Roast Duck and a Big Gooey Cake

Start Me Up: The Sourdough Chronicles

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Tue, 26 May 2020 00:59:00 +0000

Today I found a draft blog post from 2013. Title? “Three Times Lucky - Sourdough Starter Face-off”.

⁣I don’t really know what was lucky or what the face-off was about, because I only got as far as that title. I have a funny feeling my luck may have failed.⁣⁣ But, ever willing to take on a seemingly impossible task, here I am again. The mystery is how flour and water can so confound me. I guess that’s where the science and magic comes in, and what keeps drawing me back. ⁣

The attempts thus far have been fair to middling. I've had more success with biga (a sponge that's used to supplement a yeast dough) than with the starter. ⁣These lovely bubbles actually produced a pretty decent loaf. I used this recipe from Carol Field (and highly recommend her classic book The Italian Baker).

The best of all (pictured at the top of this post and below) required no starter and no kneading - Jim Lahey's famous no knead artisanal bread, which replicates for home bakers an echo of the beauty of his Sullivan Street Bakery Pugliese.

I’m hopeful. I really am. Michael Sampson, of The Sicilian Pantry - and my bread making hero - shared the recipe and video that got him started. A little more than 24 hours in and I’m seeing happy, bubbly frothy promise in my umpteenth attempt. I’ve put it in a glass container. I’ve even named it. But until the baby is full born and flourishing, I’ll keep her identity under (plastic) wraps.⁣
⁣

This is Actinolite.

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 14:18:00 +0000

This is Actinolite. On an unfashionable residential stretch of Ossington Avenue in Toronto, the restaurant’s 30-seat room is deliberately simple, and manages to avoid the inescapable din of most places, where shouting over your food is part of the experience. Here the focus is on the pleasures of the plate, and the stories behind each dish.

Little bites of cucumber and kholrabi

This is Actinolite. Its kitchen is small, holding no more than five or six people at a time, unless you count the garden that is an essential extension of the cooking, or the pantry down the stairs, where preserved, pickled, dehydrated, and dried seasonal ingredients wait patiently for their chance to make an appearance on the menu. When fresh produce is scarce and imagination is indispensable, that pantry gets to shine.

White asparagus, rhubarb vinegar, lilac, lemon thyme
and bee pollen

This is Actinolite. The menu changes with dizzying speed in the dog days of summer, running to keep up with the bounty of the farmers’ markets, where chef Justin Cournoyer knows every vendor and lets the season guide him. When he’s not at the market or at the producers’ farms, he’s foraging with his team in back alleys and country fields, carefully taking only what the land can comfortably give. If it can then be grown in the garden, even better.

Fava bean, mozzarella, mint

This is Actinolite. Don’t look for it on the list of the World’s 50 Best Restaurants, where the lone Canadian entry is Alo at #94. You’ll have to dig deep into the list of Canada’s 100 Best Restaurants to find Actinolite, where it’s hovered in the 60s for the past couple of years, well behind restaurants whose menus don’t change but whose popularity soars in proportion to their proximity to hip neighbourhoods or chef celebrity status.

Lobster, rose, mulberry

This is Actinolite. Where we dined last Saturday night to celebrate our anniversary but where a special occasion isn’t warranted to dine on the city’s best food.

We’ve been very lucky to eat at some pretty spectacular restaurants in places far and wide, from Copenhagen and Vienna to Mexico City, Modena and Menton. So we’ve seen the absolute inventiveness and attention to detail that these places bring to every diner and every dining experience. We’ve had a chance to peek into the labs at Noma and see how they make it nice at Eleven Madison.

Far from this setting some sort of impossible standard against which to judge every meal, the sum total of those experiences have made us appreciate the work involved in bringing food to the table, in creating a place where genuine hospitality and passion marry to create a magical moment. We seek out and find those moments everywhere: from the delicious breakfast sausage sandwiches and hand pies served by Dundas Park Kitchen at our farmer’s market, to the tacos de barbacoa and cactus salad at Vamos a Texcoco, a strip mall Mexican barbecue joint in Vista, California.

But this is about Actinolite, and authenticity, and cooking so fresh and fine and real that I can’t believe there isn’t a line up at the door. When the young cooks bring the plates to the table, they are earnest, thoughtful, believing deeply in what they are serving and making. And while that can seem contrived and gimmicky (and believe me, we have seen it so), here it’s just right.

Strawberry, chrysanthemum, gooseberry

The young chef who bakes the bread brings us each a piece, perfectly warm, with a crust that satisfyingly crackles. He explains that he’s switched flours, now using one from Quebec that’s better able to stand up to the oppressively humid heat we’ve been experiencing. The same chef later brings us a dish featuring shitake mushrooms that are in an umami rich broth, with shiso from the garden. He promises to bring me some shiso to take home. And even though the kitchen is slammed and it must be 35C in there, he does.

Shiso from the garden

The dish of peas and lamb – soon to disappear from the menu because peas are almost over – is seriously one of the best things I’ve eaten this year. More peas than anything, mixed with minced lamb, and topped with elderflowers and sorrel, each pea bursts with flavour and I want this dish and this moment in fleeting early summer to last forever.

Peas, lamb, elderflower

The chef’s menu ends with something loosely called dessert, but better described as the perfect ending, which I’ll describe imperfectly. Mostly beets, some dill, tayberries, a sorbet… It's new on the menu. Go have it now.

Beet, dill, tayberry

This is Actinolite. Where the team comes together and is dedicated to the art of the possible, and the spirit of each ingredient. Where the hospitality is not contrived or formal, but the knowledge deep, and where a new seasonal revolution happens every few weeks.

This is Actinolite. What are you waiting for?

Actinolite

971 Ossington Ave, Toronto, ON

Phone: +1(416) 962-8943

Sicilian Sundowner

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 09 Jul 2017 04:58:00 +0000

Rye whiskey, Cynar, milk chocolate, peppercorns,

Hidalgo oloroso sherry

Bourbon, spiced rum, lime, root spirit, dandelion simple,

maple syrup, egg white

Tequila Blanco, American gin, Italian amaro, lemon, ginger, chamomile, rhubarb, blackcurrant, decanter bitters

Hennessy VSOP, Fernet Branca, Dolin Blanc, demerara syrup, black strap molasses, fresh squeezed lemon and lime juice

What's on the menu at today's hot bars

I love a good cocktail. Something with a bit of a bitter edge, maybe faint sweetness, a bit of fizz or a dash of citrus. Beautiful glasses - a coupe, a cut crystal highball, a weighty smoked old fashioned - make the sipping even better. No straw please; I want to sip and feel the ice, hear the cubes settling in for a deep chill.

But something seems to have happened to the cocktail. Reading the drinks menu has become a bit of a chore. In a quest to create an ever more unusual, the-more-ingredients-the-better, Instagrammable drink, we're reading longer and longer lists that puzzle rather than tempt us. An ouzo or absinthe rinse ruins what could have been a perfectly fine drink. Lots of brown liquor. And Fernet Branca with everything. It's enough to make you want to order a G+T and be done with it.

The Sicilian Sundowner - three ingredients and whole lot of fun

Summer should be a little more imaginative, without a whole lot more work. So tonight instead of making a Campari soda or Aperol spritz, I made up a cocktail that ticked all my summer sipper boxes: a little bit fizzy, a little bit bitter, a touch of citrus and a sunshiny colour. No exotic ingredients, no syrups to make or egg whites to beat. Just a long tall drink of summer.

The Sicilian Sundowner

makes one long cocktail

1 ½ oz. Aperol

1 oz. limoncello

Fever Tree Sicilian Lemonade soda, lemon tonic water or plain club soda*

*although this is not a sweet drink, if you prefer a drink with less sweetness, use plain club soda

Fill a highball glass with a generous fistful of ice cubes. Add Aperol, limoncello and soda of choice. Give it a stir, garnish with a strip of orange zest and sip slowly.

Salute!

A Sicilian Sojourn and the new Duck and Cake Travels blog

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Fri, 23 Jun 2017 02:19:00 +0000

It's been pretty quiet over here at Duck and Cake. But not for lack of delicious adventures. Richard and I still continue on our quest to eat at the world’s 25 best (we've made it to 14 so far, with a few more reservations upcoming). And I've been cooking up lots of delectable treats, with some recipes coming your way soon.

The big news on the culinary Duck and Cake front is Cook the Farm.

In January, I attended an intensive program at the Anna Tasca Lanza cooking school in Sicily with 12 international participants from diverse backgrounds who are passionate about bridging the gap between cooking and farming. Cook the Farm explores the intersection of food, culture, community, horticulture, anthropology and sustainability.

From milking sheep and learning how to make ricotta cheese, to pruning vineyards, making pasta, learning about propagation and understanding the biodiversity and history of the Mediterranean, Cook the Farm was a deep immersion into the world of food, its meaning, magic and power.

Although I've been home for two months now, I am still processing and absorbing the incredible richness that is Sicily: her food, her people, her heartbreakingly beautiful landscape.

Milking sheep - harder than it looks!

It's a experience that has forever left its impression on me. Sicily really has stolen my heart.

As I've absorbed this experience, I've begun to capture some of it in a new blog, Duck and Cake Travels. Please take a visit, and share in my journey. I'll be using Duck and Cake Travels to chronicle both more of my Sicilian sojourn and also use it as a travel diary of sorts. I'll be linking to it here, or you can subscribe directly to get updates as they appear.

As always, thanks for reading!

Elizabeth

25 for 25: Musings on Food

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Wed, 11 May 2016 21:30:00 +0000

A fanciful dish from Noma

September, 2015: We had just come back from dinner at Pujol, in Mexico City, and were sitting in our hotel room, talking food. And service. And writers who write about food. In the past few weeks there had been two scathing indictments about “fine dining”. One, an Op-Ed in the New York Times, was a thinly veiled account of Eleven Madison Park, as told through the eyes of a former employee; the other, in Harper’s magazine, a biting lashing of three Michelin starred restaurants in New York, including, yes, Eleven Madison Park.

In “Dinner and Deception,” the NYT Op-Ed, the writer confessed that “serving elaborate meals to the super-rich left me feeling empty.” The Harper’s writer was even more pointed about her EMP meal: “It is weaponized food, food tortured and contorted beyond what is reasonable; food taken to its illogical conclusion; food not to feed yourself but to thwart other people.”

Really?

Had the art, the science, the magic of inventive cuisine been reduced to weapons to be fed to the super-rich?

It was a depressing thought. We were on our quest to eat at the world’s 25 best, not because we were super-rich, not because we wanted to approach each meal like a battlefield, but because we really believed that what is being created in these restaurants is its own kind of singular evolution, an art form, newly elevated, that deserves to be celebrated and experienced.

