I’ve been collecting them

On Friday, the first strawberries of the season arrived in my farm box, ushering in that mystical eight-month strawberry season that I always talk about. We ate them (with gusto if not a bit of trepidation at having something so sweet and summer-like on our tongues) with poppyseed-challah french toast. 

Then, I turned to the heap of citrus on my countertop, wondering what to make of the fifteen, maybe twenty?, navel oranges that have been coming in for weeks via my Friday delivery. At this point, it’s like I’ve been collecting them, waiting for a future moment in which I will come up with something brilliant to make… something other than juice, and something less involved than marmalade. That first strawberry signaled that this was the moment—in fact, it screamed to me, as fruit is wont to do, YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. So, although it is finally spring (hooray!), and although I am anxious to move into the realm of rhubarb and artichokes and spring onions and favas and sweet, small berries of every variety, I offer you today an ode to citrus in the manner of a stovetop rice pudding, with whiskey-drunk orange supremes. We can all thank Apt. 2B Baking Co., and her party—her veritable brigade—of sweet, sunny, tart, ambrosial citrus ideas that I found when looking for help with my orange problem.

This pudding is a citrus party for your palette. You’ll use five oranges, which is a start, my friends. Then you can turn to David Tanis’s ambrosia to finish the job. After that, I would suggest an orange-cornmeal upside-down cake, which may be my next move. We’re going to need room on our countertops. 

Thank you, citrus, for making the winter sunny and pretty. Make way for spring. 

Orange-Scented Rice Pudding
Adapted from Apt. 2B Baking Co.

Notes: I think I cooked my pudding a bit too long and toward the end it curdled slightly, and the texture of the custard became less silken. It was still good, but if I make it again, I would do this: When you return the pudding to the saucepan after whisking it into the heavy cream, egg, and juice mixture, simmer on very low heat, and watch carefully, removing after about 8 minutes. It may look like there is too much liquid, but it will continue to thicken after it cools. Also, I think regular old citrus segments would work just fine here. In the future, I will skip the trouble of making the whiskey-drunk orange supremes below, and just segment some oranges, toss them with a little whiskey and honey and some of their zest, and call it a day. The crushed pistachios, however, while optional, are really a nice touch. 

1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean
1 orange
1 cup arborio rice
4 1/2 cups whole milk
Pinch of kosher salt
3/4 cups heavy cream
1 egg yolk
Handful of pistachios, chopped, for garnish

Place the sugar in a medium bowl. Scrap the seeds from the vanilla bean pod, and add to the sugar (reserve the pod). Zest the orange over the bowl. Combine sugar, zest, and vanilla seeds with your hands until thoroughly distributed. 

Peel the orange with a knife, removing first the top and bottom, and then slicing the skin off from top to bottom so the segments are revealed. Then segment the orange over a small, separate bowl. Squeeze the juice from the membrane, and reserve it in a measuring cup—you should have about 1/4 cup. 

In a medium saucepan, combine the rice, milk, vanilla bean pod, pinch of kosher salt, and sugar mixture. At a medium to low flame, bring the mixture to a simmer. Turn it down to low once it begins bubbling, and let it simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 30 minutes, until most of the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender. Do not overcook. (As an aside, no one will notice if you sample the delicious, milky skin that forms on the surface of the pudding at this stage—it is reason alone to make this.)

While the rice is simmering, whisk together the egg yolk, cream, and reserved 1/4 cup of orange juice in a large bowl. 

When the rice mixture is ready, as described above, remove it from the heat. Fish out the vanilla bean pod, which can be rinsed and saved for another purpose. Then slowly whisk the rice mixture into the bowl with the whisked cream, egg, and juice. Start with a very small amount in a steady stream, to temper the egg so that it doesn’t scramble, then continue at a slow but steady pace, until fully incorporated, whisking constantly. 

Return the mixture to the saucepan, and cook it over very low heat for about 8 minutes. The rice pudding will have thickened slightly, but will still appear liquid-y. Take care not to let it go too long, or to come to a full boil, to prevent curdling. The pudding will continue to thicken as it cools.

Serve warm, at room temperature, or chilled, topped with chopped pistachios. 

Whiskey-Drunk Orange Supremes (optional):
As mentioned in the notes, I would skip this next time, favoring instead just a simple segmented orange, maybe with a splash of whiskey and a drizzle of honey, but this recipe is true to the original, and what I did. 

