boo

Do you know what I'm scared of? Global warming. Contracting a toe fungus at the nail salon. Getting old. Grover from Sesame Street. Flying. Making pie crust.


In my experience, fears usually fall into one of several categories. Global warming and getting old are among those almost-too-big-and-terrible-to-think-about fears that are best addressed by professionals—in this case NGOs staffed with youthful idealists and metaphorically by poets, respectively. Toe fungi and Grover from Sesame Street are both things that could inflict harm. Flying in a plane and pie crust are frightening because they're illogical: A metal canister carrying hundreds of people traveling 36,000 feet in the air without anything holding it up? Madness. Flour and shortening and water coming together to form a flaky, buttery pie crust? Not in my experience.

But most of my fears are unavoidable, or not as bad as their alternative: I'm getting old right now as I type this; my unpedicured feet are far more frightening than any toe fungus could ever be; Grover is out there, lying in wait; my fear of spending the entire winter in Vermont trumps my fear of flying.


And I've tried to conquer my fear of making pie crust, but the results have just reinforced my anxiety: quiches baked in shells that tasted like cardboard; crusts that were spongy or tough, never tender or flaky. So I avoid recipes that call for a crust, which means I don't often make pies, or quiches, or tarts. And while I don't care too much for most dessert pies, I do love a good quiche, or a savory tart filled with vegetables and cheese.

So I was quite pleased several years ago to discover a recipe that bills itself as the Easiest-Ever Roasted Summer Vegetable Tart, a recipe that involves savory vegetables and cheese BUT NO PIE CRUST. Neither Grover nor air travel are involved, either.

(This name is an overstatement, of course—the Easiest-Ever Roasted Summer Vegetable Tart is the one someone else makes and serves to me while I lounge on the couch drinking wine, which would make this one the Second-Easiest Roasted Summer Vegetable Tart.)


The secret is puff pastry. While store-bought pie crusts tend to suck it, store-bought puff pastry is delicious, and while every female in my family except me can make a beautiful pie crust, according to the cookbook from which I've adapted this recipe "almost no one (not even most pastry chefs) makes puff pastry." Hallelujah.

Hallelujah! Puff pastry has risen! When baked it transforms from a thick, sticky dough to a flaky butteriness that is not only better than cardboard, it rivals any pie crust I've put in my piehole. And there's nothing to be scared of. Top it with roasted vegetables, sprinkle with goat or feta cheese, and you'll never have nightmares of pie crust again.


A few notes:

* I use Dufour puff pastry because it was recommended to me, and it's delicious. Dufour is made with butter (vs. shortening), but if you're vegan, there are other options.

* Puff pastry comes frozen and takes awhile to defrost, so move it from the freezer to the fridge a few hours before you plan to start cooking.

* The original version of this recipe was vegan (I added the cheese, because if there's one thing I'm not afraid of, it's fat) and easily could be again.

* The original recipe calls for making two tarts, which uses only half a package of puff pastry. I usually roast extra vegetables to make three or four tarts (the tarts reheat well), but it can make for a crowded oven, so I've used the original proportions here. Two tarts and a salad will serve two or three adults for dinner, or they can be cut into squares and served as an appetizer.

* The original version of this recipe calls for cutting the vegetables into thick planks for roasting and then carefully layering those planks on top of the puff pastry; the second time I made this I cut the vegetables too thin, they fell apart a little while roasting, and I ended up chopping the roasted vegetables before putting them on the pastry—they don't look as pretty, but the cheese disguises any major flaws, and I've done it this way ever since. But if you're going to forego the cheese (scaredy cat!), I would make sure the vegetables are all at least ½ an inch thick so they'll hold their shape when roasting and can be placed daintily on the puff pastry.

Second-Easiest Roasted Summer Vegetable Tart
From A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen

1 14-ounce package frozen puff pastry
6 plum tomatoes, halved or cut in thirds lenghwise, depending on size
4 medium shallots, halved
1 medium zucchini, cut in half crosswise, each piece cut lengthwise into ½-inch-thick planks
1 medium eggplant, cut crosswise into ½-thick rounds
s&p
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon minced thyme
Goat or feta cheese

1. Defrost the puff pastry according to package instructions.

2. Move an oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 400 degrees. Spread the tomatoes and shallots on one rimmed baking sheet and the zucchini and eggplant on another. Sprinkle the vegetables with salt and pepper. Roast, turning the vegetables once, until golden brown in spots, about 40 minutes. Remove the vegetables from the oven but don't turn the oven off.

