Key Lime Tart

Key Lime Pie.... Creamy.... Cool.... Tart.... Refreshing.... A universally appealing dessert for the warm days of Spring and Summer.... And my mother's request for dessert this past Mother's Day.

While delicious, it was frankly not an obvious choice for a blog post. There must be hundreds of blog posts written on Key Lime Pie. But as I looked through post after post, I saw that all of the fillings were variations on the classic filling made with sweetened condensed milk. And while there is nothing wrong with that particular filling...it is not the one that I make. Instead, I make mine with a delicious key lime curd.

The recipe I use is not my own. I found it several years ago in Emily Luchetti's dessert cookbook Four Star Desserts. It is nearly identical to my recipe for lemon curd—which is probably why I noticed it in the first place. It is fast, easy and truly delicious. I have only changed her recipe in one respect: I bake the curd filled tart briefly before chilling it. This helps give the filling a firmer set—guaranteeing beautiful clean slices.





Most of the time when I make this tart, I go to the trouble of squeezing fresh key limes. This is admittedly a bit of a pain, but I have always assumed that it was worth it (isn't fresh always better?). But since this popular pie (or tart) is frequently made with bottled juice, I have often wondered if the fresh lime juice was really that much better.

On Mother's day I had a perfect opportunity to make a side-by-side comparison. My family is large, so in order to feed them all, I needed to make two tarts. I made one with freshly squeezed juice and one with bottled.

The two tarts cooling...  you can't tell the difference by looking....

I freely admit that the one made with bottled juice was very good. But I really did like the one made with fresh juice better. It was more tart (important, since limes are supposed to be tart), but more importantly it was more aromatic...I don't know any other way to describe it. The bottled juice tart tasted like a slightly faded copy in comparison—acceptable in a pinch...but inferior none-the-less.

If you have never tasted a key lime pie (or tart) made with fresh key limes, you should try it at least once.  And if the only filling you have ever had is the one made with sweetened condensed milk, you should definitely give this one—made with fresh key lime curd—a try.

Key Lime Tart

1 1/2 c. sugar
1 t. lime zest
3/4 c. strained key lime juice (this will take about 1 lb. of limes)
4 eggs
4 oz. (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 9-inch pre-baked graham cracker crust (see below)

1 1/2 c. whipping cream
3 T. sugar
3/4 t. vanilla

Combine the sugar, zest and key lime juice in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over high heat. In a medium-sized bowl, whisk the eggs until homogenous. When the syrup boils, whisk it into the eggs in a thin stream. Return this mixture to the saucepan and place over medium heat. Stir constantly until the mixture is visibly thickened—this will only take about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and whisk in the butter, piece by piece.

When the butter is fully incorporated, strain the curd into the graham cracker crust. Place on a baking sheet and bake in a 350° oven until set (it will still be a bit wobbly, but it won't be liquid-y)—15 to 20 minutes. Let the tart cool before transferring to the refrigerator to chill until cold.

Combine the whipping cream, sugar and vanilla. Whip until soft peaks form. Swirl over the tart.

Chill for an hour or so. Sprinkle some of the reserved crumbs over . Cut into wedges and serve. Serves 8 to 10.

(Recipe adapted from Emily Luchetti's Four Start Desserts)

Graham Cracker Crust:
1 1/4 c. (120 g) graham cracker crumbs
1/4 c. sugar
1/2 t. cinnamon
2 oz. (4 T.) unsalted butter, melted

Combine dry ingredients. Add the melted butter, stirring until the mixture is homogenous. Set aside 2 Tablespoons of the crumbs. Press the remaining crumbs into a greased, removable-bottom 9-inch tart pan, covering the sides and the bottom evenly. Bake in a pre-heated 350° oven until beginning to brown—10 to 12 minutes. Set aside.




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A Rhubarb Financier

In late March Ottolenghi posted a few items on their Facebook page from their Notting Hill location's new Spring menu. Everything looked delicious...and seemed to shout "Spring!"...but it was the Rhubarb Financiers that particularly caught my eye. Here in Kansas City we were still in the throes of the winter that wouldn't let go, but as I looked at the images of those beautiful Springtime cakes, I remembered that I had just seen the first of the rhubarb at my local grocery store (coming of course from someplace where it was actually spring).  The next time I went to the store I went straight for that rhubarb.  I could have made any number of things...I love rhubarb.  But at that point, I just had to have a rhubarb financier.

