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Archive for the ‘Fruit’ Category

Autumn is here, and it’s apple season again. The stands in my Greenmarket are spilling over with the abundant new crop. I counted two dozen varieties in a recent visit: from old standards like Cortland, Empire, Greening, Macintosh, Northern Spy, Rome, and Winesap, to some I’d never seen before, like Spartan, Snapdragon, Opalescent, and Zester. The Johnny Appleseeds of the world have been busy indeed.

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Just walking past the fragrant heaps gave me visions of apple pies and tarts, apple crisps and crumbles, apples baked and sautéed, apple fritters . . . all things I’ll be making in the fullness of time. But sometimes my apple craving can be satisfied with something much more modest than those treats: a simple apple compote.

The compote recipe I use is from my mother’s 1937 copy of America’s Cook Book. The recipe isn’t in a desserts chapter: It’s from “Fruits,” the very first recipe section in the book – which also includes recipes for avocados, kumquats, mangoes, papayas, persimmons, and quinces. At 1,000 pages, it’s an amazing book for its time.

For a little dessert for two, one recent evening, I made a compote with two crisp Braeburn apples.

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I peeled, quartered, and cored them, and dropped them into a bowl of cold water to wait while I prepared their syrup.
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In a medium pot I boiled a cup of water with half a cup of sugar for three minutes. The drained apple quarters went into the pot along with a small cinnamon stick.
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The next instruction was to cover the pot and simmer until the apples were transparent, which always takes longer than I expect it to. These particular apples weren’t very willing to cooperate at all, so when they began thinking about turning into applesauce I had to stop while they were only mildly translucent.
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Drained, they were very tender and not too messy looking. But next time I’ll try a different kind of apple, to see if the pieces will hold their shape better.
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To provide a bit of luxury, I topped our portions of compote with modest scoops of gelato. That’s stracciatella on the left, pistachio on the right. A sweet, light finish for a weekday dinner.

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It’s high peach season, and my Greenmarket is bursting with the fruits. Though I already have several easy recipes for peach desserts that Tom is always happy to eat on summer evenings (and often for the next day’s breakfast too), I enjoy looking for new ones to try. The recipe I found this week was somewhat misleading and didn’t come out at all the way I expected.

It’s called Peach Crumble Cake, and it’s from Lee Bailey’s book Country Desserts. The name was intriguing to me, because a crumble and a cake are normally quite different things. A cake, of course, is baked from a sweetened batter, and even if fruit is added, it comes out firm and sliceable. For a crumble, the fruit goes into a pan and is topped with a crumbly mixture of flour, sugar, and butter. When baked it’s spooned out for serving.

This particular recipe has a base of cake batter, with peach halves set on top. Okay, I thought, that seems like an easy enough kind of cake; I’ll just have to see how the “crumble factor” enters the picture here.

A glitch appeared as I noted the number of peaches the recipe required. For an 8-inch square pan, it wanted 10 large peaches, cut in halves. That was absurd: Even if each peach were only 2 inches wide, that size pan would hold only 16 halves – and most peaches are much larger than that. In any event, I didn’t have an 8-inch square pan, so I’d be using a 9-inch round one (the same capacity, per the πr2 formula). So I bought six peaches, each easily three inches across. I already had all the other ingredients.
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The preparations went smoothly enough. I creamed butter with brown and white sugar; beat in flour, baking powder, and eggs; and transferred the batter to my buttered cake pan.
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I dropped the peaches briefly into boiling water, drained and peeled them, and cut each one in half.
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From the amount of room they took up on my 11-inch prep board, it was clear that not all those halves were going to fit in my pan. And they didn’t. It took only seven halves, plus tucked-in bits of an eighth. I sprinkled them all with lemon juice and a mix of cinnamon and sugar.
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I expected that the cake batter would rise up and cushion the fruit, though I still couldn’t think how anything would become crumbly. However, the pan was already looking pretty full, so as I put it in a 350° oven, I made sure to set a baking sheet on a shelf just below it, in case the rising batter overflowed the pan. Which it did, in a few places.
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Baking time was a little problematic. The recipe said to bake one hour or until golden. My cake was golden after only 45 minutes, but the cakey part still tested very wet inside. At 10 minutes after the hour, when the crust was starting to darken to brown, my testing skewer finally came out clean. I pulled the cake out of the oven and set it on a rack to cool.
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Obviously, this was not the kind of cake that could be turned out of its pan onto a plate for serving. The recipe had no further handling instructions, so I thought I’d treat it like a pie and take slices straight from the pan.