3. As soon as the vegetables go into the oven, unfold the puff pastry on a lightly floured work surface and remove the paper liners. Cut the pastry along the seams into four rectangles. Put two rectangles aside for another use. Roll the remaining two rectangles into 7-inch squares. Transfer the rolled puff pastry squares to a large baking sheet and refrigerate until well chilled, about 30 minutes.

4. When the vegetables come out of the oven, scrape them into a bowl and toss with the oil and thyme. Adjust the seasonings, adding more salt and pepper to taste. Either roughly chop the vegetables and spread them on the puff pastry, leaving a ¾-inch border around the edges, or layer the eggplant and zucchini slices over the puff pastry and then top with the tomatoes and shallots (using the same ¾-border). Sprinkle the tarts with goat or feta cheese (or a combination of both).

5. Bake the tarts until the pastry is browned, about 25 minutes. The tarts can be served immediatly or transfered to a cooling rack and served at room temperature.

gateau gluttony guillotine

The yachtsman has made a cake a week for the past three weeks.

[I fear he's fattening me up for the kill.]

I think this is my favorite: fluffy yellow cake with foolproof chocolate frosting.

[Like a lamb to the slaughter.]

lake, kale

Awhile ago I was eating dinner out when a beautiful woman walked into the restaurant. Everything about this woman was eye catching: Not only was she beautiful, she was tall and statuesque, elegantly dressed, perfectly coiffed. Throughout the evening I found my eyes wandering to where the woman sat, first at the bar, then at a nearby table. And I wasn't the only one: Everyone in the restaurant watched her, some people staring outright, others glancing over every few seconds, like swimmers coming up for air.

I've had a similar feeling lately about our lake. There's just about no place I'd rather be than Vermont in the summer, but our lake is at its most beautiful during the darkest days of winter, and I've found myself wanting to look at it as much as possible. I take long walks back and forth along the bike path that runs next to it, I explore the streets that border it hoping for a glimpse, I loiter in the park on the hill that overlooks it, I bring my poor dog down to the pier and we shiver and watch the waves crash against the breakwater. Basically, I'm stalking the lake.

Stalking the lake has taken me down several streets I rarely walk, and while I was out one day recently, I noticed that there is lacinato kale growing outside the Burlington Police Station.

Lacinato kale is the opposite of a drop-dead gorgeous woman in a restaurant, or a violently beautiful lake in winter. Kale is not pretty to look at and something most people don't want to have think about, let alone see on their plate.

But here in our utopian little city, people feel differently about kale. It's grown outside municipal buildings, apparently, and a local restaurant has a neon sign advertising when kale is being served inside.


In spite of its popularity in my little hometown, though, I was slow to convert. My few experiences being served kale (steamed, usually) epitomized everything that can be wrong with gruel when cooked by the wrong hands: It tasted like health food, and not in a good way. So when I first tried the dish below, I used a mix of greens, as the original recipe suggested, usually one bunch of kale and one of chard. And it was good, but I noticed that my favorite bites were the ones that contained kale, and I found my fork seeking it out in the bowl.

Braising brings out the best in this hearty green—when cooked properly it is tender but toothsome and slightly sweet. The chick peas are a nice addition both for flavor and a bit of protein, though the dish would be good without them if you're not a fan, and the lemon juice adds a splash of sass.

What I'm trying to say is that while kale may not catch your attention, this dish is worth taking a look at.


Braised Kale With Chick Peas
adapted from Orangette

2 bunches of lacinato kale, ~1½ pounds total
3 tablespoons evoo
2 large cloves garlic, minced
½ medium yellow onion, minced
1 can (15½ ounces) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
Salt
Freshly squeezed lemon juice

1. Trim the central ribs from the kale and discard them. Wash the leaves and drain well in a colander. Don't bother to pat them dry; they should be slightly damp when they go into the pan. Stack the leaves a few at a time, and slice them crosswise into ¼-inch-wide ribbons.

2. In a large skillet that has a lid that fits, warm the oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and onion, and sauté until the onion is soft and just translucent, about 5–10 minutes (stop before they brown). Add the chickpeas, and stir to mix. Add the kale to the pan, season well with salt, and stir to blend. You will most likely have to add the kale in batches, letting it cook down slightly to make room. Cook, stirring occasionally, until you've added all the kale and can cover the skillet.

3. Once the pan is covered, lower the heat so that the kale is braising gently, and cook until it is tender, 10–15 minutes. You'll want to taste as you go to ensure you don't overcook the greens, removing them from the heat when they are tender but before they are mushy.

