Such order of things

A watermelon (bigger than my head), a few punnets of last late-season strawberries, a pound each of peaches (buzzy and juicy) and nectarines (sweet and juicy), a punnet of gooseberries and one of blueberries, these have all made their way into my bag on my latest, a couple short fleeting hours ago, raid to a green grocer. That's a lot of fruit, an impartial observer would exclaim, and the impartial observer would be right. You see, fruit is my favorite thing in the world. If insisted to choose between vegetables and fruit, I'll side with the latter any moment, regardless of the time of year. Vegetables, I value them mightily, for I know they are good for me. It's an affair of the mind, if you like. But fruit, Reader, fruit, also being good and all, is my siren and I don't have a crust enough to resist its sweet song. Especially, especially in summer. Some take trips to warm, sun-drenched, sandy beaches to thoroughly enjoy the season. Me, I eat my weight in all this fruit. It's kind of my thing and I think of it as my tribute to summer.

I see these perky strawberries or burgundy-laden cherries or lusty peaches or anything that has anything to do with the warm weather's sweet bounty and my eyes get groggy and my knees grow weak (and my wallet thins down a notch). What a misfortune that the stomach can only take so much! You should have seen me obliviously gobbling up wedge after wedge of this watermelon that I schlepped home today, my teeth sinking into its sugary red flesh, into the seeds, on and on and on until my insides went tottering on the edge of exploding, twisting and turning, making me pay for my choices.

Or cherries. I'm telling you around them I not only challenge the constraints of my own body, but I also lose all sense of social decency. We had guests for dinner the other night, and some incredibly ripe, nearly black cherries were for dessert. I served them in one large fruit bowl placed at the center of the table, for everybody to pick, you know. I didn't notice, however, how I'd single-handedly noshed the whole bowlful in the blink of an eye. Apologize for such oversight to my guests I did, considerately offering to run out for a pint of Ben & Jerry's Coconutterly Fair instead, but ashamed -- no, I wasn't. I see cherries; I claim them. That's how I am, and that's that. Ditto with strawberries. And with apricots. And with plums. And, and, and...You hand me any summer fruit (ripe or not just), and I'll merrily munch it away. Which is what I seem to have done for as many a year as my memory stretches out to, and which is how fruit had always been treated in my familial environs. You pick it in your garden (or at the market), you rinse it, you eat it. No fruit pies, no fruit cakes, no fruit cooked, no fruit baked. Just eat it. There often was none, but the surplus would usually be morphed into long-simmered fruit jams, if anything. Despite the obvious dearth of fruity baked goods, I was fine with such order of things.

Frankly, I still am, and knowing my propensities, I don't expect to change my fruit-handling ways in any significant manner, yet I do want to do better in terms of summer fruit-oven relationship. I hear this book is full of inspirational gems on the subject, and I can't wait to get it (ordered!). Actually, I've stuck my neck out there already and got promptly and solidly excited for weeks by Sfoglia's spaghetti and strawberries.

It does sound gimmicky, this strawberry and spaghetti business, doesn't it? Only it is not. Turns out strawberries pair well with tomatoes (sweet-sour and sweet-sour), and we all know how good balsamic vinegar is to both. And if you have any reservations as to whether or not it will take you into the dessert territory, let me be the one to tell you the dish is squarely savory. It is also very refreshing, especially when served chilled. To me this is one of those few pasta dishes that make perfect sense cold. This way, the strawberry and the tomato, both broken down by a brief simmer in olive oil and with balsamic vinegar, join hands more noticeably and claim, insistently, their right to be together, which they should. Until the strawberries have gone for good this year.

I'll break down when that happens.

Spaghetti with Strawberries

Adapted from Sfoglia via New York Magazine

Yield: 2-4 servings

From the looks of it the original recipe yields more than enough for four eaters, and seeing that most days it's only the two of us that I cook for, or sometimes just for myself, I halved the amounts except for the strawberries. Whatever you do, don't skimp on the strawberries; they are key to make the dish saucy.

For a successful outcome, you want an aged (eight-year-old) balsamic vinegar that is more sweet than acidic, the one that's almost syrupy. I didn't listen first and used an ordinary variety I had then to hand. Would you be surprised to know that it made the strawberries too sour? Get a good eight-year-old balsamic vinegar from a speciality store, go for broke.

I like to crown each individual serving with a handful of crisp peppery arugula (rucola) leaves, to slightly offset the sweet and sour notes in the ensemble. To this end, you will also want to generously use freshly ground black pepper.

If late-season strawberries are still lurking around on your farmer's market stands (I'm lucky they are still going strong here), use the sweetest of the kind. There will already be enough tartness coming from the tomato. Sfoglia's chefs call for San Marzano tomato puree in their recipe (San Marzano tomatoes being reputed the best for the sauces), but I used a conventional tomato puree and wasn't disappointed. 