It got us thinking and talking. About the evolution of food; about the nature of service and the theatre of dining; about food writers and whether this is all still relevant. Here’s part of that conversation.

*********************

It’s like the pigments that Van Gogh was sent and used.

What do you mean he was sent the pigments? I don’t know this story.

His paint supplier had these new yellow pigments and Van Gogh was so taken by these pigments; every time he mixed them he had new colours – colours that didn’t exist before. So he did this whole series – all of these sunflowers – and they’re all experiments – they’re worth millions of dollars today – but they were just experiments. And each new painting opened another door not only for him but generations after.

So what does that have to do with food?

Well, it’s exactly the same thing. You’re taking ingredients and you’re decomposing them, you’re recomposing them, you’re taking them a step further – it’s evolution. Rene Redzepi, Escoffier, The French Laundry, Thomas Keller. He influenced a ton of other chefs that didn’t necessarily go on to open French Laundry-like restaurants. But it just evolved and the key to humanity is evolution – without evolution the planet stands still and we die.

What I’m really beginning to understand about these restaurants is how much theatre there is, performance art. There’s definitely a style of service at all of them and in some cases you and I have observed there’s such a degree of formality…it’s not what I would call a fun dining experience. What about that?

There’s something to be said about tradition. There’s a proper way of showcasing, of putting the spotlight on what this is all about and in this case it’s food. So they’re honouring the food because really - what if it was just thrown at you?

What about this other thing we’ve experienced where the server is the intermediary between you and the food, between you and the chef. The reality is whether it’s a 3 Michelin star restaurant…

…or your local pub

Yeah, exactly – well, you’re usually not meeting the person who’s making the food. So the server is the face of the food, the face of the chef. What happens when you don’t connect with the server or when the service is perfunctory or they’re just reading their script? Because frankly, they’ve said the same thing …”be careful the plate is hot”…they’ve said that a hundred times tonight, so how can they get excited about it and then how do they make a connection with you, the diner?

That’s almost irrelevant. It’s like walking into an art gallery. What if you don’t connect with the art…

Let me interrupt you here because you are shown the art the way the artist created it. You talked about Van Gogh earlier? When I see his Sunflowers or his Starry Night or a self-portrait, I see it the way he imagined it. Now, in a restaurant I see the food the way the chef imagined it but there’s someone who’s an interpreter for the chef. Unlike the artist or the painting where it’s left to my imagination. So the skill of the server is really important, for me anyway, because I want that server to tell me the story behind the dish, to care about it as much as the chef did when they created it.

When you stand next to a painting and the gallery owner comes explains to you the history of the artist, or the technique that they’ve used and all of the sudden you see a completely different painting than you originally saw…

I think we’re saying the same thing. What I’m talking about is when that server doesn’t have that skill or the passion or the…

But that’s what I’m saying too. If the gallery owner doesn’t answer your question or answers your question so that you absolutely don’t understand what he or she is talking about, you’re on your own. The connection you’re craving is almost irrelevant; it will never be a perfect experience. Somebody eating tonight at Pujol probably had a bad experience, and that’s unavoidable. Someone here at the hotel may not have a good experience because they don’t like this kind of architecture, the room décor, whatever.

Are you saying that we’re taking this all too seriously?

Not you and I, or certainly not me…

I think I’m taking it too seriously.

Perhaps.

And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. It reminds me of those articles we were talking about. What is the point of these articles? They’re not constructive at all and at the bottom of it they’re trying to stop evolution.

Explain to me what you mean by that.

From what they’re saying, questioning the importance …

Or belittling it.

Yeah. It’s like questioning Andy Warhol’s relevance in the history of art.

Well that’s a good example because there’s people who would maybe say he’s not really a “serious” artist.

Yet he’s had such a huge influence on other generations after him. He’s completely opened a door that was not even open before. I question these kinds of articles. What is the point? That these restaurants are irrelevant?

I don’t know if they’re saying they’re irrelevant. It’s about that they’re too self-important, that they take themselves too seriously, that everything about them, from the style of service to the price that you’re paying, to the ambiance, the list of ingredients is oh so overwrought that it can drive you crazy.

Doesn't have to be highbrow to make it
on to Instagram, as long as it's food

You know what I think it is, frankly? It is absolutely a moment in time. I mean, food has never been more popular. I think the underlying thing behind this obsession that we have with food is an analog reaction, actually, to everything else that’s around us. The fact that we’re on our phones all the time. The fact that technology has inserted itself fully into our lives. When we eat we can’t do anything but take the fork and put it in our mouth. That is a tactile experience. It is immediate. We’re trying to photograph it or Instagram it, or do whatever to it but that moment exists in the here and now. And I think there is this underlying or maybe now overt desire for people to connect with something real. And food is perhaps become the object of that.

And that’s another layer of the onion. If it’s important for someone to go to a restaurant just because it’s on their bucket list – so what? Some women will buy an Hermes bag because they know that it took a hundred hours for some craftsman to make and that woman appreciates that, where at the other end of the spectrum there’s a woman who buys it because it’s a fricking Hermes bag and it’s worth $20,000 and that’s her motivation. But who cares?

I mean food is the topic de jour and I’m actually surprised that this food trend has gone on as long as it has. We had these supermodels, which we never had before, and all of the sudden we have these super chefs, which we’ve never had before.

I’m sure that chefs are wishing they could say that they don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day

I think you’re on to something when you say it’s a way for us to reconnect – and I don’t mean to sound clichéd – reconnect with the world, with our earth…Because these fricking phones – we drop them, oh well; we lose them, oh well. A new one comes out, we throw out the old one. But food - it does feed our souls, it’s a social gathering. All this social media has sucked the social – funny that it’s called social media because it’s anything but social – it has eliminated our need to really interact with people that we care about. Your phone doesn’t do that; it doesn’t provide you with that. But food…when you sit down with another person - whether it’s your spouse or your child or your best friend or a group of colleagues – it’s an experience that no technology has replaced – none. So perhaps that’s why it’s even more important today than ever before.

When I see chefs like Grant Atchaz at Alinea...whether I appreciate the food or not, whether I think it’s worth the money or not, just the brain behind it, the science behind it, the creativity behind it…how I can produce X or Y, what can I do with this orange? These writers who are writing these articles – you’re actually telling me that you would kibosh what these people are doing? I come back to Van Gogh’s pigments – that all of the sudden he could do a 100 shades of yellow when in the past, a week before, he could only do twelve shades of yellow.

A journalist is to determine that we should only have the equivalent of twelve shades of yellow? How ridiculous is that…how limiting is that? Because we’ve had some amazing meals not spending hundreds or thousands of dollars for them.

You know, you almost have to break it down the way Miranda [Priestley in The Devil Wears Prada] – does - that’s her name, right? The number of people employed. It’s a business, it’s not just one person’s little fanciful thing.

It’s not about a $500 dinner. How many people are in that kitchen? How many people does it employ? All the artisans that make the plates that perhaps somebody ends up buying – what about that? And how many people who work in the kitchen end up going and opening their own restaurants? And then they employ people…it’s huge! It’s not that one meal. It’s not that green sweater or whatever she’s talking about.

**************************

And then we finished our wine, and realised we had stayed up way later than intended. But just before we went to bed, we watched that great monologue from The Devil Wears Prada one more time.

Yes food, like fashion, is at its heart a business, as Miranda says; it's also still magic, still mystery, still theatre and genius. "Weaponized food, food tortured and contorted beyond what is reasonable"? That's eating without imagination and a willingness to be whisked away on the chef's journey, wherever it may take you.

Next up: putting on a show at Eleven Madison Park

NB to our readers: Yes, we are still continuing on our quest! Eleven restaurants down, 14 to go. While we're way behind in posting about our adventures, please visit back soon to continue reading about where in the world Liz and Rich have dined next.

25 for 25: A Fine Kettle of Fish

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Tue, 18 Aug 2015 02:00:00 +0000

It took me all my life to learn how to salt a tomato

Chef Eric Ripert

T.S Eliot may have thought that April was the cruelest month, but I’m guessing he never visited New York City in February. Short dreary days; snow and slush at every step; a damp that can seep into your bones and settle in to stay until the spring thaw.

But there are ways to make even a New York February weekend transcend the elements. Take one opera, two stellar restaurants, three days and four fabulous friends, stir, season liberally with laugher and healthy helping of libations and you have it: our next adventure in our quest to eat at the top 25 World’s Best restaurants (you can read about that here).

New York is that miracle of a place – so many not just good but really great restaurants that your head can spin trying to decide where to eat. Luckily our options were pre-determined: of all those restaurants, Michelin stars, Zagat rankings and NYT four star reviews notwithstanding, only two were on the “list”: Eleven Madison Park and Le Bernardin.

The weekend was going to be hectic. I was flying in from Shanghai on Thursday night, and meeting up with Richard, Silvia and Jeff at the hotel. We’d grab a late dinner somewhere. Lunch at Le Bernardin on Friday, Carmen at the Met on Friday night, Eleven Madison on Saturday night. In between, squeezing as much out of New York as we could, weather and energy permitting.

Friday dawned brisk and crisp. Coffee for breakfast and barely much more…we wanted to be ready to savour our lunch at Le Bernardin. A luxury indeed: the whole afternoon ahead of us, a rare treat to have a gourmet meal on a weekday.

The restaurant is tucked away on 51st Street between 6th and 7th, the sign subtle, easy to walk by and miss. Once inside, however, the atmosphere could not be more welcoming. Le Bernardin is a soothing, beautiful clubby space with old school glamour and sophisticated details. Gleaming wood in a rich coffered ceiling, a silvery wall lit from below that has the shimmery effect of gently lapping waves, artfully arranged cherry blossoms towering over delicate orchids, all exuding a Zen-like calm and a measured cadence.

Chef Eric Ripert, he of the silver hair and dazzling smile, has been at the helm of Le Bernardin since the age of 28. Within a year, the New York Times gave the restaurant four stars, an honour it has maintained in the 20 years since, repeating the feat four times. A man of seemingly singular focus, Monsieur Ripert is that rare celebrity chef – one who is still cooking in the kitchen. He's also a Buddhist, and perhaps it is that which seems to create an air of complete serenity at Le Bernardin.

We opt for the eight course Chef’s Tasting menu. As with Arpege, the singular focus on a family of ingredients creates a special kind of mastery. Here, seafood is the star. Subtlety shapes every dish, delicate flesh translucent and raw, or perfectly cooked with a restrained sauce that lets the sea shine through.

And so begins the meal.

A crudo of bay scallops and sea urchin done ceviche style with a Granny Smith apple

and Meyer lemon vinaigrette

Warm king fish sashimi, generously topped with Osetra caviar and

finished with a light mariniere broth

Sautéed langoustine, topped with a perfect shave of black truffle and sprinkled chanterelle mushrooms, unexpectedly paired with an aged balsamic vinaigrette

White tuna and Kobe beef, with fresh kimchi, Asian pear and a soy-lemon emulsion

As the meal progresses, we notice a prevailing theme of earth and sea; whether in the use of the black truffle or chanterelles, the umami flavours complement but never overshadow their oceanic plate mates.