4 oranges, plus the segments reserved from the pudding recipe
2/3 cups sugar
3 tablespoons whiskey, honey whiskey, or bourbon

Zest the oranges into a shallow baking dish, then peel and segment them (see instructions in the pudding recipe above) directly into the same dish. Squeeze the juice from the membranes over both segments and zest. Sprinkle with the booze.

In a cold, dry pan, place the sugar and distribute it so it coats the bottom somewhat evenly. Place this over a medium-low flame, and allow it to cook, undisturbed, until the sugar begins to melt. When it starts to color in places, give it a stir with a wooden spoon, and then allow it to simmer gently until it is amber-colored and liquid. 

Pour the caramel over the oranges—it will immediately harden. Break up the hard bits as best you can with a spoon, and then cover and refrigerate for an hour. The caramel will have oozed into the juices by this point, becoming liquid. 

Serve chilled over the pudding. 

Sweetness instead

These chocolates. I almost don’t know where to begin.

Ok, let’s start here: it’s two days before Christmas. You are frantically wrapping presents, bracing yourselves for your in-laws, decking your halls, scrubbing your floors, trying to plan various menus, and holding on for dear life to your sanity. If you have the tiniest bit of time to spare in the midst of all of this, may I suggest that you do the following?

Make these Chocolate Grand Marnier Truffles.

Then, if you have a little more time after that, there’s another thing too: make Orangettes—those sublime French confections that take the meager orange rind and elevate it to something that is nothing short of perfection; a confection that asks for bitterness and gives you sweetness instead; that seeks beauty when they should speak of mere hunger.

I promise, you will thank me later.

The thing about the truffles is that they are laced with booze. The other thing about them is that they are the easiest confection in the world to make. If you have chocolate, cream, and a little liqueur on hand (and who, I ask you, doesn’t?), you are ready to go. If you have ten minutes in which to chop chocolate and scald heavy cream, and mix these things together, adding a heavy splash or two of Grand Marnier—filling your kitchen with an aroma that will drive both man and beast to distraction—then you are really all set. That’s all you need. Your friends and roommates will praise you as being a confectioner-Goddess; they will moan as they bite into the silky smooth ganache, and praise the stars above once that little bite of liqueur comes onto their palates, kicking all of their senses into high gear. People do crazy things under the influence of these chocolates. Lovers reunite, enemies shake hands, a series of little violins and a mournful cello raise themselves into song. Something like that.

(I have a certain friend out there who is about to bake from my blog with his mother for Christmas (enter sighs of sweetness and a particular warmth filling my heart)—A., might I suggest that you two make these?)

Then, there is confection-heaven part two: Orangettes. A sublime French dessert of orange rinds dipped in semisweet chocolate. Those orange rinds are candied—they have simmered themselves into delicate, sticky, shining little things, after over an hour of bubbling away in a simple syrup. They simmer away on your stovetop and fill your house with the most beautiful citrus fragrance. It’s hard not to let the spirit of the season overtake you when you are in the midst of cooking Orangettes. Then, once the rinds have candied and dried, and are shimmering elegantly on a rack, curling this way and that, you dip those rinds in melted semisweet chocolate. I don’t need to tell you what to do after that. I’ll leave the part where they dance on your tongue in a dissonant, but entirely pleasurable, symphony of bitter and sweet up to your imaginings.

I know this post is emphatic, but hey, it’s chocolate: a cause worthy of poetic uproar. I want to revise my earlier statement and say this instead: whatever you are doing right now, drop it immediately, and make something chocolate-y laced with orange instead.

Let sweetness and warmth fill you up, body and soul.

And happy baking to all.

P.S. If you get tired of dipping your Orangettes in chocolate, you can also roll them in sugar, as shown above, for an elegant fruit glacé.


Chocolate Grand Marnier Truffles
Adapted from this recipe, originally printed in 1994

10-12 ounces semisweet chocolate (60 or 62% cacao; I used this)
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons Grand Marnier (you can also use armagnac, brandy, or Frangelico)
Unsweetened cocoa for dusting the truffles

Chop the chocolate very finely and place in a metal bowl. 

In a small saucepan, bring the heavy cream just to a boil. Pour the heavy cream over the chocolate and let it sit for 5 minutes. 

Stir the chocolate; if it is not completely melted at this point (mine never is), place the bowl over a double boiler and stir constantly until it is silky and no lumps remain.

Chill until firm (overnight, or at least 3 hours). 