Nooo, not that either. The missing “crumble factor” kicked in, but not in any way I’d expected: My attempted slices crumbled and fell apart at first touch. Also, the whole interior of the dish was extremely juicy – not to say soggy.

Well, all right: Since the cake had become this very moist crumble, I spooned it into bowls and served it with scoops of ice cream, as the recipe suggested. Texture aside, it tasted fine. It’s hard to hurt ripe peaches and sweet dough.
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But if I’d wanted a simple peach crumble, there are easier ways than this to make one. It was the crumble-cake combo that mainly interested me.  And, aside from the misnomer of calling this a cake, I think something was wrong in the recipe’s proportions: Though I used less than half as many peaches called for, the dish was far too wet. The sugar seems to have drawn so much liquid out of the fruit that the batter couldn’t firm up enough. And the crust would have blackened if I’d baked it longer.

So, for my next peach dessert this summer, I’ll go back to one of my tried and true recipes. The same book has a very good one for a peach cobbler that I’ve written about here before. And I have a recipe of my own for a “proper” peach cake, which I’ve also written about here.

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Back in May, when I wrote about dinners I’d had in Lyon, I mentioned a sweet-sharp condiment that was served alongside foie gras at Brasserie Le Nord. It was an odd, nubbly relish, with a flavor like nothing I’d ever had before, and made an interesting foil for the luscious, silky foie gras. Here’s what it looked like:
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When I asked our server what was in it, she had to go into the kitchen to find out. Returning, she said that, today, it was red onion, apple, pineapple, and celery. I’d never have guessed those! (Hmm: only today? Possibly different yesterday and tomorrow? Interesting.)

Back home, culinary curiosity demanded that I try recreating it for myself. I started with an internet search for “fruit condiments for foie gras.” Very instructive: There seem to be many such recipes, often quite complex, that I haven’t known about. However, none of them seemed as if they’d produce the texture I wanted.

Next I looked in my cookbooks for chutney recipes. That was more encouraging, because the basic approach to chutney is simply to chop the main ingredients, put them all in a pot, and cook them with some liquid and the desired seasonings until the mixture is as thick as you want it. So I assembled my four ingredients:
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Now, what proportion of each should I use? One onion gave me 2/3 cup, minced. Two stalks of celery, also 2/3 cup. One apple (quickly turning brown) gave me 1½ cups. And I took a whole cup of pureed pineapple, so there’d be plenty of juice in the mix.
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Wondering if it would be wise to cook the two vegetables by themselves at first to soften them a little, I divided each ingredient into halves and briefly sauteed half the onion and celery in butter. Then in two separate pots I combined the ingredients, the cooked vegetables and half the fruits in one, the raw vegetables and the remaining fruits in another.

What else should go in? I knew that Le Nord’s version didn’t have any Indian spices, but I had no idea what others there might have been. I decided to add only a pinch of salt and two tablespoons of apple vinegar to each pot – no other sweetener.
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Then I cooked both mixtures, covered, stirring occasionally, until they thickened enough to hold their shape, which took about 45 minutes. They came out looking very similar: the one with uncooked vegetables a little darker. (I do wonder what Le Nord used to make its version so red.) Both tasted fairly interesting, with almost no difference between them.
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Then came the fun part. We had a block of foie gras in the refrigerator (a gastronomical souvenir of the Lyon trip) just waiting for a chance to try the new condiment with. And we did.
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You can hardly see any difference in the two little heaps of – I still don’t know what to call it: relish, chutney, preserve, conserve, confiture? – but the slightly darker one is on the right. Both made a nice enough flavor and texture contrast with the foie gras, sweet and the merest touch piquant, soft and nubbly. I can’t say they provided any major enhancement, though. Foie gras is gorgeous enough on its own.