And, here it goes.

250 g (1/2 pound) dried spaghetti 

2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus more for finishing

450 g (1 pound) strawberries, trimmed and halved

1 Tbsp good aged (eight-year-old) balsamic vinegar

125 ml (1/2 cup) San Marzano tomato puree

60 ml (1/4 cup) reserved pasta water

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Cook the pasta according to the instructions on the packaging. 

In a large skillet and over medium heat, warm the olive oil and half of the strawberries. Cook until the strawberries start to reduce their juices. Add the balsamic and reduce by half, 2-4 minutes. 

Add the rest of the strawberries, the tomato puree and the reserved pasta water, and reduce by half, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, 5-7 minutes. Season to taste. Toss with the spaghetti and finish with olive oil and fresh ground black pepper (see head notes). Serve at room temperature or chilled. Garnish each serving with fresh arugula (rucola) leaves.

Say no more

Dear Reader, I've got a question for you, and although I'm confident I know the answer, I insist on asking anyway: How often do you cook with radishes? Particularly, how often do you cook radishes? And more particularly still, how frequently do your radishes hop in your stockpot ready to be boiled, pureed and turned into a soup?

Before any more word is further spoken, let me just say that regardless of what life experiences you hold I am sure a cooked radish hasn't been one of them (So assumptious of me; what do I know about what life puts you through?). Thus, without any theatrics, allow me to change your life for the better now, or, better yet, to change the way you eat radishes. Please don't get me wrong. I myself used to gulp those juicy crunchies exquisitely in their raw, mere-hours-from-the-soil, if I'm lucky, form until not so long ago. I'd mostly devour them straight from my hand, after a careful dip in salt, but occasionally a few, slivered, would see the surface of my buttered pumpernickel, and every now and then I'd slit some in quarters for a salad. I didn't care for a cooked radish. I was like you. I was ignorant. But I learnt to know better, and I feel compelled to immediately pass that knowledge to you. Stay with me; you ought to listen.

So: radish soup. Reader, excuse me if my demeanor today is too brassy for your taste, but it's really in your best interest now to do as I tell you. Go buy a couple bunches of red radishes, along with a few potatoes and chives. This is all the plunder you need. Boil some vegetable stock in a small soup pot, bubbles perking and pecking, potatoes already submerged. Throw in those darn radishes, and give the heat a quarter of an hour to knock the crunch out of them. As these bulbs cook, their earthy spiciness, wafting above the stove top, might dazzle you with how its damp aroma . I imagine a forest grotto would smell like this, or the Earth. There is something primeval, something mysterious about that smell. When the heat's job is done, blitz that lot smooth, add a squeeze of lime juice for a tint of pink and season to taste. If there is such a thing as radish essence, this soup is that, except that it is no longer too tongue-tickling as the raw radish is. Take a spoonful. Go on. You'll feel this gentle peppery pink radish-ness, made velvety by the pureed spuds, at the forefront of every sip. Oh it's lovely. Oh it is.

Say no more you are falling in love with this soup. I know that already, no words necessary.

Radish Soup
Adapted from Soup, a Way of Life by Barbara Kafka
Yields: 4 servings

Turns out I like this radish soup better when it's silky smooth, so contrary to Kafka's instruction to reserve a few radishes, cut in thin matchsticks, to be added later as the soup cooks, I puree all of the bulbs instead. Also: I slightly scaled down the amount of potatoes used, otherwise this soup ends up being too thick.

The original version of this recipe uses vinegar to treat radishes (acid turns them pronouncedly pink), but I found that vinegar makes the soup quite sour, which I didn't like. I use a bit of lime juice instead. It not only turns radish pink, but also wakens up the whole soup. As does a tiny bit of cayenne, which I also use here.

Scallions (called forth in the original) can take the place of chives, although I prefer the latter. Its mild onion taste doesn't meddle so much with the radish flavor. Scallions or chives, add them just before serving; both get too pungent as they sit in the soup.

This darling soup is equally delicious, I discovered, both hot and cold, simply as it is. For a dramatic effect, add a few tiny drops of lime juice before adding chives/scallions and stir; the bright pink swirls that appear are such lookers.

360 g (3/4 cup) red radishes, trimmed and quartered
250 g (8 ounces) potatoes, peeled and cut into 2.5-cm (1-inch) cubes
625 ml (2 1/2 cups) chicken or vegetable stock, or water
1 tsp lime juice
1/8 tsp cayenne, or to taste
Salt and black pepper, to taste
Chives, for garnish

1. In a medium saucepan, bring the stock and potatoes to a boil Lower the heat and simmer for 3 minutes. Add the radishes, cover and return to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes.