With the arrival of each dish, there is a reverent pause and then a collective groan of approval from the four of us. Around us the restaurant is full, the steady hum and laughter of diners well satisfied. So deeply are we into the meal and our lively conversation that Richard’s sudden refrain “There he is” “There he is” “THERE HE IS”, said in an increasingly loud and urgent whisper, take the three of us a few minutes to register. And indeed, there he is, the Chef himself, making his way quietly to the captain’s station, and then, impossibly, towards our table, stopping for a brief gracious moment to say hello.

Our friend Silvia is never at a loss for words. But as Chef Ripert quietly shook our hands, and we thanked him for a wonderful meal, she could only nod silently in assent. At such times the moment crystallises and becomes perfect, a memory captured that is fleeting but never forgotten. Words become irrelevant when the gift of a great food experience is this good.

It seems only fitting that the final dessert is distinctly Canadian in character: a maple candy cap cremeux with huckleberry confit.

The captain approaches our table, asking if perhaps we would like to see the kitchen? Bien sur! Lunch service has wound down and the kitchen team is busy preparing for the evening's onslaught, each stainless steel surface wiped clean and gleaming. Although Chef Ripert is not in the kitchen, that same air of watchful calmness prevails and we can imagine that even at the height of service, there are no raised voices or crashing plates.

If we had to sum up this, our second in a list of 25 world class meals, all of us agree that there are three words that spring to mind to describe it: subtle, sophisticated and refined, executed with an intense concentration and precision. I'm thinking it's the same precision that led Chef Ripert to learn how to salt that tomato perfectly.

Two down, 23 to go. If Arpege and Le Bernardin were numbers 25 and 23 on the list respectively, how great could good get?

Stay tuned for more...

Elizabeth and Richard

Next up: A Big Apple showstopper

Eric Ripert's Fish Fumet (Fish Stock)

from the Le Bernardin Cookbook

Makes 3 cups

I suspect a whole ocean of fish fumet has flowed through the kitchen at Le Bernardin. This recipe, like everything at Le Bernardin, is simple and delicious.

2 lbs. heads and bones from black bass, red snapper or halibut

2 tbsp corn oil

1 medium onion, peeled and very thinly sliced

1 leek, very thinly sliced

15 white peppercorns

½ tsp fine sea salt

1 sprig fresh Italian parsley

1 bay leaf

1 c dry white wine

3 c water

1. Remove the gills and the eyes from the fish heads or have your fishmonger do this for you.. Cut the heads and bones across into 4-inch pieces. In a shallow pan filled with cold water, add the heads and bones. Cover, and let stand for 1 hour, changing the water twice.

2. In a large stockpot set over medium heat, add corn oil, onions, fennel, leeks, peppercorns, salt, parsley, and bay leaf. Reduce the heat to medium low, and cook until the vegetables are soft but not browned, about 4 minutes.

3. Transfer heads and bones from water to the stockpot; discard water. Stir periodically until bones and flesh around bones turn from translucent to white, about 12 minutes.

4. Add the wine and 3 cups of water; bring to a boil over high heat. Boil fumet 10 minutes, skimming off the foam as it rises to the top. Remove from heat; let rest for 10 minutes.

5. Strain the fumet through a fine-mesh sieve or chinois, pressing firmly on the solids to extract as much of the flavourful liquid as possible. If you have more than 3 cups of fumet, place the liquid in a clean saucepan over high heat, and boil until it reduces to 3 cups. Store, tightly covered, in the refrigerator up to 3 days, or in the freezer up to 2 months.

25 for 25: What's in a Number?

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 19 Jul 2015 22:12:00 +0000

Last weekend we ate at Alinea. It was the ninth meal in our quest to eat at the top 25 restaurants in the world this year, in celebration of our 25^th wedding anniversary.

Except there was one small problem with eating at Alinea on July 10. The World’s Best list, which we’re using to plan our culinary journeys, comes out with their new list on June 1. What that meant for Alinea was that, overnight, the restaurant had gone from being ranked #9 in the world on the 2014 list to #26 on the new 2015 list, just shy of that “top 25” mark.

Two weeks ago the same thing happened. We ate at Restaurant Frantzen in Stockholm on June 27. Franzten was #23 on the 2014 list; after June 1, it had slipped to #31.

But here’s the thing. Those two meals alone were possibly the finest we’ve eaten so far on our culinary quest; and quite possibly ever.

It got us thinking: what’s in a number?

And more importantly, it got us thinking: what makes a meal – and therefore a restaurant – great?

It’s no surprise that we’ve concluded there is no one answer, nor is there one authoritative source.

Restaurant critics do a lot of heavy lifting for us. The best visit the same place more than once, going with different diners, to form an opinion that is shaped over time. The very best can distinguish between consistently excellent experiences that may on occasion be distorted by variables beyond a restaurant’s control: an off night for the kitchen; a food delivery gone astray; a crucial shortage of staff on a night with a full house.

And of course today, every diner has become an instant expert. Whether we’ve been designated a “senior reviewer” on Trip Advisor; an “elite” contributor on Yelp or we frequent Chowhound forums imparting local knowledge to strangers that rely on us to make their precious restaurant reservations, everyone, as the saying goes, is a critic, with a decided point of view.

The simple alchemy of Bjorn Frantzen's brown butter, with a taste that lingers still

As we’ve reflected on the nine meals we’ve had so far – each extraordinary in some way, each with a touch or more of pure culinary magic and wonder – what we’ve concluded is this.

Numbers, lists and designations do matter. But they are merely there as guideposts, markers that help us decipher and choose where to eat from amongst an ever increasing pool of restaurants that spring up like mushrooms, too numerous to count, too many to frequent.

A dining experience, after all, is a most personal thing – a moment that you and your dining companions alone have, bringing with you to the table all of your expectations, biases, hopes and desires.

The wonderful meals we’ve had in the past few months have been part ballet, part magic show and all theatre. Watching a team working the room, gliding seamlessly around each other and between tables, is performance art, happening all around you. Each employee – whether cooking in an open kitchen in front of you, or shyly describing a dish they’ve made, a wine they’ve selected, the provenance of your knife or edible flower – is partnering with you in your dining adventure and what they bring to the table goes far beyond the plate.

At the heart of it all is the chef as artist. Whether we’re amateur eaters or professional critics, the same subjectivity that makes us prefer a Pollack to a Degas is at play here. And just as in art, trends start as underground movements and before you know it, we’re all foraging for our next meal.

(left: Grant Achatz's dessert as art creation, composed in front of you with sugar instead of paint)

The World’s 50 Best is but one measure of a restaurant’s greatness. We’ve had people weighing in with very strong opinions about what we should do with these two lists – Stick with the original 2014 list! Use the new 2015 list! One thing we know for sure. What nine meals have taught us so far is that - regardless of number – all of these places live in rarified air. And what delicious rarified air it is.

Coming up next: a fish tale and making it nice in the kitchen in New York.

Until next time,

Elizabeth and Richard

25 for 25: Cooking for the Senses at Arpege

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 31 May 2015 21:40:00 +0000

My creativity comes from nature – and the smell and colour of vegetables and fruits are, for me, a real source of inspiration. I try to respond emotionally to nature in order to respect it fully.

Chef Alain Passard

The first restaurant report in our series 25 for 25, in which we chronicle our dining adventures at the world's 25 best restaurants. Richard shares our meal at L'Arpege in Paris.

Elizabeth and I had happily accepted friends offer to ring in the New Year in the south of France. Our friends' restored farmhouse is perfectly located in the heart of the "golden triangle" of Provence, in Maussanes-les Alpilles, and a short drive to the delicious wineries of the Rhone, concentrating almost exclusively on the Syrah varietal, featuring Cote-Rotie, Saint-Joseph, Crozes-Hermitage, Cornas and of course, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, perhaps the best known wine of the region.

Having ate and drank our way into 2015 in the sleepy ambiance of off-season Provence, and with Maussane-les-Alpilles being a hop, skip and a jump (otherwise know as a train ride) from Paris, we decided we would end our French holiday by adding a couple of days in Paris, one of our favourite cities and - more importantly - the home of Arpege, number 25 on San Pellegrino World's 50 Best list.

So…..come hell or high water, we weren’t leaving Paris without kicking off our culinary marathon. Chef Alain Passard, one of France’s greatest and most influential chefs, opened Arpege in 1986 and within a year, Chef Passard had collected his first star from the Michelin firmament. By 1996, Arpege had three Michelin stars, which the restaurant has held onto since, firmly establishing Arpege’s position as one of the brightest beacons in the restaurant constellation.

Our reservations were secured for eight pm the night before we were to leave Paris. Even though Arpege is tucked away in the 7th arrondissement at the corner of Rue de Bourgogne and Rue de Varenne, our taxi driver knew exactly where it was.

The elegant yet unassuming Art Deco dining room is warm, comfortable and intimate. On the dark and chilly Monday night we dined, the cozy room was full, but not crowded. Old school formality, crisp white linens, everyone from a young family celebrating a birthday, a table of business colleagues on a splurge, to two Asian tourists minutely examining every bite and a young couple on a date.

Over a perfectly chilled glass of Marguet Champagne, we reviewed the menu and agreed that the Terre et Mer 12 course tasting menu was the way to go. Although the tasting menu features meat and fish, Passard's true mastery is with vegetables, with the restaurant for a time only serving vegetarian fare. All the vegetables served at the restaurant come from one of the restaurant's organic gardens in the Sarthe, Eure and Manche regions of northern France.

Chef Passard cooks for the senses - his philosophy evident from the very first palate pleaser. Each course striking, at various levels, our sense of taste, smell, sight and even our sense of touch with the many different yet subtle textures.

His passion for all things vegetable is evident through out his career as well as his cooking. Since 2002, with the help of six farmers, Chef Passard has not only grown his own vegetables but at his garden in Fillé sur Sarthe, has created an entirely pesticide-free ecosystem where, with the help of a beehive, pollination is ensured and honey is produced. Perches, trees and shrubs planted to welcome birds and raptors, ponds to support amphibian life and strategically placed stones to house weasels, hedgehogs and reptiles. Thus joining the hands of the grower with those of the cook.

The first “official” course in our degustation was Chef Passard’s famous Chaud Froid d’Oeuf au Sirop d’Erable: Warm-Cold Egg with Maple Syrup. Reminiscent of a soft boiled egg and served in its shell, the magic of this dish rests in its simplicity: a warm egg yolk at the centre, surrounded by a room temperature cloud of lightly whipped cream with a splash of Sherry vinegar and finished with a touch of maple syrup. C'est magnifique!

