Dear Friends,
Thank you for
the outpouring of support that I received from you all this week—turns out,
much to my surprise, that I have readers. Readers. A stray few that turned into a stray
few more, that turned into an outpouring of emails and support and page views
when I went “public” this week (me and facebook—albeit on very different
scales).
Thank you.
For my part,
I’ll try not to be daunted by the fact that this is no longer a secret pursuit,
and I will trek on, starting right now with custard and rhubarb and a
tillandsia in the background (don’t eat the tillandsia).
I thought I
would continue on my last-gasp-of-spring theme and dig up a rhubarb recipe. I
wasn’t sure what at first—crumble or coffee cake? compote or pie? And then it
struck me—could one make a rhubarb clafoutis? Something warm and custardy and oozing
of fruit, scented of lemon, and crinkly and curled in all sorts of delicious
ways on top? Yes. Apparently, one can. I googled the phrase “rhubarb clafoutis”
and came up with a fair few options. They were all roughly the same, give or
take a few small additions or subtractions here or there; some with cinnamon, a
few with citrus, all with that roasted rhubarb base and a decadent layer of
yellow custard on top.
I’ve always
wanted to make a clafoutis. Somehow daunted by what seemed too lovely to be
very manageable, I’ve learned now that, in fact, it is one of the more simple
desserts that one could possibly make. I’ve also learned that without using the
traditional black cherries as your fruit, the dish is properly called a flaugnarde—the roots of which derive from words
meaning “soft” or “downy.”
The dish is
indeed soft, as custards often are, but especially so when eaten warm out of
the oven. In this state, it is also fragrant and pillowy and oozing—all things
that should be strived for when it comes to dessert consumption.
Thick slices of
rhubarb are roasted in cinnamon and sugar in a tart or custard dish, and then,
once softened and brought down to room temperature, a mixture of eggs, milk,
flour, vanilla, sugar, and lemon zest is poured directly over top of this once
sputtering, bright pink fruit. Into the oven it goes once more and within the
hour you will be eating a warm, springtime custard. Perfect for evenings with a
slight chill in the air; perfect for a midday picnic; perfect for breakfast the
next day, even when it has chilled and firmed and has become, suddenly,
sliceable—perfect, really, for anytime at all.
Roasted
Rhubarb Clafoutis (more
accurately referred to as Roasted Rhubarb Flaugnarde), adapted from theKitchn
2 cups rhubarb,
sliced to a thickness of 1/2 inch
1/3 cup plus 2
tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon
cinnamon
1 teaspoon lemon
zest
1 teaspoon pure vanilla
extract
3 eggs
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup flour
A pinch of salt
Preheat the oven
to 350 degrees.
Slice the
rhubarb and place it directly into your custard or tart dish; toss it with the
cinnamon and 2 tablespoons of the sugar. Let this macerate for approximately 10
minutes, or until the juices of the rhubarb have begun to yield.
Roast the
rhubarb for 20 minutes or until it is bubbling and soft when pierced with a
fork.
Remove from the
oven and let it cool until it is just warm and no longer hot and steaming.
While the
rhubarb is cooling, whisk together the eggs, vanilla, and sugar; whisk in the
milk, and then the flour, lemon zest, and a pinch of salt. Whisk the batter until the
flour lumps have dissolved, but be a bit gently with it so that the batter doesn't become tough.
Pour this
mixture over the rhubarb and bake for 35-40 minutes. The clafoutis should be
set but still somewhat soft in the center. It will have risen in shocking and
uneven ways—don't worry, it will settle down as it cools.
Let the clafoutis rest for
5-10 minutes, and serve.
Afterword
I can’t really
write about rhubarb, or consume it, or smell it, or see it in a store even,
without thinking about the rhubarb plants that line a creek in the woods of
upstate New York behind the house where my mother grew up. Prehistoric looking
specimens, they are thick and tall with large, arching, and poisonous, leaves.
We never see those plants anymore, but apparently they have been growing
prolifically for at least eighty years or more. My mother dug some up at one
point and planted them in her own garden, where they now grow, referred to as
“grandpa’s rhubarb.” These plants accompany, further off, in a separate field,
“grandpa’s apple tree” and “grandpa’s lilacs.” From the stories of this
grandpa, whom I never knew, I learned to identify edible honeysuckle,
elderberries, and black caps; we learned to suck the tips of the honeysuckle in
the woods until they released their bright pearls of liquid; we learned how to find the wild spring violets and orchids and the red cardinal flowers that sprung up,
inexplicably, in the streams. We learned about a raccoon named Brudel that he called and fed by hand, as a sort of dog-like pet. We learned about
elderberry wine, and beaver dams, and the virtues of the frothy top of a mug of
beer, among many other bits of lore and wisdom. Food is ancient and its reach
is immeasurable. It is also fleeting and transitory. We consume it and it is
gone. But the stories persist and the memories, embedded as they are in the aromas of a childhood kitchen, remain.