Traditionally, a financier (pronounced fee-nahn-see-ay) doesn't include any fruit. It is a simple, flat little rectangular cake (classically about 2- by 4-inches) made with ground almonds, flour, egg whites, browned butter and powdered sugar. They are standard French pâtisserie fare. Their color and shape is said to be the source of their name—when made without the addition of any fruit, they look like little gold bars or ingots. There are other explanations, but to me this one seems the most plausible. No matter what the source of their name, they are delicious—one of my all-time favorites. Buttery....nutty.... tender and cake-y on the inside.....crusty and chewy on the outside..... If you love browned butter and almonds, these cakes are for you.

More and more you will find financiers that include a seasonal fruit of some kind. This is in fact the way I see them most often. Bon Appetit has published a blackberry version. The blogs Tartelette and Cannelle et Vanille have both posted several interesting fruit variations. And these are just the bare tip of the iceberg as a quick internet search will bear out. Besides fruit variations you will also find that the kind of nut flour used is frequently varied.

Similarly, financiers are no longer just made in the traditional flat rectangular pan—other shapes and sizes are common. The deeper the pan, the greater the proportion of tender cake and the greater their capacity to accommodate some fruit. The shallower the pan, the greater the proportion of the prized crusty-chewy exterior.

I don't own traditional financier molds, so my choice of pans was limited to small ramekins, muffin pans and tartlet pans—all of which would have worked just fine. But instead of making little individual financiers, I decided to make one large financier in a rectangular tart pan.

Suzanne Goin in her book Sunday Suppers at Lucques has a couple of recipes that are done as large cakes. And Martha Stewart published one in a rectangular tart pan in March of this year. I particularly like this look. I also like the fact that the end result is a cake with more tender interior and less crusty exterior.


After settling on a style of pan, the only hurdle left was finding a way to incorporate the rhubarb. As I have mentioned in a couple of previous posts, adding rhubarb to a cake can be a bit problematic since it releases so much water during the cooking process. Because this cake is so thin, it would actually have worked pretty well to simply scatter the raw rhubarb over the surface of the cake before baking (just as I did for a rhubarb & cornmeal cake a few years ago). But since the rhubarb in the photos from Ottolenghi had obviously been given some kind of pre-baking treatment—and those photos were the source of my inspiration—that's the direction I took. The trick is to get the rhubarb to release its liquid before it goes on/into the cake without cooking it too much. The best way to do this is to allow the cut rhubarb to macerate in a bit of sugar overnight.

Since the batter for a financier has to rest overnight, this method works well for this particular cake. The next day, the resulting liquid is drained off of the rhubarb and then reduced to a syrup. I used a similar method in a streusel coffee cake a couple of years back.

All in all, I was very pleased with my rhubarb financier. It is tender, sweet, buttery, fragrant with almonds and accented nicely by the chunks of tart rhubarb. It is also very pretty—perfect for a spring tea, a light dessert...or a "just because" kind of snack.

Rhubarb Financier

(Rhubarb-Topped Browned Butter Cake)

150 g. (10 T. plus 2 t.) unsalted butter
60 g. (1/2 cup) slivered blanched almonds
60 g. (1/2 cup) all-purpose flour
1/4 t. salt
120 g. (a generous 1 cup) powdered sugar
4 egg whites (120 grams)—beaten until foamy

125 g. (trimmed weight) rhubarb, sliced cross-wise in 1/2-inch pieces (a generous 1 cup sliced rhubarb)
50 g. (2 T.) sugar

Spread the almonds on a baking sheet and toast in a 350° oven until light golden brown—about 5 minutes. Cool and using a nut grinder, grind the nuts to a flour. (You may use 60 grams of purchased almond flour instead. If using almond flour, spread it on a baking sheet and toast as you would the slivered almonds.)

Meanwhile, place the butter in a small saucepan set over medium heat. As the butter begins to sputter and pop, whisk occasionally. The butter solids will begin to turn brown. When the solids are a golden brown and the butter has a pleasantly nutty aroma, scrape the butter (making sure to get all the browned bits) to another container to stop the cooking process (you should have 120 g. browned butter).  For a detailed description of browning butter, visit my Butter Pecan Ice Cream post.

