Taste Memories

A Litmus Test for Feminine Charm

My Grandmother, bless her, does not hold much store in the traditional feminine arts. Rather than crotcheting, knitting, and baking, Nan reads, goes to galleries, and travels widely. She is well into her eighties, and is steadily working her way through all seven volumes of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu. She has recently been to Africa, Italy, and New York. When she went to New York, she stayed in the YMCA, and declared it "perfectly adequate." She is not, shall we say, your typical granny. In fact, she puts me to shame.

Nan does, however, have an Achilles' heel: pavlova. Pavlova, if you've never tried it, is like the platonic form of meringue. One takes stabilized egg whites beaten glossy with sugar, and forms an enormous, cloudlike mound with it. One bakes it slowly, and then serves it lavished with whipped cream and fresh fruit. It's an Australian classic.

Somehow, for reasons hitherto unknown, Nan's sense of her status as a woman came to hinge on her ability to make pavlova. Yet, all through my Mother's childhood, Nan's unrelenting efforts to whip up this delicate confection fell flat – quite literally. The stories of Nan's pavlova's tendencies to collapse, bleed and burn are family lore. What should have been a delicate, white, heavenly dome would come out of the oven looking like a thin, black, hellish pancake. Poor Nan. She had quite given up on project pavlova by the time I came into being.

And so, in her honor, I decided to provide you with step-by-step instructions to the art of pavlova-making. After serving this for afternoon tea, I guarantee you'll feel like a good housewife (even if you're of the male persuasion).

Raspberry and Rosewater Pavlova (adapted from here and here)

Ingredients:

4 egg whites

A pinch of fleur de sel

1 tsp white vinegar

1 tsp rosewater (or vanilla extract)*

1 cup caster (superfine) sugar

½ tbsp cornstarch or arrowroot powder

 

For the whipped cream:

1 cup heavy cream

1 tbsp caster (superfine) sugar

½ tsp rosewater (or vanilla extract)*

 

For the raspberry coulis:

1 punnet raspberries, blended with a little water, strained through a fine sieve, and sweetened to taste

 

To decorate:

More raspberries (or other seasonal fruit)

 

* It is traditional to spike the batter and cream with vanilla, but (following an inspired pavlova I once had at Mecca), I use rosewater instead.

 

Method:

Preheat the oven to 250˚F, and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Draw a 7" circle on it.

Combine the vinegar and rosewater in a small bowl, and the sugar and cornstarch/arrowroot in a medium bowl.

Beat the egg whites and salt (preferably in a Kitchenaid) on medium speed until soft peaks form. Tip: it is important to make sure your bowl and beaters are spanking clean and grease-free. In aid of this, I always run a slice of lemon around the bowl before whipping commences (no bad jokes please).

Increase the speed to high and gradually add the sugar mixture. After a few minutes, add the vinegar mixture.

Continue to whip the batter until it forms stiff peaks (about 5 minutes). It should be very glossy.

Smooth the mixture into a sphere on the parchment sheet, using the circle as a guide.

Pavlova, pre-baking

Bake the pavlova for about an hour and fifteen minutes, until the shell is pale cream, and crispy. It is best to let it cool in the oven, with the door ajar, preferably overnight. This helps prevent cracking (perhaps this is where Nan went wrong).

Pavlova, post-baking

When it is completely cool, slather the pavlova with the whipped cream, and decorate it with the fresh raspberries.

Pavlova, slathered with whipped cream

Serve immediately (it will soften if it sits). And then eat piece after piece of this billowy marvel, preferably doused with the raspberry coulis.

Pavlova, cross-section

Pavlova is a masterpiece of textural contrast (the center is gooey marshmallow; the outer third is chewy and dense; and the shell dissolves into powder on one's tongue). You really must make this. It's my favorite cake in the world. No wonder Nan kept trying.

Sticky Slow-Roasted Pears with Orange, Cardamom, and Walnut Oil

Apologies for my absence. I've been trying to get into NaBloPoMo, but I totally misread the acronym. I thought it was NoBloPoMo. So instead of posting every day, I've been not posting every day. It's easy to see how that sort of thing could happen, isn't it? Also, the dog ate my homework. Ahem.