When the ganache is firm, you may form the truffles: Scoop out 1/2 to 1 teaspoon spoonfuls of the chocolate at a time, and form the chocolate into small, imperfect balls. The truffles are, in my mind, most beautiful when they look like actual truffles from the earth---meaning they are misshapen and bumpy, rather than smooth and perfectly round.

Place the truffles onto a plate filled with unsweetened cocoa as you work; then, once you have 15 or so truffles made, roll them in the cocoa all at once, shaking off excess by gently tossing the truffles between your palms. 

If your house is very warm, store the truffles in the refrigerator. 


Orangettes
Adapted from here and here

4 large organic oranges (I used Cara Cara, but Navel oranges would work too; I think organic is important here since the only part of the orange you are consuming in this recipe is the rind)
1 cup of water (plus more for initial blanching and rinsing)
1 cup of sugar
12 ounces of semisweet chocolate (60-62% is ideal, any less will not be as rich and dark in color)


Fill a large saucepan or stock pot with 3 inches of water and bring to a boil.

While the water comes to a boil, prepare the orange rinds: Cut the top and bottom off each orange to make a flat surface on each side, leaving as much rind as possible lengthwise. Stand the orange upright on one of the cut ends, and cut from top to bottom with a serrated knife in such a way as to remove only the rind (trying not to cut into the flesh of the orange). The white pith should remain on the rind. If some of the fruit comes off with the rind, scrape it out using a spoon. Repeat with all four oranges. 

Slice the large pieces of rind into thin, julienned strips. Plunge the strips into the boiling water and let them blanche for 4-5 minutes. Drain, and rinse with cold water. Refill the pot with 3 inches of water and bring to a boil again, repeating this process. (This blanching process is necessary in order to make the orange rinds less bitter.) 

Drain the orange rinds and return them to the now-dry pot. 

Add 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar to the pot with the orange rinds, stir gently, and turn the heat on to medium. When the mixture begins to bubble, turn the heat down to low, and allow to simmer for 1 hour, uncovered, stirring occasionally. The mixture should stay at a gentle simmer for the entire hour. After an hour, the liquid should have reduced and almost entirely evaporated, leaving a glossy syrup clinging to each orange rind strip. 

Arrange the orange rinds in a single layer on a wire rack (the rack should be placed over a baking sheet to catch the drips), and allow to dry overnight (or at least 6 hours). 

To finish the orangettes: Chop the chocolate and place it in a metal bowl. Set the bowl over a pot with 2 inches of water in it, and bring the water to a boil. Stir the chocolate until it has melted thoroughly and no lumps remain. 

Dip each slice of orange rind in the melted chocolate, so that two-thirds of the orange rind is coated in chocolate. Place the rinds on a rack or on waxed paper. Allow to cool for 2 hours, or until the chocolate is set and can be handled. 

You can also reserve some of the candied rinds for rolling in sugar to make candied orange glacé.

Store the orangettes wrapped in parchment in an airtight container. 

Last Night (and a Morning Pancake)

Last night, unfortunately, brought more disappointment in the heartache department. And this morning, up at 5 am as I was, contemplating love, and life, and the meaning of the universe (I can figure this stuff out by 10 am, right?), I feel, sadly, that the orange-ricotta-pancake high that I was on since yesterday is now but a dim wave, lapping lazily against my ocean’s floor.

But, oh!, look at those photos… billowy stacks flecked with the zest of an orange, bites of airy ricotta, swirling in a puddle of maple syrup and melted butter on my ever-so-slightly-warmed plate! Surely one cannot truly despair when visions of orange and ricotta whipped majestically into a sort of “cake” made in a “pan” are before them? Surely…

It takes a lot of courage to get up in the morning sometimes and to face the computer screen and to think, in one’s solitary state, I can begin again; there will be many more mornings, better than this one; they will be orange-and-ricotta scented; there will be happiness—and in fact, as they always say (those optimistic types), it won’t always be this way, things will get better. And it would all be true. I just know it somehow; perhaps it’s the cook in me—she’s optimistic by nature, she knows somehow that when your first pancake has burned and your butter is a browned, greasy mess in the middle of your too-small pan, that you can scrape it clean and start again. You can find a masculine, nonstick griddle who needs but a little heat (no grease!) to get things sizzling… but I’m mixing metaphors here.

Alas, it was this way with the pancakes. The first batch was a total flop. But it seemed so promising!, I thought wistfully to myself. And it was, in fact, promising and more than that, once I saddled my determination—got the hunger in me to twist itself out of defeatism—and began again, with a new pan and a new strategy that felt, how should I say this?, more like me.