2. In a blender, working in batches no more than 500 ml (2 cups), blitz until smooth. Return into the saucepan. Stir in 125 ml (1/2 cup) warm water and the lime juice; add the cayenne. Season with salt and pepper. Before serving, garnish with a sprinkle of finely chopped chives.

Where I've just come from

I got back from Russia two weeks ago on the nose, which is to say I should have stopped by to say hello sooner than this. But I couldn't. I'd sit down ready to write and I'd fall short, for I didn't see how to mince my rib-poking post-trip melancholia that left me in a shambles and rendered me tearful, speechless and inadequate for a good two weeks and then some more into paragraphs, sentences, words...

That time with my parents, so long planned, so long awaited, couldn't have raced past any faster. I'm glad I chose early May as the time for my visit. It felt like summer, hot and scorching. I don't remember it being so years ago; back then when late spring was still a jacket season. Despite my parents' precautions that I take light, short-sleeved clothes, no need for a coat, do you hear me? It is hot here, I did what I usually do -- the opposite. For one, I really didn't believe the heat would be that lasting (It is hot my foot!); and two, my residing in Amsterdam for as along as almost four years now taught me that local springs/summers are not very often in sync with my expectations of them, which is why I don't own that many sheer summer outfits. But man oh man, was it heavily hot indeed. At times it felt I, dressed in jeans and woolen (!) pull-over, could easily melt into asphalt leaving behind not as much as a pool of sweat (not even shoes) or better yet, evaporate into thick, hot, fumy afternoon air with a dull whoosh. But when the sun would hide behind the horizon and the air would get saturated with the night's ink and the sweet floral smell of that lone acacia tree out there below the windows (oh southern nights!), it couldn't get any more comfortable. Still warm, but not stuffy, there wasn't a night when I'd reach for a sheet, let alone a blanket. In the weather like that, local short and bumpy cucumbers and crunchy deep-pink radishes popped up at the markets in spades, and I ate tons of them, plain out of hand, or thinly slivered, salted and bedded on a slice of dark coriander seeds-encrusted rye bread.

It was a blast waking up to seeing my parents every day, sharing with them copious amounts of brewed-right-in-a-mug coffee, grounds and all (a Soviet rudiment), hearing my father's rattled opinions about Russian politics, staying up late with my mother watching silly TV series and movies. It was a blast, too, seeing my grandparents. They looked more stooped, more...aged. One of my grandmothers, who had been in the hospital throughout my stay, shrank like a wizened fruit. I wasn't prepared to see her so battered. My grandfather had had surgery before my arrival, and he didn't shine with much health either.  As I was saying good-byes to all my three grandparents, I caught myself thinking that it could be the last time that I see at least one of them. It gave me the creeps.

When Mom and Dad hugged me good-bye at the airport, amidst the cold-voiced departures announcements, they cried. As did I, but not only because of the farewell blues and my already missing them, the feeling that grew stronger with my every step away. I sobbed because of the chest-hurting remorse for wishing sometimes to get out sooner, to be finally back in Amsterdam again, wishing those two weeks go faster as much as I wished them to stay still. I kept sobbing once I'd flown back, too, for I couldn't help but longing so badly to return where I've just come from. Longing to be where I'm not, always.

I haven't cooked that much yet after my return, but there's been one dish that already found home on my plate a few times by now. I find it quite lovely and comforting, and hope you will, too.

White Beans with Dried Mushrooms

Adapted from Saveur, May 2012

Yield: 6-8 servings

No major deviations from the original recipe, except maybe that I use canned beans in place of their dried brethren, which is for no reason other than my impatience with this overnight soaking business.

This bean stew, it is no big deal. It tastes like a sum of all its few flavorful components -- dried porcini mushrooms, tomatoes, cannellini beans -- coaxed by heat into bright, luscious oneness. Nothing effete, nothing fussy.

15 g (1/2 oz.) dried porcini mushrooms

2-3 Tbsp olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

4 garlic cloves, finely chopped

3 Tbsp tomato paste

3 * 400 g (15 oz.) cans white beans (e.g., cannellini, butter beans, or lima beans), rinsed

1 * 400 g (15 oz.) can whole peeled tomatoes in juice, slightly crushed

500 ml (2 cups) vegetable stock or water

2 bay leaves

Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Fresh herbs for garnish (optional)

1. In a bowl, soak the mushrooms in 1 L (4 cups) boiling water, about 20 minutes. With a slotted spoon, remove the mushrooms to a cutting board; chop finely. Slowly pour the soaking liquid into a large measuring vessel until you have 750 ml (3 cups), taking extra care to leave any sediment in the bottom of the bowl; chuck away the sediment. Set the soaking liquid along with the mushrooms aside.

