  The inn has a fantastic chef, a real diamond in the rough for sure; who is producing beautifully conceived dishes out of his small kitchen.  He also had a few helpers and one was the B&B owner’s mother-in-law.   She seemed to be in charge of the baking, and both mornings we were treated to beautiful cinnamon raisin bread and an apple galette at brunch along with various other pastries and naughty items.  They really were amazing. 

I’d passed by a gnarled looking apple tree on the property on one of my “mown path” adventures and I got to thinking about the delicious apples mingled with butter and pastry and decided I needed to make something in honor of this unexpected treat.  When we got home on Sunday night I began to look through my collection of cookbooks and was drawn to one by Nigel Slater called The Kitchen Diaries.  In this book Nigel recounts a year in his life based on seasonal foods and the recipes he was making at the time (not too dissimilar from what I’m doing, but he does it much more frequently).  He lives in England and all of his writing is about the farmer’s markets and lovely English produce he manages to acquire seemingly daily.  The book is an enjoyable read as well as having recipes intermingled along with his storytelling, and it ties life and food together in an entertaining way.

The dessert I came across was for an aptly named English Apple Cake (click the link and scroll down to find the recipe and back story).  What I liked most about it was its treatment of the apples; they are front and center.  It calls for three “eating” apples which are diced small, mixed with cinnamon and brown sugar and layered on top of a very, very chalked full of butter cake batter.  It’s almost like an upside down tart, except the apples are on the top to begin with in their own little layer, and gently cradled by a spongy and moist cake.  This dessert is not overly sweet, with the tartness of the apples coming through in each bite and makes a great addition to a brunch table.  Hopefully the chef at The Sheaf would be proud…or at least the mother-in-law.

When you have to come back to reality from a weekend away it can be difficult, but there is some comfort in the routine, and especially if your routine requires baking something delicious.  I can think of worse things to be sure.  You may not be able to take the spa with you (maybe the soaps and lotions will fit in your bag), but when things get stressful maybe you can get a hold of one of those Sounds CD’s and pretend your boss isn’t pacing around waiting for you to deliver some workaday bit of importance for a client who is just going to change it tomorrow anyway.  Or you can bake an apple cake, pour a large mug of coffee and call in sick on a rainy day.   I think I might.  It’s just who I am.

Butt*r

Can you name a naughty 6 letter word which expresses beauty, greatness and all the pageantry of a buxom lass lost in the rolling fields of New York State?  It’s butter…or perhaps I should say Butt*r.  In this, our first installment of Butt*r magazine we find our model Kassi roaming about the countryside looking for her heard of goats in a field of wildflowers, goldenrod kissing her calves as she fearlessly and desperately longs for a reunion with the missing milk makers.  Not only is she afraid the wolves might get her special friends, but what would happen to her booming soap and cheese business?

Wait; hold up…what booming soap and cheese business?  And what is this Butt*r business anyway?  Well, it’s a charming idea Brian, Kassi and I thought up while on our road trip to Sharon Springs (in upstate New York) over the past weekend.  The drive from our house up toward the Catskill Mountains is a freaking bounty of pastoral fields, old red wooden barns and big open skies edged by purple mountains in the distance…I feel a patriotic song coming on.  It was the kind of road trip that allows you to breathe deep and reminds you why it’s good to be alive.

As a little back-story, Brian and I have been watching a show on Planet Green called the Fabulous Beekman Boys.  The show is about two “gentleman” farmers that have moved from Manhattan to the country in the hopes of returning to the land and getting out of the rat race of the city.  One is a creative director in advertising as well as author, Josh Kilmer-Purcell, and the other, Brent Ridge, worked with Martha Stewart for many years.  Without going into too much detail (you should watch the show) they acquire a herd of goats at their weekend home near Sharon Springs, lose their “real” jobs in the financial crisis of 2008 and start selling soap and cheese made from the goat’s milk under the brand Beekman 1802.  Much of the journey is recounted in Josh’s most recent book The Bucolic Plague, which I highly recommend, but the show takes place during the second year they “worked” the farm and all the trials and tribulations they went through as a couple trying to start a business.