We tried some again another day with some good cheeses: same mixed result. The simple fact is, this little condiment is a lot of work, especially for the small quantity I could use while it was fresh enough: a restaurant’s dish rather than one to make at home. Still, it was an interesting experiment.

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Last week’s success with two simple strawberry desserts went to my head. Guess I should have known not to push my luck too far. But I’d found one more recipe that I wanted to try before the end of strawberry season. Somewhat more elaborate than the first two, this one, called Summer Pudding, is from Lee Bailey’s Country Desserts, a book that has previously given me several good things.

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The dish is essentially a cooked mixture of strawberries and blueberries in a lavishly fruit-soaked bread casing. It was to be prepared a day in advance, chilled, and served with whipped cream. We like all kinds of normal bread puddings at my house, so this seemed like a very interesting hot-weather version. I gathered the ingredients for an experimental half recipe’s worth.
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While the berries, sugar, and grated lemon peel simmered for 10 minutes in a small pot, I assembled the bread casing in a two-cup soufflé dish. The bread was a bakery pullman loaf, with a crumb rather flimsier than that of my usual homemade white bread, so I had to slice it thicker than I’d have liked.
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I strained the cooked berry mixture, saving all the not-quite-syrupy juices and using some to moisten the floor of the bread.
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The berries went into the case and were topped with another round of bread, which I dampened with a little more juice, being careful not to thoroughly soak the side bread pieces yet.
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Then I had to put a weight on the pudding, wrap it tightly in film, and refrigerate it for 24 hours. Happily, a search through my kitchen cabinets turned up just the right size mini-cocotte lid for the weighting.
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Next day, the pudding unmolded readily enough and accepted further doses of the reserved juices to fully color the casing. Standing alone, it didn’t look all that appealing.
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The individual servings, topped with vanilla-flavored whipped cream, were more attractive.
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However, I can’t say we liked the pudding much. The berry flavors were good, but the overall texture was not: It was essentially just a fruit compote on too much soggy bread. Also, the recipe’s prescribed amount of whipped cream was barely enough to offset the acidity of the fruit and juice. I understand this is intended as a minimal-cooking summer recipe, but we’d have been much happier having those berries in a normal bread pudding.

Well, you can’t win ‘em all. Two out of three’s not so bad.

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What joys there are in strawberries, the first fruits of summer! Fancy dishes: strawberry shortcake, strawberry ice cream, strawberry tarts. And plain ones: a bowl of berries with sugar and lemon juice, or with cream. The local strawberries have been going strong this season, leading me to try a few new-to-me preparations with them.

I found two fine simple ones in the Fruits volume of the Time-Life Good Cook series. Each book in this series is an eclectic treasure trove of recipes, reprinted with permission, from everything from classic to all-but-forgotten sources. More than 100 are cited in this volume, for instance. I’d never heard of either of the sources for my two new recipes.

 

Strawberries with Vinegar

Vinegar: odd ingredient for a dessert, I thought. The more so because the recipe comes from a book called The Cuisine of Venice (authors Hedy Giusti-Lanham and Andrea Dodi) and I’d never found another Venetian dish like it. The recipe’s explanations intrigued me, starting with the odd first step in the simple procedure: Put unwashed strawberries in a bowl and pour on wine to cover. I did that, using a cup of white wine and a pint of berries, for a half recipe to serve two.
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After five minutes I was to pour off the wine and discard it: It was there only to wash the berries. The recipe said washing with water dilutes their taste and makes them watery – not a problem I’ve ever been aware of. Still, there was some wine in my refrigerator that had been open for several days already, so “wasting” wine that way wasn’t too painful.