Place the ground almonds, all-purpose flour, salt & sugar in a medium sized bowl. Whisk to combine. Whisk in the egg whites. Whisking constantly, drizzle in the warm browned butter to incorporate. Continue to whisk until the batter is smooth. Refrigerate the batter overnight. (This will allow any developed gluten to relax and will give the butter time to firm up.)

To prepare the rhubarb: In a small bowl, toss the rhubarb together with the sugar. Cover and refrigerate overnight. The next morning, give the rhubarb a quick fold to help dissolve any remaining sugar hanging out at the bottom of the bowl. Strain the rhubarb liquid into a sauté pan large enough to hold the rhubarb in a single layer.  Bring the liquid to a boil over high heat; add the rhubarb to the pan and return to the boil.  Remove the pan from the heat and let the mixture cool to room temperature.  Strain the cooled rhubarb out and place in a small bowl.   Return the liquid to the pan and set the pan over high heat.  Reduce the liquid to a syrup.  Scrape the syrup (there shouldn't be more than a tablespoon) over the rhubarb and toss to combine.  Chill until ready to use.  (See notes.)

To bake the financier: Butter and flour a rectangular (roughly 4 1/2- x 13 1/2-inches) removable bottom tart tin. (If you don't have a rectangular tin, an 8-inch round tart pan—or even a shallow cake pan—will work too.) Spread the batter in the pan and arrange the rhubarb chunks on top of the batter (leaving any excess syrup behind in the bowl)—it is not necessary (or desirable) to press the fruit into the batter.

Transfer the pan to a 375° oven and bake until the cake is golden brown, puffed in the center and a toothpick inserted in the cake (not the fruit) comes out clean—about 25 minutes. If there was any syrup remaining from the rhubarb, brush this over the warm cake. When the cake is cool enough to handle (but still warm) remove the outer rim of the pan. Set the cake on a wire rack and cool completely.

To serve the financier, dredge with powdered sugar and slice cross-wise into 6 portions.

Notes:

• Because financiers use such a large quantity of egg whites, a good time to make them is after you have made something that uses a lot of yolks (ice cream, pot de crème, cream pie, etc.).
• For the rhubarb, you can use the exact same method that I did for the rhubarb streusel coffee cake if you prefer.  The method described here may seem a bit more convoluted...but I think it works better for the smaller amount of rhubarb required for this recipe.  When executed properly, both methods produce the same thing.

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Learning about a "New" Grain: Freekeh Pilaf with Swiss Chard, Spring Onions & Goat Cheese

Last summer a woman who takes my classes at The Merc in Lawrence left a note on my Facebook page asking if I had ever cooked with freekeh. At the time I had not. I was peripherally aware of it because I had seen it mentioned in a couple of favorite cookbooks—but had never made the leap to seeking it out and cooking with it. Soon after our Facebook conversation, I picked up a bag of Freekeh at the Merc—fully intending to cook some right away. As often happens, it fell off of my radar. Last week (almost a year later!) while looking for something a bit different to do with some Swiss Chard I purchased at the Farmers' market, I remembered my bag of freekeh.

For those who are wondering what in the world I am talking about, freekeh is wheat—or more specifically, freekeh is a method for processing wheat (a process that can be applied to other grains as well.....most notably, barley). To produce Freekeh, the wheat is harvested while it is still a bit green. It is then laid out to dry and then finally, it is roasted or charred. The resulting wheat kernels have a faintly smoky aroma and taste. It is my suspicion that the level of smokiness will vary from processor to processor. As a bonus, since it is made with an unripe grain, freekeh is very nutritious—apparently on a par with quinoa.

Freekeh is truly an ancient grain—the "parched corn" mentioned in the Old Testament is generally thought to be freekeh. Most sources agree that the freekeh process was discovered by accident about four thousand years ago in the Middle East. In an attempt to save their wheat crop from an impending enemy attack, a group of villagers harvested the unripe grain and stacked it inside their village walls. Sources disagree on whether the wheat combusted on its own or was actually set on fire by the enemy. When the fire was finally out, it was discovered that the wheat itself had not burned—possibly due to the moisture inherent in the still green kernels—only the husks were charred. The husks were easily removed by rubbing the grains together. The crop had been saved after all. Freekeh—meaning "rubbed" or "to rub"—was born.

notice the faint green cast to the grain....