The attentive and knowledgeable staff brought at a leisurely pace course after course, suggesting wine pairings to go alongside. Although the tasting menu listed 12 courses, by the end of the evening, we would count 17 courses, including several amuse bouche and one or two additional dessert bouchées….just because.

Even these several months later, the tastes still dance on our tongues. Each dish truly a marriage of "Terre et Mer" - earth and sea. Below a description of a few of our favourites. From left to right:

Bouquet de homard de Chausey acidule au miel de notre jardin: A "bouquet" of ceviche-style Chausey lobster acidified with the farm's honey, served on paper thin globe turnip. A marriage of earthiness and delicacy. Served with Leon Beyer Cuvee des Comtes d'Eguisheim 2013 (Riesling)

Huitre de Marennes-Olerons au vinaigre d’Orleans: One perfectly plump and briny oyster from Marennes-Olerons with a soupcon of Orleans-style vinegar and finished with new garlic and black truffle. This was my favourite amongst a standout menu. Served with Leon Beyer Cuvee des Comtes d'Eguisheim 2013 (Riesling)

Chaud Froid d’Oeuf au Sirop d’Erable: Airy, delightful and unexpected. See below for the recipe. Served with: Singulier Clos de Renards 2013 (Chenin)

Celerisotto cremeux au caviar “krystal”: A "risotto" made of perfectly braised and creamy celery with Parmigiano Reggiano and topped with plump, briny and buttery caviar. Served with Leon Beyer Cuvee des Comtes d'Eguisheim 2013 (Riesling)

Pot Pie a la Louise Passard: Okay this isn't what this was really called but for some reason neither Elizabeth nor I can recall the name of this dish, nor was it named on the menu. Was it a special extra treat? We don't know but what we do know was that it was a creamy mix of chicken and winter vegetables encased in the most flaky and delicious pâte. Served with: Tenuta Enza la Fauci Obli 2010 (Nero d'Avola blend)

Jardiniere Arlequin et merguez vegetale a l’harrisa: Elizabeth's favourite dish, this was a simple showcase of the harvest of Passard's seasonal garden: beets, black radish, artichoke, carrots, dressed with harrisa. Served with: Etienne Sauzet Puligny-Montrachet 2011 (Chardonnay)

Grande rotisserie d’heritage Louise Passard: A dish hearkening back to the chef's grandmother, Louise Passard (whose portrait graces the restaurant's dining room), veal was the star of this dish, perfectly pink, meltingly tender and flavourful. Served with: Tenuta Enza la Fauci Obli 2010 (Nero d'Avola blend)

Peche cotiere du Golfe du Morbihan au “Cotes du Juras”: Coastal turbot served with black truffle and a smoky sauce. Etienne Sauzet Puligny-Montrachet 2011 (Chardonnay)

Comté Grande Garde exceptionnelle á la truffe noire: One generous slice of exceptional Comte cheese, even more generously shaved with fresh black truffle. Served with: Tenuta Enza la Fauci Obli 2010 (Nero d'Avola blend)

A beautiful meal, and an auspicious start to our culinary journey. If this was number 25, who knew what further amazing food adventures awaited us?

Until the next meal,
Richard

PS. See below for the recipe of Alain Passard's Chaud Froid d’Oeuf au Sirop d’Erable.

Up next: A new list and a new journey?

RECIPE: Alain Passard's Chaud Froid d’Oeuf au Sirop d’Erable
(from The Paris Cookbook, Patrica Wells)
6 servings

4 tablespoons heavy cream
About 3/4 teaspoon sherry vinegar, or to taste
Sea salt to taste
6 very fresh eggs at room temperature
2 teaspoons finely minced fresh chives
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
About 2 teaspoons maple syrup

Equipment:
An egg cutter or a very sharp knife, 6 porcelain egg cups

1. Place a bowl in the freezer for at least 30 minutes. In the chilled bowl, whisk the cream until soft peaks form. Season with the sherry vinegar and sea salt. Set aside.

2. Place an egg in your hand, tapered end up. Using an egg cutter of a very sharp knife, carefully slice off about the top third of the eggshell. Carefully pour the egg white out of the shell into a small bowl, holding back the yolk with the flat side of a knife. (Reserve the white for another use.) With a damp paper towel, wipe the bottom of the shell. Place the shell in a porcelain egg cup. (If you return the eggs to the egg carton, they are likely to stick and will be impossible to remove later.) Repeat with the remaining eggs.

3. Select a large, shallow skillet that is large enough to hold the eggshells in a single layer. Add water to about 2 inches in depth. Bring just to a simmer.

4. Carefully lift the eggshells from the egg cups and place them in the simmering water (the eggshells should just bob on top of the water). Cook just until the yolk begins to set around the edges, about 3 minutes. Using your fingertips, carefully remove the eggshells from the water and return them to the egg cups.

5. Sprinkle each cooked egg yolk with minced chives. Season with sea salt and pepper. Then carefully spoon the whipped cream over the yolk up to the rim of each egg cup. Drizzle with maple syrup, and serve immediately.

25 for 25

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sat, 16 May 2015 02:52:00 +0000

In 1990 Alain Ducasse was the youngest chef ever to receive 3 Michelin stars, at Restaurant Louis XV. The world’s biggest McDonald’s opened its doors in Moscow in 1990, and the introduction of a new food pyramid that year once again admonished us to eat a variety of foods, maintain a healthy weight and choose a diet with plenty of fruits, vegetables and grains.

That was also the year we got married. Neither a lover of McDonald's nor a gourmand with aspirations to go to Monaco, it was enough that I was trying in my own small way to learn to cook for two in a tiny kitchen that was no bigger than a walk in closet.

It wasn’t until 1995 that we had our first Michelin dining experience. Paris. A beautiful June day. The Place des Vosges, and a coveted table at L’Ambroisie. Je suis désolé de le dire seulement une table à déjeuner est disponible, madame. Only a table available at lunch? C’est pas grave! We’ll take it. It was our first trip to France, and we were in the gourmet capital of the world, n’est pas? Surely a Michelin meal was in order.

A menu full of phrases even my French speaking husband didn’t quite understand. Mine without prices, my husband quickly calculating that the cost of the simple seasonal soup was more than our entire dinner the night before. The sommelier expertly opening our prized half bottle of wine and swirling, tasting, discarding! the first precious sip before delicately pouring us a glassful. Predating the ubiquitous iPhone, and certainly the brashness of food bloggers whipping out a camera to digitally record every mouthful and amuse bouche, the meal remains a blur of sensations, at once elevated, subtle and oh so French.

While we’ve had our share of memorable Michelin meals in the years between that Paris lunch and today, stars were not the lens through which we judged a meal’s greatness. And yet the quest for the next delicious taste – whether a burger or a bouillabaisse – has remained insatiable. Planning a trip starts with not “what shall we do?” but “where shall we eat?”

Fast forward to 2015, and our 25th wedding anniversary.

It seemed inevitable that we would go on a trip of some sort – after all, this is the age of the “experience", the “moment”, or the collection of moments; trips that can fill a memory card and a memory bank full with stories to talk about, perhaps even to brag about a little. Where, however, was another question.

And that’s when my brilliant husband conceived of the best journey of all.

“Instead of going on a trip,” said Richard, late last November, “why don’t we try to go to the Top 25 Restaurants in the world over the course of 2015?"

My heart stopped and then raced forward. A grand adventure! Full of food and planes, exotic locales and crazy chefs, foraged ingredients and time honored traditions. Of course I knew which 25 restaurants he meant. Ever since Restaurants magazine introduced the San Pellegrino World's 50 Best list in 2002, the imaginations of food adventurers the world over have been captured, each year's list revealing new innovators alongside the elder statesmen of cuisine. We knew Noma was number one the current list, but as to who rounded out the rest of the World's 50 Best, I could only guess at. It didn't really matter. I was in.

And so has begun a journey of a thousand bites. Scaling the Mount Everest of food has its perils and pitfalls. Would we really be able to go from Stockholm to Singapore, from Lima to London, from Modena to Manhattan, in a mere 12 months? And what would happen when the new list came out on June 1, midway through our trek? Would we change course? Or would we approach this more organically, choosing 25 from that illustrious list of 50, position be damned?

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure of the answers to all of those questions. What I do know is that we have thus far had six amazing meals (yes, we are seriously off pace!); that each experience has been delightful, delicious and slightly surreal; that our mad adventure has begun to capture imaginations and that we've never had so many people want to join us for dinner before.

So, dear readers, consider yourselves invited. We'll be chronicling our adventures here at duckandcake and sharing every delicious morsel, including our favorite dishes, must have treats, behind the scenes peeks when we can (we've visited four kitchens so far), and travel tips of destinations both dearly familiar and wonderfully new. Richard and I will take turns with the writing, and perhaps you'll be able to guess rather quickly which of us has a weakness for fois gras and who chooses chocolate first.

But really, in the end, it's not about the list or rankings. As we celebrate a very special moment in our lives, above all, we want to share that celebration with the amazingly passionate teams of people who spend their waking hours dreaming about food, and creating magic with the simplest of ingredients, every single day.

We hope you enjoy the journey as much as we do.

Elizabeth and Richard

First on the menu: a Parisian classic that elevates the humble vegetable to delicious heights

Bidding Tomatoes Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 05 Oct 2014 16:20:00 +0000

Sunday morning. Early October. The topsheet on the bed is as crisp as the air outside, inviting burrowing underneath the suddenly too-light summer duvet. While it's not quite frost season, it's time to cut the garden back, bring in the bougainvillia, fortify the birdfeeders.

Breakfast is an easy choice. The last of the season's tomatoes are on the kitchen counter, lovingly chosen yesterday from amongst the farmers' market baskets and trestle tables. Beautifully misshapen and scarred, they bear no resemblance to the artificially red and wooden too-perfect orbs that pile abundantly in the supermarket.

I bite into my warm toasted tomato sandwich, mayonnaise and salt mingling with the impossible-to-describe sweet tartness of my tomato treasure. The long winter is ahead and I'm already counting down the days until next August's harvest.

Delicious Dish: Versatile Parmigiana di Melanzane

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sat, 19 Apr 2014 01:04:00 +0000

Just about this time of year I start dreaming about Italy. Well, truth be told, I’m always dreaming about Italy, but now, as spring creeps forward on tippy toe feet and the pale green shoots are breaking ground in my barren garden, I imagine a more fertile, far-away landscape.

Places linger, but people make every moment in Italy come alive, and nowhere does this happen than through the glorious food of Italy, and nowhere is it more delightful than when you get to eat - or better yet make - that food alongside a passionate Italian.