I’ve followed Josh Kilmer-Purcell for several years.  He is a hilarious writer and his second book, I’m Not Myself These Days, is a memoir detailing the period in his life he spent working as the drag queen Aquadesia in NYC (the book is laugh out loud funny and really poignant at the same time).  His costumes had plastic fishbowls “sewn” in as breasts, complete with live goldfish swimming in them…genius.  Anyway, when I heard him talking on a podcast about his new book and the new television series I began to get very excited. 

Brian and I have watched the 10 episode series, and at the very end of the last episode they open up a shop on Main St. in Sharon Springs, NY selling a wide range of products from the Beekman 1802 brand.  Beekman is the name of their farm and the historic mansion situated on their property.  We decided it might be a fun weekend getaway to visit the town and stay at a bed and breakfast called The American Hotel (it’s also featured on the show and looked adorable).  After finding out they were pretty much booked up every weekend for the summer we almost gave up on the idea, but when our friend Kassi, the Harvest Goddess herself, decided to come up for the weekend it seemed only fitting to go for a long drive and buy some soap. 

I have never driven three hours for soap I must admit, but it was sure a lot of fun.  As I said, the scenery was amazing.  The further we went, the more mountainous and sparse the land became.  We passed through some very charming old towns, some looking to have been given a recent facelift, and some still looking a little worse for wear.  It was as if a magic spell had been placed on the day and it was perfectly sunny with bright fluffy clouds, 75 degrees with no humidity and a whole day at our disposal to stop, dawdle, take pictures and really appreciate the scenery rolling by.  That’s where Butt*r comes in.

After you see a few attractive people out doing their farm chores, painting a building or riding along on a tractor it just makes sense to have a magazine about them.  I’m not sure why anyone hasn’t thought of this before, but leave it to us with our scattered creative ways to come up with a seductive farming magazine flaunting a title which could also house delectable photographs of loosely clothed baked goods.  Kassi is our first model and I certainly think she did it justice.

Rarely do I get a chance to ride along in a car, see something beautiful I would like to photograph and then actually get to do it.  Brian and Kassi were very patient with me as I requested to stop and take pictures of sunlit fields and run- down churches, groves of trees, roadside BBQ joints (hilariously called Rubbin’ Butts) and even a “mom and pop” place serving ice cream along the side of the road.  But, we were all rewarded with surprisingly good smoked sausages, brisket, pulled pork, coleslaw and hot fudge sundaes.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to stop for that?   I need to remember to plan days with less specific agendas much more often.

As far as actually baking something as opposed to just being suggestive on the topic, I thought it might be fun to make something inspired by our shopping trip for soap.  When we arrived at Beekman 1802 some of their goats were out front playfully chomping on leaves and appearing to have a lovers quarrel over who was going to get the bigger branch.  They really took a shine to Brian, licking and rubbing like sweet natured pets (which I’m sure they are).  With centerfolds like these, how could you not go into the store and see what they were selling?

From the moment we opened the door herbal scents wafted out to greet us.  Beekman 1802 has a line of soaps featuring monthly fragrances, all based on what’s in season during that particular month on the farm.  You know I loved that!  The month of August happens to be lavender, and it occurred to me then and there I should bake something with the fragrant dried flower buds.  Beekman 1802 has a wide range of products, soap and cheese not withstanding, so we spent a great deal of time pondering what to buy.  When you drive that far, it only seems reasonable to hang out and ponder other purchases, plus we got to see Brent when he came out of the office to field a cheese question.  

I’ve experimented with lavender in whipped cream before as well as using it in a chocolate tart.  It’s generally used to infuse a liquid, such as heavy cream, with its lovely perfume.  The recipe I found online (for this week’s dessert treat) called for mixing the dried buds with sugar in a food processor, pulsing until the buds were tiny and evenly distributed before adding it to the batter.  The site refers to the dessert as lavender cake, but I’m calling it Lavender Bread because you make it in two loaf pans…seems sensible, right?  This site also contains several other recipes featuring the seasonal herb, but since we were having a birthday breakfast for my boss last Monday loaves of bread seemed more fitting than cookies or a tart.