But I know I'll finagle my way back into your good graces with these pears. They are slick, sticky, and soft (but not mushy), and redolent with Middle Eastern flavors – orange, cardamom, walnut oil – that are so much more interesting than the tired old cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice routine.

The original inspiration for this recipe was Molly Wizenberg's post on Sally Schneider's marvelous roast pears. I made the pears this way a number of times, and loved the results; but I couldn't help but agree with Molly that it would be nice if the pears would slump more. Thus, I'm delighted to report that turning down the oven from 400˚F to 225˚F and tripling the baking time was just the ticket.

There was another difficulty with the original recipe, however, which – in order to explain – requires me to confess a bizarre personal quirk. Generally, I don't care much for dessert after dinner, unless it's a nice piece of unembellished fruit. It's not so much that I have a sour tooth rather than a sweet tooth (I'll dispel that hypothesis in a moment); it's rather that I crave clean, tart, fresh flavors after a rich meal. But I happen to adore last night's dessert in the morning, straight from the fridge, for breakfast. (Before you ask, I also have a thing against microwaving leftovers… Look, don't get me started).

The point is: I like desserts that taste good both hot and cold. And dotting these pears with butter (as the original recipe called for) meant that, although they were fantastic hot, they tasted rather greasy and filmy and waxy when served cold. Yet the fat in the recipe was not to be omitted; the extravagance of these pears is integral to their charm.

The solution I dreamt up was to substitute nut oil for butter (I suppose you could also use olive oil; but I'm not sure how I feel about olive oil in desserts yet). After musing on the various possibilities, I fixed on walnut oil, which in turn steered my thinking in a more Middle Eastern direction, and led me to lavish the pears with orange blossom water and cardamom.

And so, last night, a recipe was born. It's the morning after, and I can now confirm that, yes indeedy, it's a keeper (*smacks lips*).

Ingredients:

1lb pears, peeled, halved, and cored (I used seckel pears, which are tiny and precious-looking; but any variety would do)

¼ cup agave nectar (or honey)

Zest and juice of 1 orange

1 tsp orange flower water

1 tbsp walnut oil

1 tbsp whole cardamom pods

A fat pinch of fleur de sel

 

To serve:

Chocolate sauce (I just melted a little dark valrhona with a splash of cream and a little sugar)

Vanilla ice cream

 

Method:

Preheat the oven to 225˚F.

Place a small skillet over high heat, and dry-roast the cardamom pods for a few minutes, or until they are lightly toasted (but not burned). Now grind them in a mortar and pestle, and pass the powder through a fine sieve to remove any large pieces of pod that remain.

Combine the cardamom powder with all the remaining ingredients aside from the pears, and then toss the pears gently in the resulting mixture.

Spread the pear mixture in a large (I used a 9 x 13") glass or ceramic baking dish.

Bake for 3 hours, or until the pears are incredibly soft and sticky. Serve with a drizzle of chocolate sauce and a quenelle of vanilla ice cream – or some Greek yoghurt, if you're having this for breakfast.

Voting with my Mouth

As an Australian expat, I can't vote in this election. It's hard to feel so invested in a political event that you're unable to shape in any way. In lieu of voting, I decided to make a special lunch to eat while pointlessly refreshing this website, even though the first polls don't close for four hours. It is a salad featuring arugula, which I've made no secret of adoring on this blog (much as with its most recent unwitting proponent.)

In truth, I've been plotting making this since Fall began, and just haven't gotten around to it. The idea came to me while walking home one day, musing on spaghetti carbonara (as one does). In case you're not familiar, the dish is a mélange of eggs, bacon, cream, garlic, and cheese, served over pasta. What's not to love? Well, yes… in theory. But in practice, the dish feels gummy and heavy and cloying and altogether too much. It's a belly-ache in a bowl, quite frankly. So I wondered if I could retain the basic carbonara flavor palette while lightening the whole affair and introducing some contrast by using bitter, delicate arugula leaves in place of the spaghetti.

Mis en place: pancetta, arugula, garlic, bread, parmesan, eggs, fleur de sel, red wine vinegar.

