The rhubarb train

I'm still on the rhubarb train. And, although we are just now gliding into June, it remains possible, I tell you, to find rhubarb at your grocery store or local farmer’s market. Soon it will be gone, though, I'm sad to say. We are, as I type these very words, running out of time. 

In light of all of this, I bring you today a collection of rhubarb recipes in tandem with one very delicious, seasonal, cake-pie-crumble-hybrid-dessert thing. Yes, that is what we have here, officially. 

The recipe comes from the pages of Nigel Slater’s brilliant tome Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard. As suggested by the title, Ripe is a book about a cook and his homegrown fruit. It is a delectable and delightful collection of recipes, nestled among tender photos of Nigel’s garden and the wonderful and varied things that he is able to make from it. His section on rhubarb is formidable. It includes a rundown of the many heirloom varieties (with names such as Muriel, Cutbush’s Seedling, and The Streeter), a brief history, and a starry-eyed ode that speaks volumes to his love of the stalky, poison-leafed plant. 

“How could anyone not love something known as the pie plant—or indeed, anything whose stems offer such vibrant color at a time of the year when most of our fruit is sleeping?” Nigel begins. “Yet rhubarb has never found the broad audience enjoyed by the raspberry or the apple. Instead, it has a loyal, almost cultish following, happy to indulge in its piercing crimson sharpness.”

I don’t think a more beautiful description of rhubarb has ever appeared in print than “piercing crimson sharpness.” 

Rhubarb inspires those who love it to inhabit a certain madness. We might surreptitiously pull a stalk from a neighbor’s yard. We might howl at the heavens shaking a mighty fistful. We might write book chapters about the plant that read like proper odes to a long-lost friend. Such is the cultish following that rhubarb enjoys. 

To accompany the recipe for this cake—which, by the way, is so delicious; crunchy, hearty, sweet, and tart all at once—I give you a list of of thirteen more things to do with rhubarb. I am hoping to make this a regular practice on the site, once per month or so, to compile a list of recipes exploring a particular fruit, vegetable, or food category. I will learn some things in the process, I hope, about vinegars, or homemade ricotta, or cherries, or peas, or yeasted doughs. And, in its own way, this blog may become something of a resource for us cooks, gardeners, and rhubarb-chasers alike. 

So, go forth with your fistfuls of crimson sharpness! Let's enjoy it while it lasts. 

13 Recipes to Inspire Rhubarb Thievery 

Eton Mess with Rhubarb-Gin Jam and Lemon-Basil Meringue
Rhubarb "Big Crumb" Coffee Cake

Rhubarb Clafoutis

Rhubarb Compote

Rhubarb Custard Cream Pie

Rhubarb Orange

Rhubarb Shake

Rhubarb Syrup (for Cocktails)

Rhubarb Tart with Mascarpone Cream

Roasted Pork Belly with Gingery Rhubarb Compote

Rye Shortcakes with Roasted Strawberries and Rhubarb 

Strawberry Rhubarb Salad with Mint and Hazelnuts

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

Rhubarb-Raspberry Cornmeal Cake

Adapted from Ripe

Notes: The most significant modification I made to this recipe was to add raspberries. You could easily omit them, and I'm sure the cake would be delicious. Alternately, I would guess that strawberries could also be tossed in at the last second. For a summer version of this cake, I would try it with nectarines or plums. The original recipe calls for golden baker's sugar. I substituted a combination of light brown sugar and granulated in the crust, and light brown only for the fruit.

Filling:
1 pound rhubarb
1/4 cup light brown sugar
4 tablespoons water
3 ounces (3/4 cups) raspberries

Crust:
3/4 cups coarse polenta or cornmeal
1 1/2 cups plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Generous pinch of cinnamon
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
Zest of one organic orange, finely grated
10 tablespoons butter, chilled
1 egg
2 tablespoons milk
1 tablespoon demerara or Turbinado sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Place a baking sheet inside the oven. Butter a 9-inch round cake pan; line with parchment once across, and butter the parchment.

Trim the ends of the rhubarb, and cut each stalk into roughly 2-inch pieces. Place in a large baking dish, adding the sugar and water on top. Roast for 30 minutes, or until the rhubarb is soft, but still has some shape. Drain the rhubarb, reserving the juice. (You can pause at this point; the roasted rhubarb will keep for a day or so in the fridge. The cake can then be assembled quickly the day you plan to serve it.)