Lunch at Fattoria di Montechiari winery in Tuscany

I was reliving one of those moments when I pulled out a recipe for parmigiana di melanzane recently. Let’s be clear. I don’t mean eggplant parmesan, that greasy, gooey and way too cheesy stuff slathered with tomato sauce that’s a shade too red for comfort. No, this is the real deal, made with care in a few simple steps with truly excellent ingredients. The best thing about parmigiana di melanzane is its versatility: an elegant starter for a dinner party; part of brunch spread, or even as a lovely side for grilled meats.

The wizard behind this brilliantly simple and delicious recipe is Paola Zocchi, co-owner with her husband Stefano of the magical La Palazzetta del Vescovo in Umbria. If you are venturing to the green heart of Italy, as Umbria is known, seek out this secluded gem of an inn within viewing distance of Todi.

Breakfast al fresco at La Palazzetta del Vescovo

While there is plenty to do and see in the area, one of my favourite memories was the afternoon we spent in Paola’s immaculate kitchen, learning to cook Italian classics. Paola's recipe for parmigiana di melanzane has become a go-to staple. The perfect make ahead dish, and freezable to boot, these mini melanzane treats are a great addition any meal, all year long.

Paola in her element in the kitchen, making pasta and preparing gelatin for panna cotta

Paola’s Parmigiana di Melanzane

makes 8-10 individual ramekins

3 medium eggplants
Kosher salt
3 large mozzarella balls, preferably bufalo di mozzarella, chopped into ½ cubes
1½ c finely grated parmigiano reggiano cheese; more as needed
Tomato sauce, either homemade (see recipe below), or any good quality unseasoned commercial tomato sauce, about 2 cups
Breadcrumbs (optional)

8-10 1 c ramekins; aluminum cups work fine here too!

1. Preheat oven to 350˚F/180˚C.

2. Line two large cookie sheets with paper towels. Peel the eggplant, cut into ½ inch slices, and lay out the slices, slightly overlapping to make them fit. Sprinkle liberally with kosher salt and let sit for 30 minutes.

3. Rinse the eggplant to remove the salt and dry the slices well by laying them out on fresh paper or tea towels. Using a griddle pan, stovetop grill or barbecue, lightly grill the eggplant slices until golden. Set aside.

4. To assemble: spray the ramekins with nonstick spray and sprinkle with breadcrumbs. In each ramekin, place one slice eggplant, followed by a tablespoon or two of tomato sauce, a few cubes of mozzarella, and a tablespoon or two of parmigiana. Repeat until each ramekin is nearly full. Finish with a slice of eggplant, tomato sauce and final sprinkle of parmigiana.

5. Place ramekins on a baking sheet and bake for 30 minutes, or until the cheese is melted, golden brown and bubbling.

6. Cool slightly and serve warm or at room temperature. If freezing, cool completely before freezing.

Paola's Homemade Tomato Sauce
makes about 3 cups

1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 small garlic clove, whole, peeled
1 whole, dried peperoncino or red pepper flakes (see note below)*
1 700 ml bottle Italian passata**
Water

Two pinches salt, or to taste

½ tsp sugar

1. Put the oil, garlic and peperoncino in a medium saucepan over medium heat, and heat until the garlic and peperoncino are fragrant. Remove garlic and pepperoncino.

2. Add passata and about 1¼ cups water. Add two pinches of salt (or to taste) and 1 tsp of sugar. Simmer for one hour. Can be made ahead and refrigerated or frozen.

*Peperoncino: You know the shaker jars of red pepper flakes at your local Italian restaurant? That is the more common version of peperoncino that is readily available in the spice section of your bulk food or grocery store. Do try to find the whole small peperoncini (about the size of your baby finger); they will impart a bit of barely perceptible zing without overpowering your sauce. If you are using the flakes, tie a small quantity in a bit of cheescloth so you can remove them easily.

**Italian passata: There's a link above that explains what passata is: basically a very pure version of uncooked tomato puree. If you can't find this at your grocery store or you don't have an Italian grocer nearby, use whole peeled canned tomatoes, pureed and strained to remove seeds and skin, enough to measure approx 3 cups.

A Taste of Summer: Perfect Peach-Ginger Pie

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Tue, 27 Aug 2013 03:24:00 +0000

There are certain foods that have a fleeting life, their peak flavours sharpened by memory and desire. Tomatoes have long been my obsession; I can't bear the thought of not having my fill of that juicy, sweet and acidic burst of summer.

But lately I have a new diversion. How is it that I never noticed how perfect a perfectly ripe peach really is? The joy of finding one that is both firm and juicy, not too soft, the juices running down my chin, the flesh ripping away cleanly from the stone at the centre.

When I can buy them by the basketful that’s when the fun really starts. Peach salsa. Buttery peach brioche. Peach-plum ginger jam. And my newest peach obsession: peach pie.

I wanted to think about how to create a new flavour profile for this pie; something that added depth without overpowering the indescribable taste of a fresh peach. The lovely ginger zing of my peach-plum jam was playing in my mind, but I knew that, sadly, the lone piece of ginger in the house was well past its due date.

As with so much of cooking, the answer was right in front of me, or rather right in my fridge. At this year's Big Summer Potluck, I came home with a treasure trove of Gourmet Garden goodies. Do you you know Gourmet Garden? It's the brilliant solution to having every fresh herb you could wish for at your fingertips, beautifully preserved and ready to use a dollop at a time. No more soggy cilantro or past-its-prime parsley. Best of all, no more withered stub of gingerroot hidden at the bottom of my crisper.

With a tube of Gourmet Garden's fresh ginger paste at hand, I knew I had the perfect complement to my perfect peaches - and the makings of a peachy pie. Fresh made easy, indeed.

Peach Pie

makes one 9" pie

2 ½ lbs peaches, peeled, pitted and sliced

¾ c sugar

1 tbsp lemon juice (Meyer lemons if you have them)

2 tsp grated lemon zest

1 tbsp fresh grated ginger or 1 tbsp Gourmet Garden Ginger Paste

½ tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp mace

¼ tsp salt

3 tbsp instant tapioca, ground

½ c ground gingersnaps
Your favourite pie dough, enough for a double crust pie. Mine is here.
1 egg, lightly beaten

1. Preheat oven to 425F.

2. In a medium saucepan, cook peaches, sugar, lemon juice, zest, ginger, cinnamon, mace and salt over medium-low heat for 10 minutes. Take off heat and stir in tapioca.

3. Prepare pie dough by rolling out a 10" inch round for the bottom. Fit the dough into your pie pan and sprinkle the gingersnap crumbs evenly along the bottom. Let the dough rest in the fridge for 10 minutes before proceeding.

4. Pour the peach mixture evenly into the pan. Brush the edges of the dough with the beaten egg. Top the pie with another round of dough and crimp the edges. Make a few decorative slits on the pie top. Let the dough rest again for 10 minutes before baking. This pie is very pretty with a lattice top too.*

5. Bake the pie on the middle rack of the oven for 10 minutes at 425F. Lower the heat to 350F, and bake for another 40 to 50 minutes, or until the top is golden and the juices of the fruit are bubbling.

*Hint for lattice top lovers: make the lattice top on a piece of parchment paper, and once done, slip it on a cutting board and into the freezer for a few minutes. It will be much easier to position on the pie.

Storytelling and a Big Summer Potluck

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Wed, 14 Aug 2013 00:30:00 +0000

Part of the generous breakfast feast at BSP4

I’ve been trying to find my way into a story about the latest Big Summer Potluck. I had an idea that I would write about storytelling itself; the power and magic that’s inherent in hearing someone share something deeply personal, meaningful, or just plain funny. The way that a room full of half strangers, half friends, can be woven together over tales of beekeeping, bread, ice cream bars and boyfriends. About why hunger is more than handouts and how determination and a small idea can grow and help create community. Or maybe the moment when, with a startled gasp, you recognise yourself in the story being told.

I’ve been thinking the story would be about wearing green to remind myself to be good to the earth; about the incredible will of a lone woman to win over a powerful tortilla machine; about shortbread cookies and rhubarb shrubs.

Or maybe it would be about once-a-year friendships that rekindle over pulled pork and coconut cake. About sponsors who give much more than products and prizes. About generosity of spirit and a welcoming hospitality that’s as big as the state of Pennsylvania and as intimate as a family gathering.

The beautiful Anderson home: cool and serene on the outside,
warm as a bear hug on the inside

As I pour through my too few photos and my fulsome memories, I'm reminded that stories unfold over time and space, that the telling in one place of a singular event might capture the essence, but not the whole. But that's okay. Because I know I will be telling stories, as I have already done, about this extraordinary weekend for months to come.

The official kick-off potluck dinner

Sabra fed us in the morning and gave us great snacks for the

journey home

OXO treated all BSP attendees with the tools of their choice and hosted an Instragram contest...

...which I won in the Bakers' category! Can't wait to pick out my new OXO tools

With special thanks to:

Maggy, Erika and Pam, our amazing hosts

Joe, Jeni, Jessica, Robyn, Coach Mark, Jessamyn, Brian and Abby,
our inspiring speakers and teachers

OXO, KitchenAid, Gourmet Garden, and the rest of the generous and delicious sponsors

Sliding into the Super Bowl: Chicken and Apple Sliders

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 23:34:00 +0000

Growing up in Windsor, a small Canadian city in southwestern Ontario just across the border from Detroit, you could not help but be immersed in American culture, no matter what your passport said. Mega American malls, with their low prices, huge selection and a Target at every corner, were just 30 minutes away. Grocery stores beckoned with seemingly endless aisles, full of exotic foods we couldn't get at home (marshmallow Fluff! Vernor's gingerale! Swiss Miss cocoa mix!).

The American food culture wasn’t just confined to those US shores. Windsor was the perfect test market for fast food, American style, of every kind. The city could boast of Canada’s first Arby’s and Taco Bell, and Domino’s Pizza was as familiar – if not as good – as our own hometown choices.

But perhaps my favourite guilty pleasure was something that never did find its way across the river into Windsor. White Castle burgers, with their thin distinctive square shape, holes for faster frying, and bite sized proportions, could be eaten by the bagful, and they were. The strangely quaint stores, with their faux turrets, somehow didn’t seem out of place in the urban sprawl of the Motor City.

It's been many years since I've had a White Castle, and, I confess, quite some time since I've craved one. But I still love a flavourful bite-sized treat, and these chicken and apple sliders are a grown-up take on a snack that you can eat by the handful. So, in honour of that most decidely American annual tradition, the Super Bowl, make a dozen or three of these, adapted from another American classic, The Joy of Cooking. They may not conjure up nostalgia, but they'll be a winning addition to your Super Bowl feast.