For serving, I divided the berries over two little bowls and added a teaspoon of distilled white vinegar to each, plus a sprinkling of powdered sugar. The recipe assured me that I wouldn’t be able to taste the vinegar; it would be overpowered by the berries, and its acidity would enhance their flavor and increase their sweetness.
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And in fact, that was exactly the case. The berries were delicious. The cookies you see accompanying the bowls of this hitherto-unknown Venetian preparation are traditional “esse” cookies from the island of Burano, a souvenir of my recent Venice trip.

 

Strawberries in Liqueur

This recipe, originally published in the Dutch magazine Vrij Nederland, caught my eye because I happen to have all three of the liqueurs in the ingredient list – Armagnac, Curaçao, and kirsch. It’s another very simple preparation, and again I was halving the recipe to serve two.
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I hulled, washed (in water, this time!), and patted dry a pint of strawberries and mixed them in a bowl with half a tablespoon of sugar. Over them I poured a scant tablespoon of Armagnac and a scant tablespoon of Curaçao, then covered the bowl and refrigerated it for an hour..
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Next I whipped ¼ cup of heavy cream with about a teaspoon of sugar and added a scant tablespoon of kirsch. I gently folded that into the berries and returned the bowl to the refrigerator for another hour.

This was wonderful. When I transferred the berries to serving bowls, the liqueur had softened the cream into a luscious sauce, which coated the strawberries and blended yet another lovely, subtly spiced flavor to that of the chilled, fragrant fruit. Ambrosia!
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This dish goes into my repertory for as long as strawberry season and my supply of the three brandies lasts.

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As I mentioned in last week’s post, Tom and I had carefully chosen restaurants for the three dinners we’d be having in Lyon after our Rhône cruise. We wanted simple brasseries or bouchons devoted to traditional Lyonnaise cuisine. Our selection was somewhat limited by our days’ including a Sunday and a Monday, when many restaurants there are closed. But we did very well with the ones we found.

 

Brasserie Georges

Brasserie Georges, huge, bustling, and immoderately lively, has been an institution in Lyon since 1836. We discovered it on our first visit to the city in 2008 and have ever since remembered the fabulous first course of roasted marrow bones we ate there. So of course we both had them again this time around.

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The menu called the dish Os à moelle à la croque au sel de Guérande, pain grillé. We called it heaven. The prized crunchy sea salt of the Guerande area gave a special zest to the soft, lush marrow as it melted onto the warm toasted bread. But each portion was enormous: We would have been wiser to split a single order instead of gluttonously plowing through the two.

For our second courses, Tom had steak tartare of Charolais beef, expertly prepared at our table with the condiments of his choice and served with a green salad and fried potatoes. I had tête de veau – calf’s head – with ravigote sauce and steamed vegetables. Both were fine of their kind.
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Needing a break from the multiple-course menus we’d been eating on shipboard, we simply stopped there: Georges’ food was very good, but not quite as magical as memory had painted it. Nonetheless contentedly stuffed, we strolled home and finished our evening with cognacs from the bar at our hotel.

 

Le Petit Léon de Lyon

Though it still calls itself a bistro, Léon de Lyon has become a double restaurant: the original establishment, dating from 1904, now features elegant, upscale cuisine, while a small new adjacent space, dubbed Le Petit Léon de Lyon, offers simpler, traditional fare. The little place was perfect for us.

We both started with the house’s pâté en croûte.
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The thick slices of buttery pastry enclosed a filling made from foie gras, veal sweetbreads, and vin jaune, a sherry-like white wine from France’s Jura region. Not so simple at that! It was marvelous, and so filling we could almost have stopped right there.