In a large bowl, combine the polenta, flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and sugars with a wooden spoon. Cut the butter into smallish cubes and add it to the flour mixture. Add the orange zest. Use a pastry blender to cut the butter into the flour mixture, until the mixture resembles a coarse meal. There should still be some pea-sized pieces of butter.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg and the milk. Pour it into the flour mixture, and use your hands to blend the crust together. Stop as soon as the mixture comes together being careful not to overmix. The dough should be somewhat sticky. If it is not, add 1–2 tablespoons more milk.

Scoop out two-thirds of the dough, and press it into the prepared pan with your fingers. It should go up the sides about half an inch higher than the dough that forms the base. Toss the rhubarb across the surface of the dough, and then scatter the raspberries over. Crumble the remaining dough over the fruit, and sprinkle with the demarara sugar to finish.

Bake for 1 hour, on the preheated baking sheet, or until the crust is a rich golden brown. Serve with the reserved juice from the rhubarb drizzled on top.

Near an open window

When you take a bite of strawberry shortcake—an action that is typically preceded by licking homemade whipped cream from a bowl—something carefree and lighthearted happens. I’m not sure that I can do it justice, but I almost always want to eat shortcakes outside, in the warm evening air, or near an open window. 

In an earlier draft of this entry, I toyed with the image of sitting on a swing, dangling my toes in the cool grass (almost identical to the one that I conjured two years ago in this post about strawberries and cream.) The image endures—this is really how it feels to consume them. There is something so innocent about the prospect of this dessert, something so naive and so earnest, that I am utterly flooded with a million-and-one cliché metaphors of childhood summers when I think of it.

In the summers of my youth, I remember eating macerated strawberries on thick slices of store-bought angel food cake—fluffy and sticky and caramelized on top, the bites of cake disappeared like air onto your tongue. Or there were those little pre-packed shells, labeled “shortcakes,” which were inexplicably yellow and subtly indented, like the rim of a volcano, to contain your fruit. Shortcakes, in other words, have an air of nostalgia. 

These particular shortcakes bring the deep roasted flavors of pie together with a more adult take on the classic shortcake. The shortcakes are made with rye, which creates a nuttier and heartier biscuit, and the macerated fruit is roasted until its juices are caramelized, instead of raw and dripping with sugary liquid. 

They were good. I can comfortably say that. But they weren't the shortcakes of old. I'll admit that I missed the simple—even store-bought—variety when I had these. I might have been happier merely eating my berries straight out of a bowl with heavy dollops of unsweetened whipped cream. Maybe if I was feeling fancy, I would have infused the cream with chamomile, but that's about as far as I think you need to ever go where ripe strawberries are concerned. 

But, if you are looking for something a little more grown up, something a little more complex and decadent; if, unlike me, you are not unjustly searching the bottom of the whipped cream bowl for traces of Mnemosyne (I can't help myself), you will be wholly satisfied. You will inspire oohs and aahs because you will have managed to pull the flavors of strawberry rhubarb pie into a shortcake. You will have rescued the shortcakes themselves from the doldrums of nostalgia (weep), and you will be happily living in the present (is that how it works?).

Two last little pieces of advice before you go forth this holiday weekend eating all manner of unsentimental sweets: seek fresh air when you eat this, if only from the breeze from an open window; and don't skip the whipped cream.

P. S. Something else to do with rhubarb.

Rye Shortcakes with Roasted Strawberries and Rhubarb
Adapted from Food52

Notes: In this version of the recipe, I simplified the ingredients a bit, omitting the ginger and vanilla bean (I really just can't afford vanilla beans at roughly $8 a pop). I also did something crazy before I roasted the fruit—I tried it raw, strewn over a warm biscuit, with plenty of cream, in the manner of this salad. The rhubarb was too tart, so I roasted the fruit as instructed. This might works for you, however, if you cut back the amount of rhubarb and up the sweeteners.  