Chicken and Apple Sliders
makes approx. three dozen small patties
(adapted from The Joy of Cooking)

¾ c apple cider

¼ c Calvados
2¼ lb bone-in chicken thighs with skin
2 oz dried apple rings

1 scant tbsp kosher salt

1 tsp coarsely ground black pepper
1 tsp rubbed sage

⅛ tsp cinnamon

⅛ tsp ground ginger

To finish and garnish:

3 dozen mini hamburger or ciabatta buns, toasted

Lettuce of your choice (I used micro arugula greens)

Carmelised onions (make your own or use a good quality store bought brand)

1. Preheat oven to 350˚F.

2. In a small saucepan, bring apple cider and Calvados to a boil and then simmer, reducing liquid to 3 tbsps. Let cool.

3. Bone the chicken thighs, reserving the skin. Cut the meat and skin into strips. Coarsely chop the dried apple rings. Grind the meat, chicken skin and dried apple pieces together in a meat grinder. (If using a food processor, cut the meat, skin and apples into small cubes).

Using a meat grinder ensures a uniform texture and a good blending of the dried apple and chicken

4. In a large bowl, combine the ground meat mixture with the reserved apple syrup and the remaining spice ingredients. Blend the mixture thoroughly with your hands until all of the ingredients are well combined. Form the meat into small patties, big enough to fit on a mini hamburger or mini ciabatta bun. *

5. Place on an ungreased baking sheet and bake for 10 to 15 minutes, or until cooked through.

6. To serve, place a piece of lettuce on each bun, top with a slider and finish with a generous dollop of carmelised onions.

*NB. The uncooked patties can be frozen at this stage for up to two months. To serve, bake from frozen on an ungreased baking sheet at 350˚F for 20-25 minutes, or until cooked through.

Taking the Chill out of Winter: Apple-Ginger Hot Toddy with Calvados

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 05:21:00 +0000

Brew me a cup for a winter's night.

For the wind howls loud and the furies fight;

Spice it with love and stir it with care,

And I'll toast our bright eyes,

my sweetheart fair
Minna Thomas Antrim

There is much to love, I think, about winter. Blazing hot logs in the fireplace; the crunch of snow on a blinding bright sunny winter’s day; the brilliant flash of cardinals lingering at the bird feeder, their song calling to the more timid house finches and chickadees. Cosy thick sweaters; cashmere scarves soft as a baby’s cheek. The days inching longer and with them, the promise of spring.

But winter has its dark underbelly too. Dreary naked branches longing for green; slushy wet snow that seeps into your boots and between your toes. The monotony of root vegetables and wooden tomatoes. And worst of all...the dreaded spectre of colds and flu. My usual stamina and boundless energy often get caught unawares, a cold creeping in on cat’s feet and settling in for a long winter’s nap.

As I try and shake off the vestiges of a lingering cough, I do the sensible thing and make a steaming hot toddy full of natural goodness and a little bit of something stiffer. By the time I’ve drained the last spicy dregs, I feel the warmth seeping down to my toes and my eyes drooping. Winter may not be over, but my cold, on its last shaky legs, totters out the door.

Apple-Ginger Hot Toddy with Calvados

Makes one serving

This toddy uses a generous amount of cayenne pepper, rich in capsaicin. An ancient remedy for all sorts of ills, cayenne is also known to have anti-irritant properties, easing sore throats and lingering coughs. If you prefer a milder version either reduce the amount or eliminate the cayenne entirely.

1 c apple cider, heated

1 oz Calvados, or more to taste*
Three thick slices fresh ginger, cut in slivers

Generous pinch cayenne pepper, or to taste

1 cinnamon stick
1 lemon wedge, spiked with three whole cloves
The juice of ½ lemon

1 tsp honey (more to taste)

1 ginger teabag (I use Pukka Three Ginger Tea)

*Calvados, a French brandy from Normandy, adds an extra glow to this toddy

Combine all of the ingredients in a large mug and top with boiling water. Let steep for at least five minutes. Scoop out the solids and the teabag, leaving just the lemon wedge. Wrap up in your favourite blanket, sit back and enjoy.

Piercing the lemon with cloves is a practical way to avoid swallowing

one whole...

Magical natural ingredients: lemon, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cayenne and honey combine with calvados, apple cider and tea to fight the worst of winter's chills

Autumn Canning: Two-Step Carmelized Pear-Ginger Marmalade

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 18 Nov 2012 22:13:00 +0000

In canning, there are no mistakes, only opportunities.

But that wisdom is hard-won, and not so obvious the first time you burn a batch of jam, or over-process the marmalade until it's as stiff and unyielding as hardened honey. These seeming failures can be transformed into something quite wonderful by the addition of one simple ingredient: imagination.

I learned that first from Marisa McClennan of Food in Jars. This summer I watched Marisa making plum jam in front of a group of 80 food bloggers in less than ideal conditions: a picturesque but sticky hot barn; a tabletop cooking element that could barely get the jam to boil and wouldn't work if the fan was on. Marisa carried on as if she was in the comfort of her own kitchen, expertly working her alchemy on simple fruit and sugar, and teaching us how to recognise when the critical "gel" stage had been reached.

"If you keep cooking the jam and it won't set, just call it preserves and carry on," she said casually. "No one will know the difference and it will still be delicious." Sage advice indeed.

I was reminded of this last week when I was making pear-ginger marmalade for the first time. A simple recipe, a familiar technique...but just an extra few minutes on the stove turned the marmalade from "set" to a shade too brown, the whole thing seconds from being burnt. A thicky, gooey - but still delicious - bit of a mess.

What if this became carmelized marmalade instead of plain old pear-ginger marmalade? What if I made another batch in equal measure, cooked by five minutes less, and the two batches combined into one delightful whole? I'd have twice the marmalade, with a deep caramel flavour that added a richness that the original recipe lacked.

An opportunity presented. Imagination deployed. And a delectable new addition to my canning repertoire.

Two-Batch Carmelized Pear-Ginger Marmalade
yields 6-8 half pint jars

This marmalade is made in two steps: the first batch of marmalade is cooked slightly longer to allow the sugar to carmelize and the colour to deepen. You will repeat steps one through three for each batch. Each step can be done one after the other, or each batch can be made one after the other. Either way, you will be cooking the marmalade in two steps.

For each batch of marmalade, you will need the following ingredients. Be sure to buy enough of everything.

4 limes
8 cups peeled, cored and diced firm but ripe pears
3 cups granulated sugar
¼ c crystallised ginger, diced
1¼ c water

1. Using a zester, remove lime peel in very thin strips from three of the limes. Set peel aside in a small bowl. Juice all four of the limes and and put the juice in a large non reactive bowl.

A zester makes easy work of stripping the limes of their

fragrant peel

2. Prep eight cups of pears by peeling, coring and dicing them, adding each pear to the lime juice as you go, and stirring gently to coat with lime juice. Add the sugar and the ginger, and stir gently one final time until all the ingredients are well combined. Set aside for one hour.

3. While the pears are macerating, in a small pot, combine lime peel and water. Bring to a boil and cook about 15 minutes, until peel is tender and most of liquid is evaporated. Drain liquid, adding it to pear mixture. Set rind aside.

For Carmelized Marmalade (Batch One)
Put the pear mixture in a large, non-reactive pot, and bring to a boil over medium heat. Boil hard, stirring frequently and skimming foam as it gathers, for 15 minutes. Add lime peel and boil until mixture begins to deepen in colour and the sugar carmelizes, no more than an additional 5 minutes. Watch the marmalade closely. As soon as the mixture begins to carmelize and thicken, take off the heat immediately. Set aside while you prepare the second batch.

When doing the first batch of marmalade, look for a deep caramel colour and immediately remove from the heat to prevent scorching

For Batch Two
Prepare the second batch of marmalade, following steps 1 through 3 above. When you bring the pear mixture to a boil, add the lime peel after 10 minutes and do not boil for longer than 15 minutes.

The second batch will lighter in colour and not as thick

While the second batch is cooking, gently heat the first batch until it is hot. When both batches are done, combine them thoroughly and ladle hot marmalade into prepared sterilized jars. Process in a hot water bath 10 minutes. Remove the jars and let the marmalade cool completely.

This delicious marmalade is equally good as sweet treat on rich pannetone or as an accompaniment for a cheese plate.

Seasonal Sensation: Maple-Baked Lady Apples with Herbed Goat Cheese

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 07:58:00 +0000

“What are you going to do with those? Decoration?” said the cashier as she eyed my purchase dubiously and weighed the bag. “Not for eating, right?”

I was in one of those small and chi chi produce shops where every gleaming pristine piece of fruit is placed just so, where tomatoes are always in season, and where you can pay a king’s ransom for strawberries the size of golf balls. The kind of place the Brits would call a greengrocer and what I usually call a bit of a swindle.

There is one advantage to such a store however and it’s this; they’ll bring in the oddities that mainstream grocers won’t. Three types of radicchio flown in from Treviso; fresh porcini mushrooms; wild blueberries, tiny and sweet. Those treasures are seasonal and all the more precious because of it; better buy some today, because next week they may be gone.

I had been on the hunt for one such prize and I wasn’t disappointed. There, almost hidden from view, a bushel, filled to brim with tiny colourful Lady apples.

I knew exactly what I was going to do with these little beauties: give them an autumnal spin in the oven and then stuff them with herbed goat cheese. A perfect one bite seasonal sensation. Yes, they were for eating. But they sure look pretty too.

Baked Lady Apples Stuffed with Herbed Goat Cheese

makes 12

1 dozen Lady apples

¼-½ maple syrup

½-¾ c softened plain goat cheese

2-3 sprigs fresh thyme

1 large sprig fresh rosemary; more for garnish

1 1. Preheat the oven to 350˚F.

2 2. Cut the tops off of the Lady apples, brush the undersides with maple syrup and set aside. With a melon baller, scoop out the inner flesh of the apples, making sure to get any bits of seed. As you cut each apple, brush the cavity generously with maple syrup.

3 3. Place the apples, cut side up, and the tops, cut side down, on a large baking sheet. Bake for 20-30 minutes, or until the apples are softened but not mushy. The tops may be ready more quickly; if so, take them out and set them aside to cool while the apples continue to bake.

4 4. While the apples are baking, prepare the goat cheese filling. Chop the herbs finely and mix them into the cheese, incorporating fully.

5 5. When the apples are done, let them cool for 10 minutes. Fill each cavity with a generous spoonful of goat cheese, top each apple with a “lid” and finish off with a decorative sprig of rosemary in each apple. The apples can be made ahead and stuffed, covered and refrigerated. Bring to room temperature before serving.

Fruitful Baking: Buttery Peach Brioche

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 03:08:00 +0000

Just about a year ago at this time, I was making my way to an old stone villa in Pistoia, 45 minutes outside of Florence. I had made plans to meet a perfect stranger at the airport, and we would drive together to Il Salicone, sharing a room for the weekend, and more importantly, sharing meals and community together with 14 other people who were just about as obsessed with food as we were.