Freekeh is easy to cook and may be prepared as you would prepare any whole grain. It may be simply boiled and drained (and rinsed if destined for a salad). Or it may be prepared according to the standard pilaf method. It comes in a whole and a cracked from—the whole taking slightly longer (maybe 10 to 15 minutes longer) to cook. Some sources recommend soaking freekeh in cold water for 5 to 10 minutes before cooking. I'm guessing the brief soak gives the cooked grains a more uniform texture—but I really don't know. I simply rinsed mine and drained it well before I cooked it (just as I would quinoa, farro or bulgur). The finished texture was tender and pleasantly chewy.

Because bulgur is commonly recommended as a substitute for freekeh (it is apparently only recently that freekeh has become widely available in this country), I decided for my first foray into the world of freekeh that I would prepare a dish based on a favorite bulgur preparation—a pilaf with Swiss Chard, dried fruit and nuts. The results were delicious. The freekeh does indeed have a smokiness to it—but it is fairly subtle. The flavor is difficult to describe. Bulgur has a prominent sweetness to it that freekeh lacks. Yotam Ottolenghi uses the word "earthy" to describe it. I found one source that described freekeh as having a tangy quality and I think this is an accurate description. I particularly liked the sweetness of the currants and pine nuts against the backdrop of the freekeh.

If you choose to cook your freekeh according to the pilaf method you will find recipes with liquid to grain ratios ranging from 3:1 to 1 1/4:1. This latter very low ratio I found in Yotam Ottolenghi's book Plenty. It was the only place I found it, but it was the one I settled on. This is the ratio I always use when I cook bulgur. Furthermore, I think the chefs at Ottolenghi do amazing things with grains...their books and other published recipes (magazines...on line...) are the first place I check when I'm experimenting with grains and I am never disappointed. At this ratio, the grain was still nice and moist, but not swimming in excess liquid that had to be drained away.

I'm so pleased that someone asked me about freekeh (Thanks Lisa!)....I'm not sure I would have tried it otherwise. And I'm so glad I did. It has earned a permanent place in the selection of grains in my pantry and I'm looking forward to experimenting further with it in the months to come.

Freekeh Pilaf with Swiss Chard,
Spring Onions & Goat Cheese

1 small to medium bunch Swiss Chard, stems removed and the leaves cut cross-wise into 1-inch wide ribbons
1 T. olive oil
1 small clove of garlic, minced
pinch hot pepper flakes
1 to 2 T. olive oil
2 medium spring onions, trimmed, well-rinsed and thinly sliced (white plus a few inches of the green)
kosher salt
1/2 c. cracked freekeh, rinsed and drained
a scant 2/3 c. chicken stock
2 heaping T. dried currants
2 1/2 to 3 T. toasted pine nuts
2 to 3 T. finely chiffonade mint (or minced flat leaf parsley)
1/2 T. lemon juice (or to taste)
2 oz. soft goat cheese

Wash the chard in several changes of water in order to remove all dirt and grit. Set aside to drain (it is not necessary to spin dry unless you will be storing it after washing it). Place the olive oil, garlic and pepper flakes in a sauté pan set over moderate heat. When the garlic begins to sizzle and is fragrant, add the chard a handful at a time, turning to coat each handful in the oil as you do. After all of the chard has been added to the pan, reduce the heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until the chard is just tender (not mushy). If the chard is not young and tender, it may be necessary to reduce the heat and cover the pan to help the chard cook. It should take 10 to 20 minutes to cook. Set aside.

Warm one or two tablespoons of olive oil in a medium saucepan with a tight fitting lid over moderate heat. Add the onions along with a pinch of salt and sweat until tender and translucent. Increase the heat to medium high and add the drained freekeh along with a generous pinch of salt. Continue to cook for a minute until the grains are coated in the oil and sizzling in the hot oil. Add the stock

and bring to a full boil. Reduce the heat to low and cook, covered until the freekeh is tender—20 to 25 minutes. Remove from the heat and scatter the currants over the surface of the freekeh.