Shortcakes:
1 cup rye flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 tablespoons sugar
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold, cut into 1-inch cubes
3/4 cups chilled heavy cream
1/3 cup chilled buttermilk (or substitute)

Heavy cream or milk to brush on top
2 tablespoons turbinado sugar for sprinkling

Fruit:
16 ounces strawberries, hulled and cut in halves or quarters
2 stalks rhubarb, thinly sliced on the bias
2 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons sugar
A squeeze of lemon

Whipped cream:
1/2–3/4 cups heavy cream

Garnish:
Mint leaves, torn

Make the shortcakes. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment. In a large bowl, lightly whisk together the dry ingredients (flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and sugar). Cut the butter into the flour mixture with a pastry blender or two knives, until only pea-sized pieces of butter remain. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture, and add the cream and buttermilk. Toss it gently with a spoon until it is just combined (it is okay if some dry areas remain).

Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Pat it into a rectangle about 1-inch thick, and fold it in half. Gently press it into a 1-inch thick rectangle again, and repeat once more, folding in the opposite direction.

Using a floured 2-1/2 inch round cutter, or the rim of a drinking glass, cut out the shortcakes. Reform the scraps (be gentle on the dough) and cut out more shortcakes. You will end up with 8 to 10.

Place the shortcakes on the baking sheet, and place the baking sheet in the freezer for 10 minutes. When the shortcakes are chilled, brush the tops with milk or cream, and sprinkle generously with sugar. Bake until they are nicely browned, about 25 minutes.

While the shortcakes are cooling, prepare the fruit. Turn the oven down to 375 degrees. In a medium bowl, toss together the strawberries, rhubarb, honey, sugar, and lemon juice. Allow the mixture to sit for about 10 minutes, then spread the fruit and juices out on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the fruit is soft and the juices are slightly caramelized.

In another bowl, whip the cream with a whisk by hand until it holds together as a mass, but is still somewhat soft (a balloon whisk is ideal for this job).

Assemble the shortcakes by slicing open a shortcake, and layering it with strawberries and cream. Scatter torn mint leaves around the whole thing.

Just the right peach

I ate my first peach of the season last week. I can’t remember if the sign at the market said it was local, but from its juiciness and sweetness, I would guess that it was. It was an organic peach. I bought several, and slurped them up over the sink after rinsing them in cold water. Then, when there was only one left, I made this salad. I didn’t plan it. I was simply hungry, and scrounging around in my fridge one day, I came up with this. It was one of those perfect meals—as much because of my mood and the timing as anything else. It satisfied me so completely when I ate it outside that day, on my back steps, that I knew I had to share it here. 

I had a great uncle who used to bemoan the loss of good peaches. And it is true, for the most part, that good peaches can be scarce. If you buy a supermarket peach, chances are that it will be too large and too round, too smooth, and entirely flavorless and hard—mealy even. It won’t have ripened naturally; it will have come from miles away. It probably will not be organic; and chances are it will be an oddly mutated hybrid, too. It will bear no resemblance to what a peach, in its true character, is. 

The peach in this salad was brightly colored and very fuzzy, and ripened evenly all around. I would guess that it was allowed to ripen on the tree, until it was just close to being ready to eat. It was sweet and dripping, and concentrated in its peachiness. It split open beautifully when I scored it around the middle; its center was yellow, flecked with red, glistening and smooth. Tossed with crisp fennel and sweet spring onions, and then bathed in feta, lemon juice, and olive oil, the peach shines, countering tartness with almost honeyed mouthfuls. 

It is important that the peaches that you use for this really hold their own as peaches. You should be able to taste summer when you bite into one. If your fruit disappoints you, make something else instead. But if you get just the right peach—a local and organic and old fashioned one—this salad will brighten your day. Truly. 

Peach and Fennel Salad with Parsley and Feta
Serves 1

1 medium yellow peach (organic), pitted and sliced
1/2 of a small red spring onion (or mature red onion), sliced thinly into half-moons
1/2 small fennel bulb, sliced
Generous handful of feta
Generous handful of parsley leaves, left whole
Olive oil
Lemon
Maldon sea salt (or other flaky salt) and pepper

Notes: These amounts are perfect for a generous salad for one. Double, triple, or quadruple as desired. I strongly recommend not chopping the parsley—the whole leaves impart a distinctive parsley flavor, and act as an ingredient in the salad, rather than just a seasoning.

Slice the peach directly into a bowl to catch all the juices. Add the sliced onion and fennel, and toss gently. Add the feta and a generous handful of whole parsley leaves plucked from their stems. Squeeze a halved lemon over the salad (a scant tablespoon, approximately), and drizzle with about 1 tablespoon olive oil. The salad should be glistening with oil, but not drenched. Season generously with flake salt and grind black pepper over top. Toss again, gently, and serve.