2. Over medium flame, heat the oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until fragrant, about 4 minutes. Dump in the tomato paste, and keep cooking for another 2 minutes. Add the mushrooms, soaking liquid, beans, tomatoes, vegetable stock, and bay leaves; bring to a gentle boil. Scale the heat down to medium-low, and cook, partially covered and stirring occasionally, for 30-50 minutes, or until the beans are very tender and the cooking liquids get thicker. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Sprinkle with some fresh herbs (the choice is yours; I went with fresh basil) before serving, but that is optional.

I'm sold already

What have we got here? Let's see...First on the list: brownies (oh priorities!).

A mistake, as we all know it, is something that one hasn't done correctly. Nearly all mistakes don't serve a kitchen’s interests, mistakes like, you know, burnt meat, unrisen cakes, curdled creams, and other improbable things. Luckily, though, there remains that scarce percentage of things done to food incorrectly that elevate the final result to greatness, or, modesty forbidding, close to it. Case in point: the resident brownies at Gebroeders Niemeijer, they would not have seen the light of the day and thronged the local hungry if an error hadn't crept in -- and stayed.

A couple years ago I was put in charge of improving a brownie recipe that would warrant a sweet that, upon the first bite, would have to do nothing lesser than turn haters (of brownies) into lovers (of brownies), or, at the very least, be something to write home about. Now, we live in the world full of brownies. There are the ones that squarely sit in the well-behaved, composed cake department, and others that find themselves on the opposite end of the trail, in the fudge field, and yet some others that tie the two worlds together and are at once like a moist cake and a luscious chocolate pudding or a mousse. I fancied our brownie to be that bridge, and so I set about figuring out what measures to take to this end. The only catch was that the recipe I'd been given to tweak -- it was trying to make brownies more cake-y than anything -- already called for the whole pound of premium dark chocolate (a must in any case), engulfed in a good amount of butter and eggs, which made me feel that simply upping the numbers wouldn't really meet the goal.

You know what did? A memory lapse. Re-trying the recipe over a few days led me to think I'd remembered the correct quantities alright, and so I gave myself a permission to make it by heart one fine morning. I melted this much butter and blended it with that much chocolate; whisked this many eggs with that much sugar; and sieved that much flour. All mentioned parties were combined and assigned to the oven, having later produced thin melt-in-your-mouth brownies, rich and creamy, holding their luxurious selves together just so, just barely enough. Many a taster was impressed -- and so was I. But my amusement was also stemming from the fact that I didn't have a clue what I'd done differently this time. Only hours further down the road, my brains going in reverse trying to re-live the past day, it finally dawned on me...the flour. I unknowingly decreased its amount from three digits to two, thus having used four times less flour than usual! Reader, I've never before relayed all this to anybody at work, except for my ex-colleague, a French guy, Arnaud, whom this cheeky brownie converted into a ferocious brownie eater, which, as he said, he didn't expect of himself, I normally don't like browniez. So I let him in on the mystery. Other than that, until now nobody knew of the little mistake/trick.

Unfortunately, I can't post the said recipe here. I'm contractually bound to keep my lips zipped, you see. But!  All that hullabaloo is not at all for no reason. Which is that I recently came across a very, very similar recipe in Alice Medrich's Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-In-Your-Mouth Cookies. This woman and her New Bittersweet Brownies (such is the name), they are after my own heart. It transpires to be a norm now, in comparison to the decades of the past, to use more chocolate and less flour, as Medrich reveals. Holy egg, I incidentally tapped into some modern cosmic brownie spirit! I didn't expect that of myself.

In other developments, tomorrow I'm flying to Russia for two weeks to visit my family. I haven't seen them -- weekly Skype sessions don't count -- for two and a half years. First the dishwasher and then the apprentice wages, all served to delay my trip for, well, a long while. But not just that. Having completed my Master's, I stumbled in some sort of after-graduation depression. My studies were giving me cover from all these worrying questions parents are sometimes so prone to throw at you, such as What's now?, When are you going to look for a real job?, What, do you want to write? What does that mean?, and so forth. So naturally once I was done with my thesis I felt very unprotected. And so I got to eat my discomfort. Which made me put on weight. Which made me want to avoid letting my parents see me. A vicious circle good and proper. But I'm doing better now. I'm looking forward to finally seeing my parents in person again. I'm ready to face their questions; they mean no harm. I'm also looking forward to sitting down at my grandmother's kitchen table and enjoying her stew of river fish with onions, potatoes and tomatoes, chatting the time away.

I may not have all the answers yet, but I might make it up for that with these brownies, not too greasy, not too sweet, cake-y around the edges, with a glossy thin-paper crust and a heart of a soufflé. I'm sold already.