Cover and let stand for 5 minutes.

If the chard has become cold, warm briefly. Add the chard to the rested freekeh along with the mint and pine nuts. Toss to combine and season to taste with salt, pepper and lemon juice. Divide the freekeh among two plates. Crumble some goat cheese over each along with a few more pine nuts and more mint.

Notes:
• The quantities in this recipe made a satisfying entrée for two light appetites. It would also make a delicious side dish (for chicken or fish) for three or four.
• The recipe may be multiplied without difficulty—just use 1 1/4 c. of stock (or water) for every cup of freekeh.
• This pilaf is excellent hot—but it is also delicious at room temperature.  It would be wonderful to take to work or school for lunch.





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My Favorite Biscotti

Not only is the recipe I'm posting today my favorite recipe for biscotti...it is my favorite version of my favorite recipe. I posted the Christmas version with dried cranberries and pistachios two years ago. In that post I shared the reason that this is such an exceptional recipe (hint: it has more butter than most recipes). I also mentioned that I occasionally make the biscotti with almonds and chocolate instead of pistachios and cranberries. It is that version that I'm posting today.

Delicately perfumed with orange and almond... Punctuated with dark chocolate... Light and tender—with just the right amount of crunch.... A perfect munching or dipping cookie. I love them. I think you will too.

Chocolate Almond Biscotti

2 1/4 c. all-purpose flour (270g)
1 1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
2 oz. (1/2 c.) lightly toasted slivered, blanched almonds
2 oz. (1/3 c.) mini chocolate chips (or semi-sweet chocolate, chopped medium fine)
1/2 c. (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 c. plus 2 T. sugar (175g)
Zest of 1 large orange
2 eggs
1 t. vanilla extract
milk for brushing
Turbinado sugar for sprinkling

Combine the flour, baking powder, salt, nuts and chocolate; set aside.

Cream butter, sugar and orange zest until fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Beat in the vanilla. Stir in the dry ingredients just until incorporated. The dough may be used immediately—although it is somewhat easier to manage when chilled until firm.

Divide the dough into two or three pieces. On a lightly floured work surface, form each piece into a 1- to 1 1/2-inch log. Set the logs on the parchment lined cookie sheet about 4-inches apart (If you make three thinner logs you may need to bake in 1 batch of 2 and 1 batch of 1 log depending on the width of your baking sheet). Flatten slightly.



Brush the logs with milk and sprinkle generously with Turbinado sugar.

Bake in a 325° oven until set & golden brown—about 25 to 30 minutes (the cookies should be spring back just like a cake). Remove from the oven and cool for 5 minutes.

Slice on the diagonal into generous 1/2-inch slices. Lay the slices on their sides and return the sheets to the oven for another 5 minutes.




Turn the cookies over and bake for another 5 to 10 minutes—or until the cookies are just beginning to turn golden on the edges. Cool completely before wrapping air tight.

Makes about 60 small biscotti or 40 medium-sized biscotti.

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The Start of Spring Onion Season and Fusilli with Swiss Chard & Italian Sausage

By the time the farmers' market opens for the year I am thoroughly tired of the onions that are available to me at the grocery store. Typically storage onions from the previous growing season, their skins are tough and thick and the onions themselves are sharp, dry and—more often than not—beginning to sprout. They require longer cooking to soften both their texture and their taste—and even then, their quality isn't that great. So it is always such a pleasure to evict those old storage onions from my cooking after I bring home the first bunches of Spring onions. They are one of the first things to appear at the market and their presence in my kitchen always makes me feel like Spring has truly arrived (even in a year—like this one—when the actual weather doesn't agree).

If you are unfamiliar with Spring onions, they are exactly what their name implies...onions that are harvested in the Spring. They are the onions that are thinned from the rows as the main crop onions (white, yellow, red, etc.) grow and increase in size. I suspect though that many growers plant extra rows just for the Spring harvest so they will have plenty to meet the demand. Spring onions are delicious.