The question of pie

I’ve been stumped for a few days trying to write about pie. The blank entry has sat open on my computer screen all week with the words “the question of pie…” scattered between other thought fragments, including “the light was harsh that morning,” “I have never given much attention to pie,” “I don’t know how to write about pie” (among other real literary gems, let me tell you). Then, this morning (in the shower), I found my entry in the form of a neon sign of a Native American chief in headdress, glowing along Route 82 in a place called West Taghkanic. (Stay with me here, as I try to make my way, circuitously, back to pie.) 

The West Taghkanic Diner is an unremarkable culinary venue in the ostensible middle of nowhere. It is located “upstate,” in the region where my family would go in the summertime to escape the New York City heat and smog. I won’t bore you with pastoral scenes of little Vera frolicking in the pristine country pastures with her twenty-pound Maine Coon cat. Suffice it to say that these times in the country were the source of many, if not most, of my childhood memories. 

But the diner, along a “highway,” in its retro metal casing, with its glowing neon—offensive, yet charmingly nostalgic—Indian head, was where we would occasionally eat. Here, I would often order Strawberry Rhubarb pie (among other “American” classics like fried chicken and stuffed shells). The crust of the pie was gummy and soggy and again, unremarkable, especially when compared to the crust my mother could make; but the filling was another world altogether: tart and sweet and sticky and supple and vibrant red/pink, oozing every which way as you speared small bits with your fork. 

This diner is where I end up mentally when I try to retrace my history with pie; when I try to discover why it disappeared from my cooking (and writing) vocabulary for many years. And herein lies a possible answer: However fondly I remember my experience of consuming pie at the West Taghkanic Diner—and however much I loved it—I was aware, even then, that it was somewhat pitifully prepared. We were probably eating frozen berries; the crust was probably comprised primarily of lard; it had probably been sitting out on the counter for days. Its humility and simplicity were aspects that I liked; its dilapidated presentation and subpar ingredients may be what locked it in the memory-gates of childhood, to be discounted as a baking priority forevermore. 

Until… 

1) I took up with a pie-loving man, who insists, against all arguments, on its greatness (even when it is soggy and gelatinous); and 2) the emergence on the scene of The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book. 

This book recaptures all of the promises of diner pie, but elevates it to a state of sublimity. It takes the homely proposition of fruit and butter and crust and makes it seasonal and uncommon, simple yet familiar. Its pages are filled with recipes for pies like Chamomile Buttermilk, Lemon Chess, Salty Honey, Rhubarb Custard, Honey Lavender, and Apple Rose. It advocates for fresh ingredients that are in season and locally sourced. (However cliche that might be at this point, it is still what makes something good.)

My recent venture from this book is the Strawberry Balsamic pie. This pie marries sweet and tart like your classic Strawberry Rhubarb, but the balsamic adds a complex, almost earthy note to what is otherwise a lighthearted, summertime dessert. If the strawberries are ethereal, which they should be when they are fresh and local, the balsamic is firmly rooted: all wood, grit, and soil.

The juices of this pie are a deep, sticky crimson. There is something moody about it, because it is rather sophisticated for a pie, yet it still feels effortless and carefree. The all-butter crust—tender, fragrant with apple-cider vinegar, latticed prettily, and encrusted with demerara sugar—is the perfect foil. Above all, it is a happy dessert (can I say that?), because it is sweet, berry-heavy, balanced, oozy, and fresh. 

If you share this with friends, you don't have to worry about it keeping very long, and I would suggest that this is the best way to “deal” with a whole pie. Let hours of work turn into minutes of eating, and an empty pie plate sticky with juices and crumbs be the only thing left behind. I would recommend eating this out of doors, in the spring or summertime air. You might want to bring along a twenty-pound feline, too, if you can find one lying around. 

P.S. Thanks to R. and B. for the great party that spurred this pie into existence. 