New Bittersweet Brownies
Source: Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-In-Your-Mouth Cookies, by Alice Medrich
Yield: 16 smaller or 12 larger brownies

225 g (8 ounces) premium bittersweet chocolate (70 % cacao), coarsely chopped

90 g (3 ounces) butter, cut into several pieces

3 eggs

200 g (7 ounces) sugar

Scant 1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp pure vanilla extract

50 g (1.75 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour

1       1. Place a rack in the lower third of the oven and pre-heat the oven to 175 C (350 F). Line a 20-cm (8-inch) square baking pan across the bottom and all the way up two opposite sides with parchment paper.

2       2. Put the chocolate and butter in a medium heatproof bowl position directly in a wide skillet of barely simmering water. Stir frequently until the mixture is melted; it should be smooth and quite warm. Set aside. In a separate medium bowl, with an electric mixer on high speed, beat the eggs, sugar, salt and vanilla until the eggs and thick and light colored, about 2 minutes. Whisk the warm chocolate into the egg mixture. With a spatula, carefully fold in the flour.

3      3. Scrape the batter into the lined pan and spread evenly. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out free of raw mixture stuck to it. If you want these brownies really gooey, bake them for 20 minutes instead. Leave to cool in the pan on a rack for at least an hour. Lift the edges of the parchment liner and remove to a cutting board. Use a long sharp knife to cut into 16 squares. Keep in an airtight container for up to 3 days. 

But wait just a minute

Oh boy -- have I missed out on posting a single word in March! How did this happen? Who is to blame? There was no conspiracy plotted by the Russian government to interrupt my blogging -- I didn't have to transmit any information to Vladimir in exchange for the freedom to write about cakes and other deliciousness; nobody twisted my arms; I wasn't abducted by aliens. Nothing, really nothing prevented me from showing up duly with a new story, except only-God-knows-what. But wait just a minute...I'm not being quite truthful here.
Stay with me; I need to circle around to first tell you that I turned into a troubled sleeper lately, quite a novelty for me, for I considered myself something of a slumber natural. Tellingly, I’m not good at all to deal with insomnia calmly. When it rolls in, I swiftly get into a state and ventilate about a pending sleep deprivation, a subsequent slow performance at work, a possible bout of gut-wrenching depression that, in my book, always goes hand-in-hand with a substandard diet of candy (M&M’s), and so on, and so forth. All that makes me even more wound up to peacefully depart to bed, except, I discovered, if I watch TV. So staring into yet another wakeful night I felt free to subject my groggy eyes to the viewing of The Colbert Report programmed by the TV geniuses on repeat the whole night through, seeing me off into the next day’s wee hours. The gentle observer would dub the phenomenon as dumbness, but let me just tell I consider that time well spent, if only for one reason alone: through the Colbert Report I learnt about Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo, a book that I would give my every free waking hour for days that followed. And not just once, for after reaching the end I would turn to the first pages and start again. I’ve downed it three times, in a row.

I love reading. All those stories, fictional or non-, unfolding behind the freshly crisp or time-battered pages; the way the pages rustle, if new, and whisper, if old, under the gentle nudge of my fingers; the graceful prose stretching from word to word; the characters, real or imaginative, leaving a trace, however subtle or palpable, of themselves in my mind well after a book has been devoured.

There are dozens of cherished tomes on my book shelves, but there are very few that have gripped me, literally and beyond, the way Katherine Boo’s did. Hers, in large brush strokes, is a true account of the life in a Mumbai slum, the life, as it transpires, that is full of hope, of search for opportunity in the poignantly unequal urban India, as much as it is the life full of demise, physical, moral and emotional. For three years Boo followed the slum dwellers about their daily routines, documenting, patiently, non-judgementally, the tender and heart-breaking truths behind the walls of the Mumbai international airport, the walls that separate a slum from the luxurious hotels and the lives of the rich.

Irrespective of some parts that were too overwhelming to read, so much so that I had to put the book down for a while, it is not a grim story of the grisly reality. Showing the abject poverty, the festering hunger, the ambient corruption, all personalized, let’s just say it’s bound to quietly put many a thing into perspective for the reader, at least it did for me.

I think of Abdul, a scaredy-cat sixteen-years-old, squatting in front of his family hut, sorting out garbage that young, fearless ribby scavengers like Sunil had brought in from their charges along the Sahar Airport Road. He assigns plastic to one pile, aluminium scraps to another, getting ready to schlep it all to recyclers, providing therefore an income for his family of eleven. I think of Meena, a fifteen-year-old, living in, or rather, beaten into domestic submission, contemplating suicide. I think of young but late boys Kalu and Sanjay, and what had possibly gone through their minds before they died. I want to forget none of them; I won’t. I also think how often I forget what I’ve been blessed with – health, home, food, job – and how this book, how these youths, remind me not to.