That was Plate to Page Tuscany, and the magic of a perfect blend of writing, food, photography and camaraderie linger still. I have been lucky to meet fellow P2Pers for lunch in London; over bistecca in Umbria; in an East Village old school Italian joint in New York.

But it is in the digital world where we connect most often. From all parts of the globe, we share stories and recipes, deepening friendships first forged over the chopping of vegetables and the silent concentration of writing exercises. As I read their blog posts, I’m reminded of how food unites us, making old memories fresh, simple ingredients special and the most elemental of dishes remarkable.

Jamie at Plate to Page Tuscany

My friend Jamie, one of P2P’s founders and an insatiable baker extraordinaire, recognises that communion of food. She, along with fellow food bloggers Lora the Cake Duchess and Lisa of Parsley, Sage, Dessert and Line Drives, recently launched Twelve Loaves, a monthly challenge to get home bakers in the kitchen and get the house filled with the ethereal smell of freshly baked bread.

While I’m a wee bit behind in posting my response to their first challenge, it’s never too late to bake bread. I hope you’ll join me in rolling up your sleeves and letting the flour fly.

Buttery Peach Brioche

makes 1 loaf
with slight variations from Cook's Illustrated

Twelve Loaves’ first challenge asked bakers to bake a bread with summer fruit. While summer fruit are long gone, this take on bread with fruit celebrates on the season’s most delicious treats: peaches. I used homemade peach preserves to give a sunny twist to simple and delicious brioche.

One envelope dry active yeast

½ cup milk (2% or whole), warm
2¼ c unbleached all-purpose flour
6 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into 6 pieces
3 tbsp sugar
1 tsp kosher salt
2 large eggs
¾ c peach jam, plus extra for brushing on top of the bread*
*any high quality preserve will work well with this bread

One 8½ x 4½ x 2½ loaf pan, greased

1. In a small bowl, whisk yeast into milk. Slowly stir in 1 cup of flour. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside.

2. Pulse the butter, sugar, and salt at 1-second intervals in a food processor, scraping down sides, until the mixture is smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, processing after each addition until fully incorporated. The mixture will have the consistency of curdled milk.

3. Add remaining flour and yeast/flour mixture, pulsing at 1-second intervals until a soft, smooth dough is formed. At this stage, process continuously for 15 seconds more.

4. Turn the dough out onto a generously floured work surface. It will be quite soft and sticky. Knead until the dough is smooth and elastic.

5. Line the bottom of the loaf pan with greased parchment paper, and set aside.

6. Press the dough into a 9-by-5-inch rectangle, with the short end facing you. Spread the jam evenly over the rectangle, being careful not to go to the edges of the dough. Fold each long side about 1 inch toward the center and press firmly to seal. Fold the top half of the dough toward the center. Fold the bottom half of the dough up past the seam; pinch seam to seal.

7. Place the dough in the pan, seam side down, and flatten the dough with your hand so that it fills the pan evenly. Cover the pan with greased plastic wrap, and let the dough rise about one inch above the pan rim. Preheat the oven to 350˚F while the dough is rising.

8. Using a sharp knife, slash the dough down the center, leaving about 1 inch unslashed at either end. Bake until golden brown, about 40 minutes. Transfer pan to wire rack; let cool 5 minutes.

9. Turn the loaf out of pan onto rack. With a pastry brush, brush the top of the loaf with additional jam until glistening. Let the bread cool to room temperature before serving.

Just enough of a sweet swirl to give brioche added flavour. Try this bread to make delicious French toast

Happy Birthday Julia! A Summer Dinner with Julia's Chicken Salad and Peach Tarte Tatin

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Wed, 15 Aug 2012 09:10:00 +0000

It would have been the utterly fabulous Julia Child's 100th birthday today, and to honour and celebrate her life, there have been hundreds of extravagant dinners served this month, featuring some of her best known and loved classics. While it's true that Julia introduced the wonders of rich, complex French cooking to millions over her lifetime, she was also the master of dishes that are easy and quick to prepare. The constants? Top quality ingredients, seasonal goodness and of course, real butter.

If you're not inclined to whip up a roast duck and big gooey cake tonight - Julia's favourite birthday dinner, and the inspiration for this blog's name - try this simple and simply delicious summer meal instead. Featuring flavourful chicken salad and an in-season peach tarte tatin, it's the perfect meal to enjoy on a warm summer's evening. Pour a glass of chilly white and toast the woman who continues to bring us into the kitchen and inspire us to cook with thought, care and passion.

Bon appetit!

Julia's Chicken Salad
serves 6-8
adapted from Julia's Kitchen Wisdom

6 c leftover roast chicken, white and dark meat combined, cut into generous chunks

Salt and freshly ground white pepper, to taste

2 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp fresh lemon juice

1 c chopped celery tops (include the leafy bits)

1 c chopped walnuts

2 tsp chopped fresh tarragon

⅔ c homemade mayonnaise

Fresh mixed salad greens

1. In a medium non-reactive bowl, toss the chicken with the salt, pepper and the next four ingredients, and mix thoroughly. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 20 minutes or overnight.

Use the leafy green tops of the celery for extra flavour

2. While the salad is chilling, make the mayonnaise (watch this space for Julia's recipe coming soon!)

3. When you’re ready to serve the salad, drain any liquid from the bowl. Add the tarragon and just enough mayonnaise to coat the salad very lightly. Or, as Julia says, to enrobe the salad – a lovely word! Place the salad greens on plates, placing a generous scoop of chicken salad on each, and serve.

Peach Tarte Tatin

serves 6-8

adapted from Julia's Kitchen Wisdom

With delicious peaches at their peak of goodness right now, I thought I'd adapt my favourite Julia Child dessert - classic apple tarte tatin - using peaches instead. The results were spectacularly good: must be the butter!

Here’s my version of Julia’s pie dough, which can be used for the tarte or for any sweet or savoury pie you wish to make. You will need about half of this recipe for the tarte. Or use your favourite pie dough; you will need enough dough for a single pie tart.

For the Tarte Tatin:

6-8 firm but ripe peaches, peeled and cut into wedges

The juice and zest of 1 lemon

½ tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp ground cardamom

⅛ tsp ground mace

1½ cups sugar

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

Heavy oveproof 9-inch skillet for cooking and baking

1. Preheat the oven to 425F, with the rack in the lower middle position.

2. In a large bowl, combine the sliced peaches with the lemon juice, zest and spices. Set aside.

3. In the skillet, melt the butter over medium high heat. Slowly stir in the remaining sugar and cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture begins to turn syrupy and golden brown. Be careful not to overcook, as the mixture can burn easily.

4. Remove the skillet from the heat. Arrange the sliced peaches in a circular pattern in the skillet, starting at the outer edge of the pan and working your way into the middle, until you have used all of the peaches. Leave any accumulated juices behind.

5. Return the skillet to the stove and cook over moderately high heat, pressing down on the peaches every few minutes. Cover the skillet after ten minutes, but continue to press down on the fruit, and brush the tops of the peaches with the juices in the skillet. Watch the peaches carefully, as the sugar can carmelise and burn quickly. When the juices are thick and syrupy (about 20 minutes) remove the skillet from the heat.

5. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the chilled dough until it is about ⅛ of an inch thick and slightly larger in diameter than the skillet. Drape the dough on top of the peaches, pressing the edge of the dough between the peaches and the edge of the skillet. Cut four steam holes on the dough and place the skillet in the oven.

6. Bake until the pastry has browned and crisped, about 20 minutes. Let the tarte rest for a few minutes and then unmold onto a serving dish. This is a bit tricky but even if some of the peaches stick to the skillet, just arrange them onto the tarte.

7. Cool slightly and serve.

BSP3 Part Two: Peachy Keen Canning - Peach-Plum-Ginger Jam

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 20:57:00 +0000

Do you know Food in Jars? It's the absolutely wonderful blog authored by that genius of jam, Marisa McClellan. Marisa's warm and inviting writing style welcomes you into her kitchen as she shares her preserving adventures, experiments, successes and near misses. No matter what's bubbling in the pot, Marisa's blog makes you want to take a peek inside, dip a spoon in, and taste whatever deliciousness she's cooking. Or better yet, load up at the farmers' market and try to capture all that ripe goodness in a jar for yourself.

I was beyond thrilled when I saw that Marisa was going to be at BSP3 this year. But I also couldn't believe she had been at last year's gathering; Marisa, how have I missed meeting you two years in a row?

Never mind. A highlight of BSP was watching Marisa make plum jam, demonstrating her canning alchemy with grace and humour in 90˚ heat. And best of all, I won one of Marisa's hot off the press cookbooks, the gorgeous Food in Jars. With peaches in season and the best they've been in years, it was time to get back into the kitchen with Marisa.

Peach-Plum-Ginger Jam
from Food in Jars, Marisa McClellan
makes approx 8 half pint jars

If you haven't canned before, this link will take you to my blog post on making plum jam, filled with step by step photos and further links to great canning sites (plus a super easy recipe for Italian plum jam).

Marisa doesn't specify what type of plums to use; whatever is in season and bursting with ripeness is the right choice. I was lucky to get sweet and sunny Shiro plums; their bright yellow added a golden glow to the jam.

8 c peeled, pitted and mashed peaches (about 4 lb)
4 c pitted and mashed Shiro plums
6 c granulated sugar
1 c ginger juice*

*To make ginger juice, shred an 8 oz piece of peeled ginger, cut into large chunks, in a blender with ½ c of water. Pour the ginger pulp into a cheesecloth lined sieve and squeeze out the liquid, discarding the remaining pulp.

1. Prep your canning equipment. Clean and sterilise half pint jars by washing them in warm soapy water and rinsing thoroughly; putting them through the quick wash cycle in the dishwasher is even easier and ensures sterilization. Set aside on a clean tea towel.

2. Wash the lids and the bands. Keep the lids hot in a small pot of simmering water. Fill your canner with water, add the clean jars, and put on the stove over medium high heat.

3. Combine the fruit, sugar and ginger juice in a large pot. Attach a candy thermometer to the side of the pot and bring the jam to a simmer. Increase the heat and boil the jam briskly until it reaches 220˚F, or it passes the saucer/spoon test.

4. Drain the jars from the water bath, and pour the hot jam into the jars. Apply lids and bands, put back in water bath and bring to a boil. Process for 10 minutes, remove from water and set aside to cool thoroughly.

Peach-Plum-Ginger Jam; delicious with freshly baked croissants

Big Summer Potluck 3 Part One: Water Bugging

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 16:54:00 +0000

This morning I did something rather unusual. I started my day by not water bugging.