You will recognize Spring onions at the market because they still have their greens attached. They come in all sizes—from very thin, pencil-sized ones to fatter, baby leek-sized ones to small- and medium-sized ones that are beginning to produce a bulb (anywhere from the size of a large marble on up to a golf ball). When you get them home, store them loosely wrapped in a plastic bag in the refrigerator. To use them, trim away the root and rinse them well (particularly at the point where the green begins to flair out from the white and where sand and grit like to collect). The whole onion is useable, although I typically only use a quantity of the green that is equivalent to the quantity of white (the greens can be very long).

Thinly sliced spring onions

Since the early, pencil-thin, Spring onions look very much like the scallions (or green onions) that are sold year round at the grocery store, people often wonder how a scallion is different from a Spring onion. It is difficult to find a consistent answer to this question, but I will share what is my best guess. Scallions are just another variety of onion—one that never forms a bulb and is intended to be harvested and used with the green attached. Because these onions don't expand to form a bulb, it isn't necessary to thin the rows as with the bulb-ing varieties of onions. Consequently, scallions probably do not make up a large part of the "Spring" onion crop. Frankly, I have always considered scallions to be Spring onion "wannabes" since they never seem to be as tender and nice as Spring onions—but this could just be because a local, fresh onion of any variety will be better than one that has been harvested, stored and then shipped for grocery store sale. If you want to know what variety of onion you are getting when you purchase a Spring onion, just ask the grower—they will be happy to tell you.

As I mentioned at the start, once Spring onions appear, they almost completely replace regular onions in my cooking—even in recipes that "call for" regular onions. Frittatas and tortillas, grain pilafs and pastas...no recipe is safe...all get Spring makeovers once the Spring onions arrive. The Swiss Chard pasta we had for dinner last night is a great example. This is a pasta that I make often throughout the fall and winter months. From Alice Waters' book The Art of Simple Food, the original recipe is kind of hearty, calling for lightly caramelized red onions in addition to the Swiss Chard and Italian Sausage. But last night, as I considered what I was going to do with the beautiful small leaves of Rainbow Chard I had purchased at last Saturday's market (from Goode Acres), it occurred to me that a more delicate version of this pasta—using some Spring onions, along with a bit of lemon zest, in place of the red onions—would be just the thing. And it was. Hello Spring...



Fusilli with Swiss Chard, Sausage & Spring Onions

2 T. Olive oil

1/2 lb. Italian Sausage, casings removed

4 large Spring Onions—white and a few inches of the green, trimmed, halved and thinly sliced (about 2 cups)

salt & pepper, to taste

A pinch of red pepper flakes
Zest of a small lemon
2 bunches Swiss Chard, stems removed (about 10 to 12 oz. trimmed weight)—sliced cross-wise into 1-inch wide ribbons and rinsed in several changes of water to remove all grit
1 lb. Fusilli, or other short sturdy pasta
Extra Virgin Olive oil
1/3 c. (1 oz.) Freshly grated Pecorino

Heat the oil in a wide sauté pan over medium heat. Crumble the sausage and add to the pan. (Note: it is easier to crumble the sausage—which might be a bit sticky—if you lightly oil your fingertips.) Cook until browned and cooked through—about 5 minutes.

Remove the sausage and add the onion to the pan along with a pinch of salt, the pepper flakes and the lemon zest. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is softened—5 minutes or less.

(If the pan seems dry or the sausage was very lean, add a bit more olive oil). Begin to add the chard to the pan a handful at a time, turning with tongs as you add it so that it will become coated in the fat and onions and will begin to collapse. If there is no water clinging to the leaves (from washing), add a few tablespoons of water. Reduce the heat, cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until the chard is just tender (not mushy). Return the sausage to the pan. Set aside and keep warm while the pasta cooks.

While the chard is cooking, bring 6 quarts of water to the boil in a large stock/pasta pot. Add 2 to 3 Tablespoons of salt. After adding the sausage back to the chard, drop the pasta into the boiling salted water and cook until al dente. Drain, reserving some of the pasta water. Add the fusilli to the chard and toss to combine. If it seems dry, add a bit of reserved pasta water. Scatter the cheese over the pasta, drizzle some extra virgin olive oil and toss again. Serve, garnished with more cheese, if you like. Serves 4 to 6.