Strawberry Balsamic Pie
Adapted from The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book

Crust:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2 sticks unsalted butter (cold, cut into 1/2-inch chunks)
1 cup cold water
1/4 cup apple-cider vinegar
1 cup ice cubes

Filling:
1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 pounds organic strawberries (washed, hulled, and quartered)
1 small apple (I used Golden Delicious)
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2–3 dashes Angostura bitters
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch (or ground arrowroot)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2–3 grinds of black pepper

Finishing:
Egg wash (1 egg whisked with 1 tablespoon water and a pinch of salt)
Demerara sugar

Make the crust. Gently combine the flour, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the chopped butter pieces, toss briefly in the flour to coat, and then, using a pastry cutter or two knives, cut the butter into the flour mixture until it is mostly combined. There should still be pea-sized pieces of butter throughout; it is important not to over blend in this and the next step or the pastry will become tough.

In a large measuring cup for liquids, combine the water, vinegar, and ice cubes. Sprinkle 2–3 tablespoons of the water mixture over the flour mixture, and toss gently with a spoon. Continue to add the liquid, 1 tablespoon at a time, using a fork, bench scraper, or your hands, and toss together until the dough begins to form a ball. When it has almost come together, use your hands (but be gentle—you don't want the dough to become warm), to bring it together completely, adding drops of water as needed.

Cut the ball of dough in half, and shape each half into a one-inch high disk. Wrap the disks in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour; chilling overnight is preferable.

When the dough is chilled, prepare your top and bottom crust. For the bottom crust, roll out one of the disks out on a lightly floured surface to a thickness of about 1/8–1/4. It should be 12–13 inches in diameter. Fold the dough in half, and then in half again (folding the second time in the opposite direction), and then place in one quadrant of the pie dish. Unfold the dough and center it in the dish, so it hangs over on all sides. Trim the dough so there is about 1 1/2 inches of overhang, measuring from the outer rim of the dish. Cover with plastic wrap, and return to the refrigerator.

Roll out the second disk to the same thickness and diameter. Using a pizza cutter or a sharp knife, cut the dough into eight strips, which will form the lattice top. Transfer the strips to a parchment-lined baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate.

Prepare the filling for the pie. Hull and quarter the strawberries into a medium bowl, and sprinkle with the 3 tablespoons sugar. Stir gently, and set aside for 30 minutes.

At the end of 30 minutes, the strawberries will have macerated, giving off a lot of liquid. Drain them into another bowl, reserving the liquid for another use if desired. Peel the apple and grate it over the strawberries, using the large holes on a box grater. Sprinkle the balsamic vinegar and bitters over.

In another bowl, mix together the rest of the dry ingredients: sugar, brown sugar, cornstarch, salt, and black pepper. Fold this mixture into the strawberries and apple.

Pour the filling into the refrigerated pie shell, and then arrange the lattice on top. (This site offers a great guide for arranging a lattice; keep in mind that it starts with two additional strips than are called for in this recipe). Fold the overhang over the lattice, crimp the dough all around, and refrigerate again for 15 minutes.

While the pie is chilling, preheat the oven to 425 degrees, with the racks positioned in the bottom and center of the oven. Place a rimmed baking sheet on the bottommost rack.

Brush the pastry with egg wash, and sprinkle generously with demerara sugar. Place the pie on the baking sheet in the oven (lowest rack), and bake for 20 minutes, or until the crust begins to brown. Move the pie to the center of the oven, placing it directly on the rack (leave the baking sheet on the bottom rack to catch the juices), and reduce the oven temperature to 375 degrees. Bake until the pastry is a deep golden brown and the juices are bubbling—about 40 minutes longer.

Let cool for about 2 hours before serving. Serve alone or with crème fraiche.

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. 

Keeps me coming back

It’s the cornbread that keeps me coming back. The corn cakes, to be precise, and then, as of my latest visit, the corn muffins dotted with marionberries in the manner of this berry-oozing scone. 

I’ve visited Sweedeedee as many times as I’ve spent days in Portland. It has consumed my Instagram feed and has taken hold of my mind in a way that no other restaurant has… at least, I should say, for a very long time. (There was that tiny hotel-restaurant in Gordes, where the courses came out unfettered by pretense and as ambitious as those seen in any world-class city anywhere, but better because of the circumstance; and where the cheeses came to the table on fig leaves and with provenance that stemmed to mere miles away from sheep and goats who could probably be named.) 