No matter what day of the week, my mornings unfold in more or less the same way. Make tea, coffee for Richard if he’s not travelling. Feed Trixie, and whatever neighbourhood cats show up at the front door. Turn on the radio. And finally, impatiently, eagerly, sit down at my computer and re-establish my place in the digital world. What Facebook updates have I missed? Did anyone repin something from my Pinterest boards? What photos were posted on Instagram? Twitter…ah Twitter, how I love and hate you. With my two accounts, there are endless conversations to be part of, articles to read and retweet, messages to launch, like so many tiny missiles, into the vast endless Twittersphere universe.

And then there are work emails. While I’ve been sleeping, Asia and Europe have been busy as bees, filling my inbox with questions, FYIs, requests and projects. I’m fully engaged with all neurons firing, even though it’s only 6:30 am.

But here’s the thing. With all that activity, I haven’t had a single live human moment. I’ve been so busy trying just to keep up that I haven’t really tuned in.

So as I’ve been thinking about BSP3 and imagining what I might share about that transformative experience, I keep going back to water bugging.

Have you heard of water bugging? It’s the speedy skim, the surface conversation, the lightening quick flitting from one thing to another, all, of seeming very important and making you feel terribly busy. But water bugging never gets beneath the surface, down into the depths of things: to that scary place underneath the rock in the deepest part of the lake; to the magical beauty that inexplicably survives 30 feet below the water.

The Big Summer Potluck is all about what lies beneath. It’s the antithesis of water bugging, made evident in every minute with abundance of real human moments abounding all around us. It’s about bringing together the natural community that forms around food and amplifying it, shining a megawatt light on all that really should matter.

Unexpected beauty

As so as they have magically done for three years now, Maggy, Erika and Pam bring together people that force us to get our hair wet, to dive deeper into the lake that is our hearts and really connect with not just each other, but ourselves. I’ll share more about the collective awesomeness of Brooke Burton-Lüttmann, Joy Wilson, Marisa McClellan and Molly O’Neill in a future post, and how, in their very distinctive ways, each of them pulled us into the lake with joyous splashes.

But right now it’s 9:30 am. I’m in my garden, the cacophony of honey bees burrowing in the anemones impossibly loud and delicious. The digital world is a click away, but I’m swatting that particular water bug down for the moment. I have a husband to call who’s far away, and human moments to create.

With heartfelt thanks to Maggy for her water bugging intro to BSP3 and the amazing sponsors who made BSP3 possible, memorable and tasty!

Musselman's Apple Butter

KitchenAid

Kerrygold

Anolon

Green Mountain Coffee

Attune Foods

Tasty Kitchen

Driscoll's

Summertime Baking: Rhubarb Upside Down Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 11:39:00 +0000

fleet·ing (flē’tĭng) adj. Passing quickly; ephemeral

There is the slow, snail-like wait. Daylight encroaching into darkness at an ever-later hour; the thermostat rising in degrees haltingly like a cranky mid-century oven. Closets in between sweaters and shorts; shoots barely breaking the soil to reach for the sun.

And then suddenly it's summer - blazingly hot, electric blue-sky summer. The heat blasts at 500˚F, and the days start to get inexplicably shorter, even before the dog days have truly begun. The flowers wilt in the heat and you do too, cooling off in barely there dresses and flipflops. Your favourites - the ones that you have waited for with longing and anticipation - make their glorious entrance and just as quickly begin to maddeningly disappear. Juicy peaches; the season's first cherries and strawberries; asparagus so tender green it makes you weak.

Here today, gone tomorrow rhubarb

And perhaps most fleetingly of all, ruby red, tangy, tart and slender rhubarb stalks. While strawberries and rhubarb have had a long love affair with one another, I prefer to give this most ephemeral of vegetables a starring role all of its own. The taste will linger long after rhubarb pulls up its roots and leaves town.

Rhubarb Upside Down Cake

with slight adaptations, from Melissa Clark, New York Times

serves 8-10

1¼ c unsalted butter (2½ sticks), at room temperature

1½ pounds rhubarb, rinsed and sliced into ½-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 tbsp cornstarch

1½ c granulated sugar plus 2 tbsp

½ c light brown sugar plus 2 tbsp

2 c cake flour

1½ tsp baking powder

½ tsp fine sea salt

Zest of 1 lemon, grated

1 tsp vanilla bean paste

4 large eggs

⅓ c sour cream

2 tsp lemon juice

1. Heat oven to 325˚F. Line the bottom of a 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper. Butter the paper and sides of the pan. Wrap two layers of foil under the pan, and place it on a baking sheet.

2. In a medium bowl, mix rhubarb, cornstarch and ½ cup plus 2 tbsp of granulated sugar.

3. Sift together the cake flour, baking powder and salt and set aside.

4. Blend the remaining 1 cup sugar with lemon zest with your fingers until the zest is distributed evenly throughout the sugar. Set aside.

5. In a stand mixer, cream 1 c butter for two minutes. Add the lemon zest-sugar mixture and cream together with the butter at medium-high speed until it is light and fluffy, about 4 minutes, scraping down the bowl periodically.

6. Add the vanilla bean paste and mix well. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Mix in the sour cream, and then the lemon juice.

7. Turn the mixer to low, and slowly add the flour mixture, ¼ cup at a time, until well combined, scraping down the bowl periodically. The mixture should be very light and fluffy. Set aside.

5. Heat all of the brown sugar and remaining ¼ c butter in a pan over medium heat. Whisk until smooth and bubbling, about 2 minutes.

6. Pour the brown-sugar mixture into the prepared cake pan, then spoon in the rhubarb and its juices. Spoon in the batter so it covers all of the rhubarb, smoothing out the top evenly.

7. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes. At this stage check for doneness: if the top of the cake is firm and springs back and a toothpick stuck in the middle comes out clean, it is done. In my oven, the cake takes 1 hour and 45 minutes to completely bake, so don't worry about overbaking the cake.

8. Place the pan on a wire rack, and cool for 15 minutes. Run a knife around the cake, place a plate on top of the pan and turn it upside-down.

Enjoy with a cold glass of milk and save room for seconds.

Peas Please: Sweet Pea Summer Soup with Marjoram

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 21:00:00 +0000

Is there anything more delicious than a simple bowl of sweet pea soup? The variations are infinite, needing only imagination and whatever the garden or cupboard will yield. Pick a herb; parsley for freshness, basil for bite, mint for green coolness. Choose a base: something from the allium family; liquid as simple as water or as complex as rich chicken stock. Fresh peas are best; in a pinch or in the dead of winter, frozen nearly as good. The pleasure of leisurely shelling peas on a warm summer afternoon is almost as satisfying as sipping the results. Served warm or chilled, sweet pea soup is what summer is all about.

Sweet Pea Summer Soup with Marjoram
serves 4-6

You don't need to plan far in advance for sweet pea soup. With willing hands to help with shelling, the soup can be ready and on the table in less than 30 minutes. I love using marjoram for a unique and subtle flavour that complements the fresh green sweet pea taste.

Farmer's market peas, ready for shelling

1 leek, trimmed and thinly sliced (about 1 cup)
⅛ lb pancetta, minced into very small pieces

1 shallot, minced

2 tbsp unsalted butter

2-3 sprigs marjoram

4 cups chicken broth

4 cups fresh shucked peas (or 4 c frozen, thawed)
Salt and white pepper (optional) to taste

¼ cup heavy cream

1. Melt butter over low heat and add leek, pancetta and shallot. Saute, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are very soft, about 10 minutes. Do not brown.

2. Add the majoram and the broth, turn heat to medium and bring to a simmer. Add peas and simmer for 6-8 minutes. Turn heat off and let soup cool slightly. Remove marjoram sprigs.

3. In a blender or food processor, puree soup in batches.

4. Warm soup over medium heat, adding ¼ cup heavy cream and stirring to incorporate. Season with salt and white pepper to taste. Serve with crème fraiche, if desired. Soup can also be served chilled.

Serve this flavourful soup warm or slightly chilled

Toasting Spain: Spanish Style Stuffed Prunes

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 02:48:00 +0000

European football isn’t usually my thing. I’d be hard pressed to tell you who plays for Manchester City or Manchester United, or what the difference is between A.C Milan and F.C Internazionale Milano. But I do love championship football. The athleticism, the speed, the elaborate hairdos and drama – all of it combines for high octane entertainment.

Living in Toronto makes it easy to know what’s going on and who’s winning. Cars suddenly spout flags and a victory for Portugal or Italy in my neighbourhood is signalled by cars honking long into the night. Fever pitch excitement mounted all across the city last week as the finals for Euro Cup 2012 wound down to Sunday’s Italy-Spain showdown.

My patriotic Italian blood runs high when Italy makes it beyond the preliminary rounds. But I also know when my team is outplayed. Spain came in and dominated from the first kick of the ball. In honour of the winning team, here's a sweet and salty bocadillo to nibble with cocktails. It somehow makes defeat a little easier to bear.

Stuffed Prunes

(adapted from Tapas, by Simone and Ines Ortega)

3-4 oz Stilton or Roquefort cheese

¼ c raisins

¼ toasted pine nuts

1 tbsp sweet sherry

12-15 pitted prunes

1. In a small bowl, mash the cheese gently with a fork until creamy. Stir in the remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly until combined.

2. Fill each prune with a teaspoonful of filling. Refrigerate if making ahead, bringing to room temperature before serving.

Nutty About Butter: Easy Homemade Walnut Butter

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 09:00:00 +0000

I am a firm believer that everything's better with butter. No, not margarine, or butter substitute (do you remember I Can't Believe It's Not Butter? Yep, they still make it). The soft creaminess, the rich flavour, the inimitable depth that even a small pat of butter can impart cannot be replaced.

The amazing thing about this most elemental of ingredients is just how easy it is to make at home. I did just that for first time a couple of years ago and it opened my eyes to a world of possibilities. If cream alone could be transformed by some strange alchemy into butter, what else might I make?

If you've bought anything like a nut butter lately, you'll know what a pricey proposition that can be. Make it organic and double the price. So why not make nut butter at home? The possibilities are as endless as the diversity of nuts available. Almond butter seems like the obvious choice, so I decided to try something a little more out of the ordinary.

What about walnuts? Raw walnuts have a hint of tannic bitterness, and I wondered if toasting the walnuts would take the edge off. To smooth it off even more, and add a bit of buttery creaminess, I mixed in a handful of cashews. The result is a deliciously different nut butter, perfect for a just toasted piece of dense nutty German bread, such as those made by Mestemacher.

Easy Walnut Butter

makes approximately 2 cups

3 c walnuts

1 c cashews

1. Preheat oven to 350F.

2. Spread the walnuts and cashews evenly on a baking sheet. Toast for five to seven minutes, or until colour is slightly darkened and nuts are fragrant.

3. Blend for threee to five minutes in food processor, or until creamy smooth.

Toast your favourite bread, spread lavishly and enjoy a bite of healthy and delicious goodness