Note: During the fall and winter months I make this pasta exactly as it appears in Alice Waters' cookbook The Art of Simple Food. Omit the lemon zest and use a thinly sliced red onion instead of the spring onions. After removing the sausage from the pan, add the onion and increase the heat to medium-high. Cook the onions, stirring occasionally, until softened and beginning to caramelize a bit.

Begin adding the chard and proceed with the recipe as written.

(Recipe adapted from The Art of Simple Food, by Alice Waters)

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A Beautiful Asparagus Tart

As we head into asparagus season I thought I would finally post one of my all time favorite asparagus recipes—a beautiful tart. Adapted from a special "Paris issue" of Gourmet magazine, I have been teaching this tart annually in a popular class called "Everyday French" for at least ten years. I never get tired of it. It is so simple (nothing more than a bare bones asparagus quiche, really)...but because of the unusual shape of the crust it never fails to impress.

Instead of a traditional tart pan, the crust for this tart is fitted into a pizza pan. This wide, shallow crust is perfect for displaying a single layer of asparagus arranged like the spokes of a wheel. Whether presented whole or in slices, this tart really is lovely. For my private dinner clients, I like to serve it in narrow wedges alongside a salad. It makes an elegant first course. When I make it at home, I cut it into six fat wedges and serve it as an entrée (also accompanied by a salad).


You would think that this style of crust would be limiting, but in fact it is not. Any vegetable that can be cut into large, wide slices can probably be arranged attractively in this crust. In early summer I like to make the tart with broiled/grilled slices of zucchini. Last August I used this style of crust as a base for a nice Eggplant & Goat Cheese tart. And even if you don't have vegetables that can be arranged artistically in the shell, you can still use this crust for a myriad of different fillings...especially if you are one who (like me) likes a larger proportion of crisp, flaky crust to filling. A couple of years ago when I had one of these shells in my freezer I made a delicious and memorable impromptu tart with spinach and artichokes.

When you read through the recipe for the asparagus tart you will notice that asparagus is supposed to be peeled. This may sound like a tedious and time consuming activity, but since the tart only uses about a pound of asparagus, peeling it doesn't really add that much extra time. More importantly, the cooked peeled asparagus will have a uniformly soft and tender texture—much more in harmony with the soft egg custard than asparagus that has not had its slightly tough, stringy exterior removed. So please don't skip this step. As always, it's the little attentions to detail that make a big difference in the end result.

Asparagus & Gruyère Tart

1 12- to 13-inch tart shell, blind baked (see below)
1 to 1 1/4 lb. asparagus
4 oz. Gruyère cheese, coarsely grated
2 eggs
1 c. heavy cream
salt & pepper

Trim the asparagus into 5- or 6-inch lengths (depending on the size of your pizza pan). Starting about 2 inches down from the tips, peel the asparagus. In a pan of boiling salted water, blanch the asparagus until tender—2 or 3 minutes for thin; 5 minutes or so for thick. Drain and refresh in an ice bath or under cold running water. Pat dry.

Preheat the oven to 375°. Scatter about 2/3 of the cheese over the baked crust.

Arrange the asparagus spears like the spokes of a wheel—with the tips at the outer edge, pointing out.





Whisk together the eggs and the cream. Season with salt and pepper—and a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg if you like.

Pour the custard over the asparagus, jiggling the pan a bit so the custard will be evenly distributed. Scatter the remaining cheese over all.





Bake the tart until the custard is set—about 20 minutes. Slide the tart under the broiler to brown slightly. Serve immediately. Serves 6 to 8.



 (Recipe adapted from Gourmet, March 2001)

Pâte Brisée (Short Crust Pastry): 

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour (200g)
1/2 t. salt
11 T. cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces (150g)
1/4 to 1/3 c. ice water

Combine the flour and the salt in a medium-sized bowl. Rub the butter into the flour until the butter is in small pea-sized pieces. Drizzle 1/4 c. ice water over the flour/butter mixture. Using your hands, fluff the mixture until it begins to clump, adding more water if necessary. Turn the dough out onto a counter and form into a mound. Using the heel of your hand, gradually push all of the dough away from you in short forward strokes, flattening out the lumps. Continue until all of the dough is flat. Using a bench scraper, scrape the dough off the counter, forming it into a single clump as you do. Form the finished dough into a thick disk. Chill for at least 30 minutes.