4. Remove the kale from the pan and drizzle with fresh lemon juice to taste (I usually use the juice of half of one lemon), add more salt if necessary.


This dish can be served warm or at room temperature, as a side dish or the main course (as long as you're not feeding the yachtsman). It makes great leftovers, which I keep in the fridge and often eat cold for lunch, or, if I'm patient enough, I let them come up to room temperature. Since the yachtsman is not around to make gagging noises, I think that tomorrow I might try them warm with a soft-boiled egg on top, after which I'll head out for my morning gawk at the lake.

your crack-addicted pet monkey could make this tart

For weeks it's been tomatoes this, blight that. I've read articles about tomato blight, heard blight gossip and conjecture from gardening friends, and spent many a sleepless night in terror of impending tomato doom. But it all culminated rather dramatically this past weekend at the farmers market, where I overheard actual farmers who grow actual tomatoes for an actual living saying they were "ripping everything up" and that it might be "the last week for tomatoes." In a frenzy of paranoia and greed, I ran from vendor to vendor buying tomatoes.


Lots of tomatoes. It's called hoarding; I'm not proud. But winter's closing in (it may be August where you live, but in Vermont it's dipping into the 40s this week), and I'm not going gentle into that good night without first gorging on tomatoes.

Usually my tomato feeding starts in late July with sun golds, peaks with heirlooms in August, and ends with fried green tomatoes in the fall. This year, all bets are off. From now until they're gone, it's tomatoes for every meal (in part because I've spent our entire food budget on them; sorry, honey). I've been slicing and eating them with a little olive oil and balsamic, putting them in salads, biting into them like apples, popping little ones in my mouth as if they were candy. And tonight I actually turned on my oven for the first time in months and cooked.


I was scared the first time I attempted this Tomato–Goat Cheese Tart with Herbed Crust. Specifically, I was afraid of the crust. I don't get along well with dough (or batter, for that matter). Dough is fussy and particular, and I'm not good at following recipes, which seems to be the first rule of baking: Follow the recipe. Exactly. But I've made this tart several times, failed to followed the recipe exactly (usually inadvertently), and the crust has been tasty every time. What I'm trying to say is that if I can make this crust, you can make this crust. In fact, this crust is so easy, if you actually know something about baking, you could probably make a Tomato–Goat Cheese Tart with Herbed Crust while drunk. In the dark. With both arms tied behind your back. For example, if an intruder cut the electricity to your house, broke in, tied you up, and forced you to drink an entire bottle of pink wine, you could still bake this tart. Think about this when you're awake at 3 a.m. fretting over tomato blight.

Tomato–Goat Cheese Tart with Herbed Crust
Adapted from A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen

Ingredients
For the crust
1¼ cups flour
½ teaspoon salt
½–1 teaspoon minced, fresh herb [not that kind of herb; I'm thinking rosemary, though tonight I used basil, and oregano and thyme would also be nice]
8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold, unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
4–5 tablespoons water

For the filling
6–8 ounces fresh goat cheese [tonight I used Doe’s Leap; the last time I made this tart we lived in DC and I used Pipe Dreams, which I think you can find all over the East Coast, but any fresh, soft goat cheese will do]
3 medium tomatoes (~1¼ pounds), cored, sliced about ¼–½ inch thick, and blotted dry with paper towels
1 tablespoon evoo
s&p

Directions
For the crust
1. Don't be scared!

2. Place the flour, salt, and herb in a food processor and pulse several times to combine.

3. Add the butter and pulse until you have pea-sized crumbs, about ten 1-second pulses.

4. Add the water, 1 tablespoon at a time, and pulse briefly after each addition. After you've added 4 tablespoons of water, process the dough for several seconds to see if it will come together. Chances are, it will not. Don't be scared! Add the remaining tablespoon of water and process just until the dough comes together in a rough ball. This ball might be very rough. In fact it may not be a ball at all, and some bits may not be incorporated. Don't be scared! But don't overprocess the dough! Or your crust won't be flaky (and that's fine too; the first time I made this crust I was determined to get a ball, goddammit, which involved adding extra water and processing the hell out of that dough, and it was still good, or as the hippies say, "It's all good, man," to which I reply, "Put down the hookah and take a bath").

5. Transfer the dough to your counter and knead it briefly to form a smooth ball (this recipe is obsessed with balls!). Flatten the dough into a 5-inch disk (the first time I made this, I took out my measuring tape to make sure my overprocessed disk of dough was five inches; don't bother), and wrap it in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for at least one hour, up to two days.