I'm happy to report that the experiment was a smashing success. When you serve this, the crispy-edged, soft-bellied fried egg's yolk will ooze gently over the salad, wilting the tangy arugula, and enveloping the salty, chewy pancetta lardons. When the pile of arugula (rapidly) dwindles, the diner will discover a piece of garlicky bread at the bottom of the bowl, lightly moistened with an additional benediction of the now yolk-enriched salad dressing. I can't recommend this enough for brunch, lunch, or supper.

Arugula Carbonara

Ingredients:

A large handfuls of baby arugula

1 egg

3oz thick-cut pancetta (about ½ inch thick, if possible)

1 clove of garlic

1-2 pieces of good, crusty bread

Parmesan cheese

 

For the dressing:

1 ½ tbsp good red wine vinegar

1 tbsp good extra virgin olive oil

A good grinding of fresh black pepper

A tiny pinch of good salt

 

Method:

Cut the pancetta into lardons (about ½ inch cubes).

Place a large skillet over high heat, and fry the lardons until they are crisp and golden (about 10 minutes).

Meanwhile, rub the bread with the cut clove of garlic, and toast.

Remove the pancetta lardons from the skillet with a slotted spoon, and drain well on paper towels.

Now turn the heat down to medium, and mince the leftover garlic clove.

Add the eggs and the garlic to the skillet, and let them fry in the bacon fat.

Remove the garlic after a minute or so; add it to the dressing ingredients, and whisk to combine. Adjust the dressing for seasoning and acidity.

In a small bowl, toss the arugula with the dressing.

When the fried egg's white is set but the yolk is still runny, you're ready to serve.

To serve, layer the toast, dressed arugula, lardons and fried egg in a clean, shallow bowl. Shave a few curls of parmesan cheese over the top, and serve immediately.

Serves 1, but multiply as desired.

An Ode to Latkes

 

I feel so cheated. I'm (half) Jewish, and yet somehow have totally missed out on the bliss that is latkes until now. How is this even possible? How could the universe be so cruel and withholding as to deprive poor unwitting me of my culinary birthright? Well, universe, I'm pleased to announce that the worm has turned.

 

This small but important revelation occurred last Friday night, when Daniel eyed the contents of our pantry and shyly requested that I make us a certain something from his past. He's not one to ask for such favors too often, and his culinary needs are touchingly modest. He's the sort to patiently attack the mounting pile of dirty dishes while I whip up some ridiculously indulgent and complicated dinner that won't be ready until bedtime, when he'd be just as happy with pasta and broccoli. (At most, he occasionally suggests politely that using a fresh spoon for tasting the sauce each time might be a slight oversight on my part). So, when he asked me to make latkes, I was happy to oblige. And he got that same misty-eyed look when he talked about latkes that he gets when he talks about brisket or bagels. I think of it as the 'next year in Poland' look.

 

And now I believe I understand it. There is something distinctive about the pleasure of making and relishing food that one's ancestors have been gnoshing on for generations. And you know what? I think there must be a latke gene. Because even though we set out without the aid of a reliable recipe, we muddled along just fine, between what Daniel could remember and I could surmise. I have to say that, untraditional as it may be, I think the addition of a little grated apple to the batter was an inspired touch. All in all, this was the most delicious supper we've had in ages.

 

 

Potato-Apple Latkes

 

Ingredients:

 

For the batter:

2 ½ lb potatoes, peeled and coarsely grated (by hand) – we used Yukon gold, which I hear are excellent for latkes

2 granny smith apples, peeled and coarsely grated (again, by hand is probably best)

1 small onion, peeled and finely chopped

2 eggs

½ cup applesauce

½ cup flour

1 tbsp salt

 

Butter and oil, for frying

Sour cream and extra applesauce, for serving

 

Method:

 

Dry out the potato and apple as thoroughly as possible by wringing it in a tea towel.

 

Combine all the batter ingredients in a large bowl.

 

Place a large skillet over medium-high heat, and add a goodly amount of oil and butter to the pan (enough for a thinnish but even coating).

 

Fry dollops of the latke batter in batches until they are golden, delicious, and cooked through. Drain on paper towels and gobble with dollops of sour cream and extra applesauce.

 

Makes about 10 big ones.