Behind the Beautiful Forevers -- a must-read. Which is what I’ve been up the last three or so weeks. But wait just a minute...that’s not the single thing I repeatedly did back then. I also got to make -- huk! -- whole lemon tart.

The recipe comes from Melissa Clark’s In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite, a book of her essays and recipes originally written for her veritable NYT column. Although not entirely unimaginable as such, this whole lemon tart business surprised me quite a bit. You see, the lemon tart we make at Gebr. Niemeijer is the kind made with fresh lemon cream presiding over a toasty sweet pastry shell. Whisk that concoction of sugar, eggs and lemon juice over boiling water non-stop, come what may, for as long as it takes to get to the right temperature without complaining and/or sobbing, and you are not a rooky any more. That you can forego the shoulder strain to make a nice lemon tart did never occur to me before.

All you need to do, except fixing an almond tart shell, which itself is a cinch, is blend a couple peeled and deseeded lemons with sugar, mix that all up with eggs and melted butter, and blissfully send the band in a pre-baked tart shell to be cooked in the oven. No pain, no gain? I don’t think so. What you’ll get is a very fine lemon tart, fresh and tongue tickling, its flavour no lesser zealous than that of the tart with the airy, and punchy, and pompous stovetop lemon cream. The lemon flavour in this version is more subdued, and relaxed, velvety, even -- and with the pastry, rather than on it, if you know what I mean. I like it.

And…looking so sunny and bright, it would make a fitting Easter sweet, this whole lemon tart.

Happy Spring, Reader!

Whole Lemon Tart

Adapted from In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite, by Melissa Clark
Yield: 8-10 servings

There are two things in the original recipe that I did differently. First: I reversed the way the pastry dough is made. Instead of cutting the butter in the flour-egg mixture, I creamed the butter first, adding the rest of the ingredients – confectioners' (powdered) sugar, almonds, egg – one after another, flour being mixed in last, which is, actually, how I learnt to make sweet dough at work. Another reason being I don’t own a food processor to pulse the butter into the flour as Clark does.

Second: since the butter was so immoderately (to my taste) seeping out of the lemon filling, I dialled down the amount of butter in more than a half, and the recipe still worked like a charm.

Last: I like my lemon tart more sour than sweet, which is why I also decreased the amount of sugar here, but just a mite.

For the almond tart shell:

110 g (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold and cubed
40 g (1/3 cup) confectioners’ sugar
85 g (1/2 cup lightly packed) ground blanched almonds
Freshly grated zest of 1/2 lemon (I used zest of a whole lemon)
Pinch salt
1 large egg, lightly beaten
190 g (1 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour

For the lemon filling:

2 large lemons
220 g (1 cup plus 1 1/2 Tbsp) granulated sugar
17 g (2 Tbsp) cornstarch
Pinch salt
45 g (3 Tbsp) butter, melted
1 large egg
2 large egg yolks
1 Tbsp vanilla extract
Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting (optional)

1. In a medium bowl and using a hand-held electric mixer, beat the butter at medium speed until it starts to soften, about 1 minute. Add the confectioners’ sugar and beat until light and fluffy, 1-2 minutes. Mix in the ground almonds, salt and lemon zest; scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the egg and beat until incorporated. Add the flour, and using your hands combine it with the rest of the mixture. Don’t knead or squeeze; the motion of your hands should resemble that of the claw in a teddy picker – grip, and release, grip, and release. This way you mix in the flour without working it too much. Stop when the dough – it will be crumbly – just comes together. Press into a disc, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate for 1 hour or overnight.

2. When ready to bake the tart, roll the dough out between two sheets of parchment paper into a circle 35-cm (14-inch) in diameter. Line a buttered 24-cm (9-inch) tart pan with the dough and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

3. Pre-heat the oven to 160 C (325 F). Line the tart shell with the parchment paper and fill with baking weights/beans/or copper coins. Bake until the tart shell is pale golden, 20-25 minutes. The tart shell can be baked up to 8 hours before filling.

4. To make the filling, grate the lemon zest and place it in the bowl of a blender (or that of a food processor). With a sharp knife, cut the tops and the bottoms off the lemons. Stand each lemon up and remove the white pith by following the curve of the fruit with the knife. (First time I did a clumsy job and left a few bits of the white pith here and there; as a result, the lemon filling tasted slightly bitter.) Cut the fruit into thin rounds and remove the seeds. Put the fruit in the blender and add the sugar, cornstarch, and salt. Blend until thoroughly combined. Scrape the mixture into a medium mixing bowl.

5. In a separate bowl, whisk together the melted butter, egg, egg yolks, and vanilla. Pour the egg-butter mixture into the lemon mixture and whisk to incorporate. Pour the lemon filling into the tart shell and bake until the top is bubbly and lightly browned, 30-45 minutes. Cool completely in the pan. Cover and refrigerate for up to 3 days. Before serving, dust with confectioners’ sugar, if desired.