Sweedeedee is not exotic in any way, although that’s not quite right—what I mean to say is that it’s this same unfettered-ness, this same solid sensibility of origin and place, this same simplicity and untangled beauty that I found in Gordes that one time, and that is so hard to come by, that makes Sweedeedee remarkable. I go to Sweedeedee to eat, but also to see what kind of restaurant I would like to have, if I were to one day do so. 

On this last visit, I ate baked eggs with corn cakes and bacon, all sidled up next to a spoonful of braised greens (Day One); trout on rye (little toast points that were made of rye, yes, but also chewy, filled with nuts and seeds; then whipped cream cheese and house-smoked trout and an impressive array of pickled things—green beans, fennel, yellow carrots, a single yellow beet, and long strands of vinegar-soaked onions), and then those corn muffins I mentioned (Day Two). On a previous trip, there was the Breakfast Plate: baked eggs, thick-cut toast, homemade preserves (quince and vanilla bean), a hunk of aged white cheddar, bacon, and seasonal fruit. 

The baked eggs that accompany most breakfasts are sprinkled directly with Maldon sea salt, their yolks still wobbly and barely set. Dishes of this salt are scattered around the very small restaurant (there are, maybe, eight tables and a counter); small bowls of preserves line the tables; there is a self-service coffee station with honey water and cold cream; and plates and mugs and strewn-about vases stacked on shelves and bedecking tables that are either: vintage, found, or made by hand. Some are chipped, some are stamped with a previous restaurant’s insignia. There is also pie (salted honey, apple, marionberry, and cherry, on recent visits). 

The menus are handwritten, the tables and chairs are a mixed bunch; a record player spins in the background; vibrant green plants are hung from the creamy-white ceiling. You feel—except for the food—that you’ve stepped into someone’s living room. Someone whose light-filled home with warm and charming details everywhere makes you feel somewhat envious if it weren’t for the wonderful time you were having there. This is Sweedeedee.

That, down there, is a custard-filled cornbread. 

I came home from that trip to Portland with the memory of those muffins, and a craving for all things cornmeal. Specifically, cornmeal that you could really taste—with medium-ground bits that were pronounced and unabashed in every bite. It was a food craving that wouldn’t let go of me, so I dug around, eventually remembering the description of a type of cornbread that has a sliver of custard running through it. I found it in the pages of A Homemade Life first, then over at Sweet Amandine second, and then, at last, at the source, in Marion Cunningham’s The Breakfast Book. 

All three authors describe the magic of this particular baked good—the brilliant alchemy of a cake that transforms, as it bakes, into distinct yet harmonious layers of dense cornbread, light custard, and airy, corn-scented cake. I’ve used the term “magical” to describe the baking process on other instances, but I would venture that this is the most appropriate use of the term on this blog to date.

You start with an impossibly thin batter, and pour this into a buttered, preheated pan. Then you take a cup of cold heavy cream, and let it disappear, in a steady stream, directly into the center of the batter. It ripples and hiccups at first before taking hold and sinking straight down, dispersing somewhere beneath the top layer. The cornmeal, which is heavier, sinks to the bottom. The custard eventually finds its center. And a light, cake-like layer makes its way to the very top. You bake this for about an hour, and then you serve it, once it has cooled slightly, with a healthy drizzle of maple syrup. 

It is ethereal, but also hearty. The cornmeal base satisfies your cornmeal craving, while the slippery custard adds a bit of decadence. Maple syrup provides the perfect dose of sweetness. I could eat this cornbread at any time of day or night, and because it keeps fairly well for a few days in the refrigerator, I was able to have it for breakfast and then as dessert, on alternating days. 

In my dream restaurant, I will serve this cornbread with a little hand-thrown pitcher of maple syrup. A steaming cup of coffee with warm milk and honey-water will be brought out alongside. On a separate dish, a few berries and several thick slices of Cara Cara orange will be scattered. In summer, there will be bowls of figs or yellow cherries on every table. The record player will hum a plucky bluegrass tune. Waiters will move around the tables casually. People will be chatting and leaning in eagerly to sample each other’s dishes. Outside, the world will move on in its hurried, hectic fashion. Inside, things will be calm and quiet, and we will feel good because we'll know that we will soon be sated. We will have put our phones away. Our worries and our fears will disappear momentarily—long enough to let us really taste what is in front of us. The food, which is of course not just food, but an environment, a sensibility, will provide warmth and comfort and a feeling of being cared for. Strangers, with their books and their notepads, will look up over their glasses, and greet each other. Strangers, every one of us, will look around and feel more connected and less strange. In this dream restaurant, I will be feeding my hungers. It will be a small utopia, this place that I imagine. 