But we didn’t. For the main course, we’d both ordered Lyon’s signature tripe dish, gras double à la lyonnaise. Here the Petit Léon surprised us: What we received wasn’t the typical version, where the tripe is essentially stewed in onions and wine, but instead was cooked in a sauce with quite a lot of tomato and then gratinéed for serving. Very good, but not what we were expecting.
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The gras double tripe, so different from the honeycomb tripe that is all we get in the US, was melt-in-the-mouth delicious, but so unutterably rich in its sauce that neither of us could finish our portion. The fresh green salad that came alongside made a welcome brisk counterpoint, but it could only help so far. Once again, we didn’t go on to cheese or dessert.

 

Brasserie Le Nord

In addition to the original Michelin three-star Paul Bocuse restaurant just north of Lyon, there are seven less glittering Paul Bocuse restaurants in the city itself, including four brasseries named for the cardinal points of the compass. Each of those has a different culinary emphasis. Le Nord is devoted to “les grands classiques de la Cuisine de Tradition Lyonnaise.” We dined there on our last night in Lyon.

Our meal was indeed classic, in both simplicity and excellence. We both started with fresh foie gras, among the best we’ve ever had.
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Served with it was a cooked condiment made (I was told) from red onion, apple, pineapple, and celery. It was fascinating – sweet but sharp, a wonderful foil for the goose liver’s richness. I’ve since discovered that similar fruit garnishes are very popular now, and I’m going to try making one like this for the foie gras that we brought home from this trip.

Next, Tom had lamb sweetbreads braised in a velvety brown sauce, and I had a leg of Bresse chicken cooked with cream and mushrooms, both very fine.
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Capable at last of going on to a light dessert, we both had dishes of delicious raspberries and strawberries in crème Chantilly. They were immensely refreshing after the richness of Le Nord’s cuisine.
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Every dish we had this evening was as near to perfection of its kind as I can imagine. The meal was a grandly memorable conclusion to our dining in Lyon.

 

Lest I forget: I should also mention that with each of these three dinners we drank remarkable wines, which you can read about in Tom’s blog.

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I really like baking breakfast breads. I make several kinds of rolls, muffins, scones, sweet breads, brioches . . . . I’ve even tried my hand at crumpets and bagels. Fortunately, I have a husband who’s an enthusiastic abettor of my efforts and consumer of the results. (He’s also the barista for the espressos that are our daily breakfast beverage.)

In baking I normally follow recipes closely, but when a fancy for cranberry-orange muffins struck me recently, I found many different ways of making them, in books and online, but none that truly appealed to me. So I took off mostly on my own and, happily, succeeded quite well.
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For the dry ingredients I took the proportions from Joy of Cooking’s basic buttermilk muffin recipe, using 2 cups cake flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, ½ teaspoon baking soda, 2 tablespoons sugar, and ½ teaspoon salt. That huge orange you see in the picture above gave me ⅓ cup of juice, in which I warmed ½ cup of dried cranberries, to soften them. I grated the orange’s peel and stirred the zest into a cup of buttermilk. Separately, I beat an egg and melted 2 tablespoons of butter.
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All the liquid ingredients went into the dried ones with only perfunctory mixing, to avoid activating the gluten in the flour, which toughens the muffin crumb. I had to add a little more flour because what I had at first was too wet: more like a batter than a dough.
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Then, when the texture looked right, I spooned the dough into a buttered 12-cup muffin pan. (BTW, I’ve found that brushing the cups with melted butter rather than rubbing them with solid butter gives more even coverage and better prevents sticking.)
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After 25 minutes in a 400º oven, the muffins were done. A few minutes’ rest in their cups, and out they came, to finish cooling on a rack.
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And very nice they were. Cranberry and orange are always a good flavor combination, and the balance here seemed about right. Next time I might try going a little heavier on the cranberries and simmering them longer in the orange juice, but that would be just to see if it made the muffins even better. Split while still warm, the first ones eagerly accepted slatherings of butter and made for a very pleasant small breakfast.
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The barista, normally not rapturous about cranberries, thought these muffins delicious.

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