On my own time again

  I’m squatting down in front of my oven, watching carrots roasting. They lie there, calmly, the tendrils of bubbling olive oil all around, surrendering to the heat, their orange gradually getting toned, their frame less unyielding. That heady and sweet smell of roasting carrot – a whiff so timid when the vegetable is raw, almost non-existent -- percolates the room, gently wafting through the air, through a haze in my head.
 
Today’s morning was a struggle with my alarm. I’ve never been the one to jump out of bed at the first command of my clock (ungodly hour, be damned!), but this time I felt especially resentful, muting the reminder again and again for almost an hour, denying time the right to rob me off my sleep. Finally I relent. I can’t not to – I’ll be late for work otherwise. I hastily get ready, foregoing breakfast (a crime!). I walk out the doorway, my heels knocking through the gelatinous early morning silence of the hallway, the loudest sound in the building so far. I assess my looks in the elevator mirror; maybe one more spray of perfume and a smear of a lipstick wouldn’t hurt. Angry gusts of wind make me gasp as I step outside; all my vitals cringe at the thought of cycling all the way to work -- twenty five minutes, give or take -- so I hop on my bike and pedal to the nearest tram station instead, the neurotic electric buzz of street lamps having a monopoly in the air at this hour.
 
I start my day at work with a thick, almost syrupy, espresso, a usual ritual. Caffeine reaches my bloodstream a handful of minutes later, and I start feeling a rush, the high from the espresso. The beeping of the ovens and the clanking of the pots and whisks don’t vex me anymore. I’m alert and wakeful, and get on with starting baguette dough, making brownies and fruit pies, first things on my agenda. My back aches, a nerve got pinched in the recesses of my spine during my sleep. I probably should reserve my energy and go about my day at a slower clip, but I must not. Everything has to be done fast; the dough, the butter, the oven, they are intolerant to how one feels. I proceed. I fold butter squares into large yeasty dough pieces to make croissants, four batches in total. By the time I’m done with that it’s nearly mid-morning. My stomach rumbles full on. I’m ravenous, but it’s still a couple hours before a lunch break, the full fifteen minutes carved out for a hurried Serrano ham sandwich. Before that happens, I take another espresso, and another one, in the hope it’ll curb my hunger. And it does just that. But I don’t drink enough water, and soon after light-headedness creeps in. It’s time to do the last roll out of the croissant dough; every piece seems to weigh a ton. When the caffeine grip loosens up, fog sets in my head. It takes more focus to stay focused. I have to measure equal triangles in the dough to be rolled up in croissants, but my hand is rickety, and the triangles come out erratic, one is way too big, another rather small. I keep thinking of what’s for dinner tonight.
 
I restore to my feet from my squatting stance and slice an onion into thin rings. I throw them in with the carrots, rinse red lentils and arrange spices I need – smoked Spanish paprika and cayenne – next to the stove. The aroma of roasting onion gentles me back into comfort. I’m glad to be home, on my own time again. Anthony is napping on the couch; instead of chatting with him I turn to a book, getting pleasantly lost in lyrical words, sentences, in somebody else’s world. A buzzer comes off, the vegetables must be ready. And they are: the carrots have softened, the onion browned.
In under half an hour roasted carrot and red lentil soup will be ready. All I have to do now is to cut the carrots in bite-sized chunks, consign them to a pot, along with the onion rings, a pinch of cayenne and smoked paprika, the lentils and some stock. As the soup softly bubbles away, I turn back to reading, patiently waiting for the heat to transform the lot into a welcoming and delicious – smoky, spicy, nubbly, sweet – mess. 

Roasted Carrot and Red Lentil Soup

Source: The Wednesday Chef

Yield: 4-6 servings, depending how hungry you are
 
3/4 kilo (1 1/2 pounds) carrots, peeled
5 Tbsp olive oil
1 tsp salt
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
3/4 tsp Aleppo pepper (I skipped this – had none)
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper, or to taste
1/8 tsp smoked Spanish paprika*
200 g (1 cup) red lentils, picked over and rinsed
1 1/4 L (5 cups) chicken or vegetable stock, or water
Fresh parsley for garnish (optional)

1. Warm up the oven to 200 degrees C (400 degrees F). Put the carrots in a roasting pan or on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper and toss with 3 Tbsp olive oil. Sprinkle over the salt and some freshly ground black pepper; roast for 20 minutes. Turn the carrots (use a pair of kitchen tongs for the task – convenient and not finger-scorching), throw in the onion and roast for another 15 minutes, until the carrots and soft and visibly toned. When carrots are cool enough to handle, cut them in bite-sized chunks, or use a fork or a knife as leverage if you can’t wait.