Custard-filled cornbread is the first item on the menu.

p.s. Sweedeedee the song via my friend Skye.

Custard-Filled Cornbread

Adapted from A Homemade Life, Sweet Amandine, and The Breakfast Book by Marion Cunningham

2 eggs
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 cups milk
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons white vinegar
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup yellow cornmeal, medium ground
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup heavy cream

Butter a 9-inch round cake pan generously, and place it into the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and allow the pan to warm while you prepare the batter.

Melt the butter and set aside to cool slightly. In a large mixing bowl, add the eggs and the melted butter and beat with a whisk until well blended. Add the milk, sugar, salt, and vinegar and whisk until incorporated.

In a medium mixing bowl, stir together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and baking soda. Add this to the wet ingredients. Mix until the batter is smooth and there are no lumps.

Pour the batter into the hot cake pan. Then, in a slow, steady stream, pour the cup of cold heavy cream directly into the center of the batter. Do not stir.

Bake for 1 hour, or until golden brown.

Allow to cool for 10–15 minutes before slicing. Serve warm with maple syrup.

No less hungry

I’ve made this cake before here, but under very different circumstances. Coming out of a bad breakup, I decided to make the single most romantic cake that I could think of. The answer was obvious: Julia Child’s Reine de Saba. I liked this cake because it was a series of contradictions, as I took the whole venture of love to be. It was not too sweet, nor was it particularly heady. It was complex enough to make your palette inquisitive, but easy enough to go down smooth, happy and unquestioning. I cited some poems in that entry, and then I ate my cake, one slice at a time, for a solid week. When I photographed it, I added an extra teacup to the tableau, for fear of depressing my readers. But in actuality, it was just me. Me and the reine (“queen”). 

This time, I made her with a particular person in mind; someone who you have not yet met on the blog—my guitar teacher, Marcelo. It’s been a good year-and-a-half or more that I’ve been taking lessons with Marcelo, and, although I rarely practice, he seems to put up with me, and more than that, is and has always been a fervent supporter of the blog. Marcelo, I have learned, appreciates good food. He loves to laugh and he loves music. He might not know this, but when I was going through the saddest of times, our lessons were often a grounding element for me. After a few short months, we were sharing stories with each other, and then, before I knew it, we had become friends. 

In all this time, though, that we’ve talked and laughed and looked at photographs of the food I was making for the blog, and in which he sent me links and shared ideas, I had never baked anything for Marcelo. The timing would always be off—something I made over the weekend would be gone by Monday, for the next lesson, or we’d have a break in the schedule, or I would simply forget, or any number of other reasons why we don’t do the things that we want to do, that we, for all intensive purposes, mean to do. I was determined to change this.

Knowing a bit about Marcelo, I settled on making him the Reine de Saba (or, as Marcelo calls it now “the reina.” This cake tends to be the thing that I make when someone is close to me and I want to, in my own way, celebrate them. I brought him half the cake, so as to not overwhelm him. As I was packing it, fitting it snuggly in its parchment-lined tupperware, I wondered if I should make a single cut—one discrete slice—so that he could try it immediately. I wondered for a moment, and then I got distracted and forgot. The cake got packed and so did my instrument and away we went. 

When I arrived bearing cake, we were both happy. Marcelo immediately looked for a knife, or a fork, or any implement at all, so that he could taste it. I scoured my purse in case a previously stowed plastic utensil could be recovered. He went to the front desk and inquired. There was nothing. “How am I going to wait?” he wondered out loud. (THIS, I decided, is the kind of compliment a cook lives for.) We managed to turn back to the lesson, the reina just sitting there, on the piano in the practice room, without an eater. We played Dylan’s “Moonshiner” and talked about my difficulty with the F-chord (still, really, after 10 years). As the lesson ended, back on the hunt for a utensil, I asked Marcelo how long he was going to have to wait. When would he be home so that he could try it?! It was going to be at least two more hours, which we both decided was much too long. And then Marcelo looked at me and said something that endeared him to me even more, something that spoke to me on levels unknown and unuttered: “How can I say this…” he sighed. “I have the soul of a fat boy.” 