6. Make sure one of the racks is in the middle of the oven and preheat to 375˚.

7. Unwrap the chilled dough and on a lightly floured surface roll the dough into a circle that is a couple of inches larger than your tart pan. The original recipe calls for a 10-inch tart pan and a 12-inch circle of dough. I use an 11-inch pan and roll my dough into a spastic amoeba that in some spots is 13ish inches, in others not so much, and tell myself that if it doesn't work out, we'll just eat the filling.

8. Lay your amoeba over your 10- or 11-inch tart pan with a removable bottom (why the bottom needs to be removable, I don't know) and tuck it into the bottom and sides of the pan. If it's short in places, tear dough from other spots and smush it into places where you're short. It's an amoeba. You can't hurt it. Run the rolling pin over the top of the tart pan to trim the excess dough, if there is any excess dough; I've usually used mine to patch my amoeba. Prick the bottom of the tart shell all over with a fork. Or forget to do so until the tart is filled and in the oven, then yell, "F*ck f*ck f*ck" over and over until your husband runs into the room and asks, "What's wrong?" Tell him you ruined dinner. He'll be so excited to discover you did not!

For the filling and baking
1. Scatter the goat cheese evenly across the bottom of the tart shell. If you're using a 10-inch pan, use 6 ounces of cheese. If your pan is larger, like mine, or you're really into cheese, use closer to 8 ounces.

2. Arrange the tomatoes over the cheese in two rings—one around the outer edge and another in the center, slightly overlapping the tomato slices as you go. Drizzle the tomatoes with the oil and sprinkle with s&p.


3. Bake until the edges of the crust pull away from the sides of the pan and are golden brown, 40–50 minutes. Cool the tart on a wire rack for at least 10 minutes, or wait longer and eat it later, at room temperature.



THE YACHTSMAN'S RECIPE RATING AND NOTES
4.5 out of 5 entree stars
["I found it very ... I thought it was ... it had nice flavor, it was cooked perfectly, the crust was deliciously flaky. A nice summer meal."]

old dog, new tricks

My dog has a couple of bad habits. For example, he will eat any food left unattended on the coffee table in our living room -- he has stolen cheese off the cheese plate at parties, licked the scrambled eggs off my toast, taken the crust of a slice of pizza in his mouth, slid it off the plate, and taken it back to his cave. He's sneaky, has bad manners, and can't be trusted.

Something similar happened yesterday with my mother-in-law. We were sitting at the park across the street from the Shopping Bag, a tiny, hole-in-the-wall market that has the best burger in Vermont, according to the Food Network. My mother-in-law foolishly left her half-eaten hamburger in her lap, and like an animal, I grabbed it when she wasn't looking and inhaled the whole thing in a matter of seconds.


My mother-in-law did not scold me or tell me go lie down, but I think the yachtsman is thinking of sending me to obedience school.

[I should mention here that other than a few tastes, which disgusted me, I haven't eaten beef in eighteen years. I should also mention that this burger was the best thing I've ever put in my mouth, and if my mother-in-law had tried to take it away from me, I would have bitten her.]

I obviously can never go in or near the Shopping Bag again, because I would probably climb over the counter and rape the nice man flipping the burgers. But if you are in the area, I highly recommend you do (order the burger, not rape its maker). Ask for the Scibek Sizzler. Bring mace.

cooking bender, part 4

Mexican Chocolate Pudding That Happens to Be Made With Tofu

Just eat it, bitches. This shizz is delicious. Creamy and chocolate-y and cinnamon-y. If I hadn't told you, you would NEVER EVER have known this was made with tofu. And because I'm not a vegan, the next time I'll top it with a little whipped cream.

This recipe is via Bitten, and I made no substitutions. For example, I did not use cream and eggs instead of tofu. Just trust me.

Read the whole article and watch a video of Mark Bittman making it here.

Or start cooking now:

3/4 cup sugar

1 pound silken tofu

8 ounces high-quality bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, melted

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon chili powder, or more to taste

Chocolate shavings (optional).

1. In a small pot, combine sugar with 3/4 cup water; bring to a boil and cook until sugar is dissolved, stirring occasionally. Cool slightly.

2. Put all ingredients except for chocolate shavings in a blender and purée until completely smooth, stopping machine to scrape down its sides if necessary. Divide among 4 to 6 ramekins and chill for at least 30 minutes. If you like, top with whipped cream and/or garnish with chocolate shavings before serving.

I'm having tofu for dinner.