To roll out, let dough warm up for a moment or two. Butter a 12- to 13-inch pizza pan and set it aside. Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface into a circle that is about 1/8- to 1/6–inch thick and is about 15 inches across. Trim any ragged edges. Brush off the excess flour and fold the dough circle in half. Transfer it to the prepared pan. Unfold the dough and ease it into the pan being careful not to stretch it. Fold the edges to form a ½-inch rim of a double thickness of dough. Chill for at least 30 minutes.

To blind bake, line the pastry with aluminum foil or parchment paper, pressing it into the corners and edges. Add a layer of pie weights or dried beans. Bake in a 400° oven for 10 to 18 minutes. When the pastry begins to color on the edges, remove the foil and weights and continue baking until the pastry dries out and turns a golden brown (another 5 to 10 minutes).

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Fresh Strawberry Ice Cream...and the Promise of Spring

I mentioned in a previous post that we are experiencing an unusually cold spring in Kansas City. And nothing much has changed...the cold has continued to hang on. Today I am wishing I still had some firewood left. I would complain at length about the weather, but I was reminded this morning that it could be much worse. I logged onto Facebook to see a picture my sister-in-law took from her back deck (in Minnesota)....this morning....

At least the view out my back window looks a bit like spring (although more like mid-March than mid-April).

Considering the weather, it might seem a bit odd that I am posting a recipe for ice cream. But the explanation is really pretty straightforward. Last night I taught a class featuring a dessert made with ice cream. Back in mid-February—when I scheduled my April classes—Profiteroles with Strawberry Ice Cream and Chocolate Sauce seemed like the perfect ending for a mid-April class featuring dishes one might find in a bistro in Paris. So, even if the weather isn't perfectly appropriate, I made—and served—some delicious strawberry ice cream. (No one complained.)

Obviously I didn't have any local strawberries to work with, but the "imports" from California were actually very nice.

If you wait and make this ice cream when you have access to perfectly ripe local strawberries, you will be in heaven....this is "strawberries and cream" at its best.

You might be wondering where the profiteroles and chocolate sauce are. Unfortunately, I didn't bring any of that home...just the ice cream. But I did happen to have some brownies on hand. They made a nice—very American—substitution....and were perfect for a sweet finish to my lunch.




And as I enjoyed my strawberry ice cream...and looked outside across the yards on this cold, blustery day—with the beautiful greens and the beginnings of the early season bloom cycle—I was reminded that the warmth of spring (and the local strawberries) will eventually have to come.

Fresh Strawberry Ice Cream

1 lb. strawberries (about 1 1/2 pints), washed & hulled
1 c. sugar
2 c. cold heavy cream
1 c. milk
8 egg yolks
1 t. vanilla
a pinch of salt

Mash the strawberries with a potato masher or pass them through a food mill; if you prefer not to have chunks in your ice cream, purée the strawberries in the food processor. Stir in 1/4 c. of the sugar. Set aside and let macerate for at least 1 hour (overnight in the refrigerator is even better—the longer the strawberries and sugar sit together, the less likely your ice cream will have frosty little bits of strawberries).




Place the milk and 1 cup of the cream in a medium-sized, non-reactive saucepan and bring to a boil. While the milk mixture is heating, add the cold cream to the bowl of strawberries; set aside and keep cold. Whisk the egg yolks with the remaining 3/4 c. of sugar until thick. When the milk boils, temper the egg yolks by gradually whisking in about a half cup of the hot milk mixture. Stir the tempered egg mixture back into the saucepan and place the pan over medium heat. Cook, stirring constantly, until the custard begins to thicken and a path forms when you draw your finger across the custard-coated back side of the spoon—if you have an instant-read thermometer it should read about 175° (don't let it go much higher—the eggs will scramble at 180°). Stop the cooking process by immediately straining the custard into the bowl of cold strawberries and cream. Stir in the vanilla and salt. Refrigerate until cold, stirring occasionally. (Speed up the chilling process by setting the bowl of custard in an ice bath.).  Cover until ready to use.

Freeze the ice cream in an ice cream machine according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Transfer to a freezer container and freeze for an hour or two before serving. Makes about 5 cups of ice cream.





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