Sometimes Marcelo and I are very much alike.

The phrase rung in my ears for several hours, because, as I said, it spoke to something true in me (however funny). We are hungry, and that is why we bake and cook and prepare and eat and share and break bread and toast one other. Some of us are hungrier than others. Most of us are hungry in our souls, and food and love and warmth and friendship all become one. M.F.K Fisher famously expressed this sentiment in words that are so perfect they deserve to be quoted in full: 

“People ask me: Why do you write about food, and eating and drinking? […] The easiest answer is to say that, like most other humans, I am hungry. But there is more than that. It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it… and then warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one. […] There is food in the bowl, and more often than not, because of what honesty I have, there is nourishment in the heart, to feed the wilder, more insistent hungers. We must eat. If, in the face of that dread fact, we can find other nourishment, and tolerance and compassion for it, we’ll be no less full of human dignity.”

To talk about hunger in the soul, of insatiable hunger, or of a hunger that is metaphoric and persistent, is to brush against this fact. M.F.K. Fisher wrote in times of war. We write and think about food in a supposed era of plenty. Yet, we are no less hungry. 

I feel fuller when I share cake. 

Reine de Saba 

(Slightly altered from my previous version, with some important, quality-retaining shortcuts.)

For the cake:
2/3 cup semisweet chocolate morsels
1 tablespoon instant espresso dissolved into 2 tablespoons boiling water
1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
3 large eggs, separated
Scant 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
Pinch of kosher salt
1/3 cups sliced almonds (with or without skins), ground fine
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
3/4 cups all-purpose flour, stirred through briefly with a fork

For the icing:
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate morsels
1 1/2 tablespoons strongly brewed instant espresso
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

Notes: Julia Child's original recipe calls for blanched almonds (without their skins), as well as sifted cake flour. I have altered both of those ingredients in this recipe, and found the cake to be just as delicious as when I have stayed true to the original. I used sliced almonds with skins attached, as well as regular all-purpose flour that I did not sift. Instead, run a fork swiftly through the flour before you measure it, to simulate sifting. Another interesting adjustment to note: When I baked this, being still in the middle of a move and unable to find my measuring spoons, I approximated the teaspoon and tablespoon measurements called for here. It was, amazingly, and contrary to what we think we know about baking, totally ok. 

Set a rack in the middle of the oven, and preheat to 350 degrees. Butter and flour an 8-inch round cake pan, tapping out excess. Line the cake pan with parchment across the middle, allowing it to overlap on two "sides." Don't worry about covering the bottom completely.

Place the chocolate morsels in a small saucepan with 2 tablespoons of espresso. Fill another pan with an inch of water and bring it to a simmer. Turn off the heat, and place the smaller saucepan in the hot water. Give it one stir, and then set aside. 

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugar together until soft and fluffy. Beat in the 3 egg yolks. 

In a medium mixing bowl, whip the egg whites: first beat them until they begin to foam, then add the cream of tartar and a pinch of kosher salt and continue beating, either by hand or with an electric mixer, until they form a soft mass. Beat in 2 tablespoons of sugar, and continue beating until soft peaks form. They should hold their shape in peaks that drop off and fold over themselves slightly when lifted with a spatula. 

Stir the chocolate. If it is not completely melted, turn the heat back on under the larger saucepan, and heat over the double boiler until the chocolate is silky and no lumps remain. 

Stir the chocolate into the butter and eggs. Then stir in the almonds, almond extract, and the flour.

With a rubber spatula or a wooden spoon, gently stir in one fourth of the beaten egg whites. The batter will lighten in color and texture. Add the remaining egg whites on top of the chocolate mixture, and fold them in swiftly but gently, until fully incorporated. 

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 25–30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted 2 inches from the edge of the pan comes out clean. The center should still be somewhat soft and just set.

Cool on a rack in the pan for 15 minutes, then turn the cake onto a plate and allow it to cool completely before icing (about 2 hours).

When the cake has completely cooled, melt the chocolate with the espresso in a small saucepan over a double boiler. Remove it from the heat. Beat in the butter, one tablespoon at a time, until completely smooth. Continue beating the mixture over a bowl of cold water until it becomes a spreadable consistency. Ice your cake. You may choose to decorate the sides of the cake with sliced almonds, or leave it as it is, as I have this time.