I think lavender is a love/hate thing for most people.  Either you love it, or it reminds you of soap or cheaply made candles that really don’t make you hungry as an initial response.  I won’t lie about this one, the lavender flavor is very present, and I loved it (and thankfully so did the boss).  The recipe tells you to drizzle the “cakes” with lavender infused icing once they are cooled, but I decided the batter itself was so strongly flavored that it might become overpowering.  Instead, I made the icing (confectioner’s sugar and water) without it and topped the loaves with fleur de sel.  The salt played off the sweet bread very nicely and gave it a depth I think it otherwise would have missed.  I’m certainly very fond of lavender and grow many varieties in my garden, but I don’t want to feel like I’m washing my mouth out with soap either…I want a delicate, fragrant and buttery bread to snack on with my morning coffee and that is exactly what I got.

I cant’ convey strongly enough how good “getting away from it all” can be.  I knew it would be a fun day-trip, but I didn’t realize that it would be downright amazing.  I get so caught up in destinations that I forget to enjoy the ride.  Yea, it’s cliché, but when it’s all said and done I don’t remember the last time I spent 6 hours in a car and had such a great time…all because I was okay with being in the moment, seeing the sites and was busily planning the next cover for Butt*r magazine in my mind all the while.  I know I’m not in a position to leave the city and start a successful business from a goat farm, but I’m glad someone did.  If nothing else it proves it can still be done even in these less than concrete times we’re living in.  It’s hopeful, and as the show says, they “make farming fabulous”.  I know if I ever have a farm it will be fabulous too.  It’s just who I am.

Dog Days

According to Wikipedia, “dog days” refers to that lazy and unbearably hot time of year generally falling between early July and early September depending on the hemisphere where you live.  My goodness, I believe it.  It has been ridiculous and I’m ready for it to stop.  It seems hotter this year than any I’ve lived in New York and that’s really saying something.   Although I grew up in the Midwest and it’s hotter than “blue blazes” there as well, I don’t find much of a difference on the East Coast unfortunately.

The “dog days” more pointedly refer to Sirius, the Dog Star, which is closest to the sun during this period of time.  That puppy must be running laps and laps around old Mr. Sun because I feel like my brain is frying.  Remember the “this is your brain on drugs commercials from the 80’s???…Well, it’s a lot like that. 

The pavement of the city heats up enough to cook an egg for certain let alone my spirit. Stepping down into the subway is tantamount to entering the 12th circle of hell with all its fury.  It must be at least 20 degrees hotter down there and damp, humid, gross, a little funky smelling and downright monstrous in personality.  It’s best to wait until you hear the train coming and then run down to the platform otherwise you will find yourself drenched in a matter of minutes desperately waiting for a chilly, air-conditioned car of comfort to rescue you from all the heated madness.

I guess I’m trying to say it’s hot and I’m done with it, but I’m afraid it’s not done with me.  The heat makes me feel so lazy all the time and all I want to do is sit around in the AC playing video games or taking a nap after eating too much Ben & Jerry’s.  Unfortunately my schedule doesn’t really allow for that, but it’s somewhat nice in theory. 

It’s funny how summer starts off really exciting with thoughts of picnics and excursions to the beach, tops down and tops off, running willy-nilly through a field of grass and daisies while gently being kissed by the sun... and slowly erodes into a test of endurance.  The idea of eating fried chicken outdoors on a checkered blanket sounds almost preposterous right now.

Fortunately, the one good thing summer has going for it is it isn’t winter.  I’ll take heat any day my friends, any day.  And also the smells…not the “city” smell (and I’ll leave it at that for my more sensitive readers), but the smell of wildflowers and trees, roses and herbs that occasionally waft by when nearing a city park or community plot are delightful.  Small garden plots are one of the great things about New York City.  After walking along an endless stretch of buildings you most always can find an unlooked for nook or secret place where someone is trying to coax a little nature out of the cement palace, and I appreciate it.