2. In a medium pot, heat 2 Tbsp olive oil. Add the carrots and the onion, together with the cayenne and paprika (and the Aleppo pepper, if using). Cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the lentils, the stock or water, and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook, stirring every now and then to avoid scorching, for about 20-25 minutes, until the lentils are mushy. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve hot, garnished with finely chopped fresh parsley (if using).

*In Amsterdam, smoked Spanish paprika is available, for instance, from Hollandaluz, a Spanish delicatessen at Haarlemmerstraat 71.

I can't complain

Good day, Dear Reader –

I trust January is being nice and gentle with you. And while I’m at it, I’d like to ask: What do you generally think of January? I personally find the year’s first month a reclusive egg. I own it is no fun to arrive on the spot intent to raise a few toasts to a new year and throw in a few tipsy jokes here and there only to find out that everybody has sobered up after the visit of the festive and jocund December and promised to go teetotal for the whole month. Thus far having found nobody around the bar, January makes a beeline for the kitchen…and, dash it, what is there to be seen? Lettuce and broccoli have taken up the diner’s plate. It’s quiet. Void of major festivities of its own, January does only so much as to grow cold and pass by in the wake of the past holidays.

My point is: January for me is just that month that comes when Christmas holidays are over. A rather daunting attitude, I hear you say. And I agree. I’m having a hard time letting go of good times. It is why our Christmas tree is still here, still sparkling, still perfuming our home. I’ve been like this since the daunt of me, begging my mother to hold on to the tree just one more day until my father would have to intervene with a shirty speech about how much the dry needles litter the living room’s floor, and how it is on his way to his chest of books, and how silly it is, holy spruce, to have not yet got rid of the Christmas tree by the end of January and that we’d better do it immediately. Upset, I’d strip the dear tree of the ornaments, taking down tinsel after tinsel, one shimmering string after another, knowing perfectly well that of course it was the time to throw it out, of course it was silly to keep it for so long. But in my view, for long as there was the Christmas tree, there was no emptiness. I am my own governor now, and so far the tree (this time mostly decorated with peppermint candy canes) is staying. Anthony says he doesn’t mind. And I’m glad. I’m filling the void.

Where am I going with this? Ah yes, I’ve been free from work the week that’s just worn off. I was going to make a few day trips around Holland, to get engaged in a shopping spree, to visit a few museums I haven’t yet been to. In one broad brush stroke, my plan was to be out and about, filling my January with excitement – and I couldn’t wait! Needless to say, I quite surprised myself that when my free week finally arrived, all I did, and wanted to do, was stay in. My initial standing was to plunge in the dark underwater of self-loathing: What a downer! What a pooper scooper! Humbug! Most likely I would. But I got distracted. Anthony got swept off by a beastly case of poisoning, the type that blows one flat out, and makes one think, That’s it. He was in bad, bad pain. We were both scared. My main tasks at the time were to make sure there is enough Gatorade in the fridge, it being the sole thing he could keep down, and to call an ambulance if the situation would spiral out of control, which, luckily, it didn’t.

I’m happy to say Anthony is OK now. The circumstances so transpired that we both stayed in. And actually, except his sickness, it was nice. We played Monopoly day in, day out; watched a lot of Pat & Mat and In Living Color (such a great show!). I did a lot of reading. And when Anthony finally felt hungry again, we ate chickpeas. I can’t complain about my week off. I don’t think so. And as long as our Christmas tree is still around, I will not complain about January.

Hot Chickpea Salad
Source: Simple French Food by Richard Olney

Composed of chickpeas, olive oil, vinegar and fresh herbs, this is one of the unfussiest salads I’ve ever made. All you’ve got to do is to plan slightly ahead – at least two hours for soaking the chickpeas and as much for cooking them -- and water and heat will take care of the rest.

I have a soft spot for chickpeas, but that, however, didn’t equip me with the knowledge that they are very sensitive to hard waters. To neutralize the effect, Richard Olney would soak his chickpeas in sifted wood ashes and rain water, to which a good pinch of bicarbonate of soda would be a fine substitute, he writes.

Rain waters and wood ashes or not, this is what you do. Rinse the chickpeas well after soaking, chuck in a pot, cover amply with water and throw in a carrot and/or celery stalk along with one onion studded with a few cloves and a sprig of thyme. Bring slowly to a boil, cover partially and cook into submission over a lazy simmer, salting the lot generously only towards the end of cooking time. Drain. Serve hot, accompanied by a fragrant olive oil – “The immediate explosion of perfume when good olive oil is added to any hot vegetable is always exciting” -- vinegar, salt and pepper and some finely-chopped fresh parsley. No measurements are required for this type of dish, your own taste being the essential pointer.