The recipe is promising and delicious and all of the things that you want out of a Saturday morning when you have a bit of time on your hands (just a bit) and the need for something warm and sizzling to perfume your entire kitchen and the neighbor’s hallway. As I learned from Nigel Slater, from whom this recipe derives, it’s also an excellent afternoon snack, to be taken, preferably, with a good friend, accompanied by a nice chat, some new ideas kicked around, a few hearty sarcastic cracks at the whole enterprise of love, and tea, of course. That was how it was for me. I ate these twice in one day. Once alone, a stack of three warm cakes on the plate, a generous pat of butter, and a drizzle of maple syrup, with my coffee; and then again, later, with my good friend S., with tea and syrup and a bit of Greek yogurt on the side.

Both times were good, for different reasons.

You begin by mixing together ricotta cheese, sugar, egg yolks, and orange zest. Then you mix into that some flour, an impossibly small amount, and then gently fold into this mixture egg whites that have been whipped into peaks. The whole thing at this point is nothing if not luscious—light and fragrant and simply beaming—it will transport you. 

If you succeed at folding in the whites without utterly deflating them, you will also feel proud, as I did (if you didn’t, don’t worry!, you can start again!, no one can see you in there, in the privacy of your own kitchen). You will look at your light-as-air mixture, and you will think, ha! look what I did!

Nigel suggests cooking these in large tablespoonfuls in a nonstick pan with melted butter. Maybe this works for him—I’m sure his pancakes are divine, and I’m sure I would gladly eat them at his kitchen counter any day—but the method didn’t work for me. I tried it, but my heart wasn’t in it from the start. I’ve never much liked pancakes that have been cooked in butter—I prefer the thin crust that forms when you cook them in nothing whatsoever except for the heat of the griddle, warmed until a drop of water dances chaotically across the surface. So that’s what I did, after the first batch came out all manner of burned and blackened and too greasy for anyone’s good.

At first it seemed that the griddle technique wouldn’t work—the pancakes seemed to be sticking… I was beside myself with grief. But I just tried to be patient. I waited, and waited. I waited until the edges of each little cake became slowly outlined in a light brown and until little, discrete bubbles seemed to open, ever so slightly, onto each surface. Then I turned them. And I won’t conceal the fact that I was utterly pleased with myself when I did.

Orange and ricotta pancakes—you and me are back on.

Orange and Ricotta Pancakes (adapted from Nigel Slater’s The Kitchen Diaries)

I should say that The Kitchen Diaries: A Year in the Kitchen with Nigel Slater is a beautiful book; if you like simple ingredients lists and honest, elegant prose, this book is for you.

1 cup ricotta cheese (store-bought ricotta works great)

4 tablespoons sugar

3 large eggs, separated

1 orange, the zest of which has been finely grated, avoiding the pith

1/2 cup of all-purpose flour

Butter, syrup, and orange wedges for serving

Combine the sugar, ricotta, egg yolks, and orange zest in a large mixing bowl. You can grate the orange zest directly into the bowl, no need to make this a separate step. Stir in the flour. Beat the egg whites in a bowl until semi-stiff peaks form (see the photo), and then gently fold this into the ricotta mixture. Nigel recommends a “surely but gently” method that I found was a good way to think about this folding process.

Warm a griddle. When a drop of water dances madly over the surface, bringing a smile to your face, begin dropping heaping tablespoonfuls of batter onto the griddle. I got four pancakes on at once. I felt that it helped to delicately smooth the batter into a circle, using a very light touch. You are not looking for perfection here, just rustic beauty. Cook the pancakes 1-2 minutes, until the edges begin to brown and a faint bubble or two cracks open on the surface, then flip them. Continue cooking until the bottom of each pancake is nicely browned and the pancakes are puffed.

Serve them while they are hot—I recommend a pat of sweet butter and a drizzle of cold syrup; Nigel likes a little melted apricot jam and some confectioners’ sugar.

Just eat them how you like them. And marvel at how nourished you feel with each delicate, cheesy crumb.

Notes: I cut the sugar by 1 tablespoon from the original; in the batch I made, I used 4 1/2 tablespoons rather than the recommended 5, but I still felt that it was a bit too sweet, so I’ve cut it further to 4 tbsp. in the recipe above. Use your judgment based on your own taste for sweet things—I prefer desserts and breakfasts to not be too sweet in general, but you may feel differently. These reheat beautifully if consumed later in the day, and I would imagine the next day as well. I heated them on a parchment-lined baking tray in a 350 degree oven.