Today I was walking along and once such scent greeted me.  I don’t know exactly what flower or plant produces the smell, but I was immediately taken back to being a little kid going down a waterslide.  There were several “water parks” near where I grew up and on the weekends I would go with my dad and we would slide at breakneck speeds down the blue painted cement half-pipes.  Some were definitely scarier than others and those were the most fun to go down.  I guess the threat of being thrown out of the slide and into certain death heightened the experience immeasurably.  It’s a feeling not unlike the wild freedom produced by a rollercoaster ride or presumably a bunji jump (I have never tried that one, though) and I realized I wish I had a waterslide to go and jump on right now.  August was meant for being at the water, whether it’s a slide or a lake or river.  The proximity of a large body of water seems to make everything better.   A rope swing or an inter-tube to go “floating” down the rapids would make it the best. 

It’s much more fun to think about all the things I could be doing as opposed to walking around a hot city on a daily basis, but since I’ve gotta eat I’ve gotta work, and if I don’t go down into that hot subway everyday then I certainly won’t be able to by my farm fresh eggs and sticks of butter required to maintain my pastry addiction.

This week I considered doing something in the “no bake” category of dessert treats.  As kids we always used to have no-bake cookies from time to time in the summer, but Saturday cooled off just enough to turn the oven on.  I forced myself out of bed in a timely fashion to get over to the farmer’s market and snatch up some good fruits and vegetables before all the other folks gave it a once over.  I’ve made the mistake the past couple of weeks of going near closing time only to wind up discouraged with the “leftovers”.  The early bird does seem to get the worm when it comes to the weekend farm stand competition.

Plums have finely come into season and were looking pristine and beautiful in their aubergine and yellow coats.  Only recently have I tried a yellow plum and found it to be just as delicious as the purple ones, but I felt somehow exotic eating it.  I chose “plum” plums this week because that’s what Ina’s recipe called for along with peaches and blueberries.  The dessert is called a Summer Fruit Crostada, and the name is every bit as exotic as the color of that yellow plum.  (I couldn’t find a direct link to the recipe via Barefoot Contessa, but I did find a thoroughly explained version of the recipe on another blog.  Thanks!)

Not only were the plums perfectly juicy and sweet with a tart outer skin, but eating one gave me a similar sensation to a peach I was eating a few weeks ago…bliss!!!  I found myself once again standing over the sink with fruity perfection in my hand and juice dripping down my chin.  When you get fruit in the perfect condition it changes your perception about all other fruits that you eat.  No matter if it’s a different fruit entirely, the revelation of a plum or peach or a cherry in its prime is enough to make everything else pale horribly in comparison…yea I’m talking to you grocery store. 

As I was saying, the fruit was good, and the berry crostada was great.  It’s funny how people come up with different names to describe the same thing (in my opinion).  A crostada is really like a galette, and a galette is really just a fancy name for a freeform tart.  The only difference I find with the crostada is it has a topping similar to a cobbler or crumble.  Oh so many names, but all with one hopeful outcome…a vehicle to eat delicious fruit and crunchy, buttery pastry.  For me, the simplest definition of the dessert is a tart meets cobbler mash-up, which is heavenly.

All you must bring to bare in creating this dessert is your tart crust making skills combined with slicing some fruit.  I promise it’s no more difficult than that.  The appearance is rustic and delicate, a cobbler/crumble for the new millennium (I mean it is 2010 for goodness sake) and one that will certainly impress the people you share it with.  And you can pretend that it’s healthy because it has so much fruit in it.  See, no guilt either, unless you decide to top it with a healthy scoop of vanilla ice cream, but I’m certainly not suggesting it.  The crostada is served at room temperature, which is technically warm if you look at the thermometer hanging outside your kitchen window. 

I know in another month or so things will start to cool down and before you know it I’ll be putting Christmas cookies in the oven wishing it would get above freezing outside.  I’ve come to the realization it’s human nature to always want what you don’t have, to crave the thing that is just out of reach and to blow through moments that could use a little bit more appreciation.  I guarantee you’ll appreciate your moments with the fruit crostada whether you are trying to or not.  It’s just who I am.