Salted caramel apple pie (not a moment too soon)

This is important.

I know we are all busy right now, but there is something that needs to be communicated immediately, and I know of no better channel: Salted Caramel Apple Pie, people. Salted Caramel Apple Pie!

Are you making an apple pie for Thanksgiving? Good. Me too. Now, slowly back away from that age-old, standard recipe that lies tattered on your countertop, ready to go. (It’s hard, I know. It’s going to be okay, I promise. Your grandmother will eventually forgive you.) Replace it instead with that one, down there. The one in that not-at-all romantic, not-even-a-little-bit-nostalgic hyperlink. (Gah! It’s like I don’t even know myself anymore.)

I was reluctant at first, too. It’s hard to let go of a favorite recipe. And this new recipe, well, it seems too fancy in a way. It seems like it will most certainly be a letdown—especially for those of us who like our apple pies and our fruit desserts simple, the way they used to be. Well, this recipe might change things for you. And it’s worth a try—just once—to do something a little different. It is a holiday, after all.

Apart from the flaky, tender crust (perfumed with the slightest whiff of apple cider vinegar), and the tart apples that have been baking in autumn spices, oozing down to a sublime version of their former selves, the thing that really clinches this, as you may have gathered from the title, is the salted caramel. Caramel that you make on the stovetop as a separate step; that you sprinkle with Maldon sea salt; that becomes amber and beautiful and that makes your whole house smell like sugar and cream. You take this caramel and you drizzle about half of it over the apples in the pie. Then you make your lattice. The other half of the caramel? Well, that you warm up later and drizzle over each slice as you serve it. Extra props if you’ve had the wherewithal to also make some whipped cream—it will glide over your warm pie into a lovely, creamy, caramel-specked puddle.

The real benefit here is that this pie actually improves with age. It was leaps and bounds better after it’d had 12 hours in the fridge to mellow. Heat it up a bit before serving, and let the caramel do the talking. Your guests will do that incredibly gratifying thing of being totally quiet—hushed by the delicious food that is before them. Focused eating. Quiet, happy, focused eating.

That’s my plan for Thursday.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

Salted Caramel Apple Pie

The recipe comes from the newly released Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book. 

Find it, in very unromantic form, here. (I’m waiting for my actual copy in the mail.)

Really helpful tips on how to make a lattice (effortlessly) via the Kitchn.

Some notes to guide you through: This pie is very lemony, especially the first day. If you prefer something a little less tart, I would cut the amount of lemon juice in half. Next, I prepared the apples before I rolled out the dough (not what the recipe suggests, but it worked great). For the caramel: The recipe linked above provides no reference on how long it will take to achieve caramel; mine took about 20 minutes. The trick is to watch it closely and to wait for it to become a deep amber color. Be careful as you stir the caramel mixture—it will be scalding hot. To achieve total pie perfection, give the pie at least 12 hours to mellow in the fridge (24 or more is ok, too). Lastly, although this is not detailed in the recipe, I strongly recommend using the extra caramel to drizzle over each slice of pie that is served. This simple action completes it. 

Inner adjustments

When I don’t write here for a long time, the entries begin to take on increasingly daunting proportions. I spend weeks mulling over a particular angle, or trying to find the right turn of phrase, when probably, all along, what I really need to do is to just sit down and try to write. There is never a correct angle, or a precise turn of phrase, that comes from time spent dwelling on the immensity of the task—tell that to my self of three weeks ago.  

I have tried, even, in the past few weeks, to read about writing as a way to break through all this. I didn’t find this entirely helpful (although, here I am), but I did come across some really good writing—Joan Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook,” for example, and the essay that follows “On Self-Respect” in the collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It is hard to describe what it feels like to read something in the precise moment that you need to read it, when some sort of inner adjustment is taking place—an adjustment that, barely perceptible, will be carrying you through to the next stage—but these essays had that mysterious and profound effect on me.

I identified with the early “presentiment of loss” that Didion describes as afflicting “keepers of private notebooks”; with the desire to—in contrast to recording factual events—“remember what it was to be me” at a particular time and place, during a particular stage. Didion writes about how this has the effect of creating “lies”—the writing often having little resemblance to the actual events that are described, dealing instead with how something “felt” to the author.  

I wish I had written down, as a sort of “fact,” what I was feeling on July 12, 2006, when rockets were being exchanged across the Israel-Lebanon border, and I was hearing news of it only very peripherally. I do remember standing on the deck of my small house in upstate New York, wondering what it meant for our family vacation to Lebanon, scheduled to begin in just a couple short weeks. I remember the light being very bright and dappled on that particular day. I was pacing, I think, as I talked on the phone; I may have leaned against the banister occasionally, looking down to the grass below. 

We had planned the trip to Lebanon for the month of August, for one simple reason: August is when the figs would be at their prime. We considered July, tossing around the various possibilities, but we always returned to August because of the figs. This was how we narrowly missed dramatic U.S.-military-led evacuations (to say the least) during a five-week war that killed thousands and paralyzed the country’s air and ground transportation. My father told me, when I visited Lebanon in 2009, that all of the bridges in the country had been bombed during this war. I don’t know how accurate this is, but the metaphoric weight of the idea—of all of the bridges in ruins—stuck with me.

Hence, any writing or thinking about figs, any fig consumption thereafter, conjures recollection of this moment—what turned out to be a harried several weeks wrought with fear and concern, but not physical danger—the “what it was to be me” in the form of smell, touch, and taste, but not words. How to get from there—from the fruit itself, to the baked good, to the memory of what it was to stand on the deck that day, in the harsh dappled light—to the here and now of writing about this fig galette is not, I would say, a straightforward endeavor.

But writing never is.

On all things liminal and pale in hue

I took a drive a few days ago to the Marin Headlands to do some photographing. It’s an old, favorite place of mine. I had a studio in those parts for a year, three years ago.

When I drive out to the Headlands, especially when I am by myself, I have the distinct impression of visiting an old friend. I feel like I’ve gone back in time—like I get to, for a little while, repossess the self that I was when I used to drive there often. On Tuesday, I drove out to the Headlands because of the fog. Sitting in my office in San Francisco, watching the rain come down in short unconvincing bursts, I knew there would be clouds and thick fog just over the bridge. I left work early.

Sometimes you just have to do that.

Beautiful unpredictability

You don’t even really need me for this one—the photograph says it all. Deep pockets of roasted fruit; crispy-brown pastry edges; a thin, crackling crust of turbinado sugar.

That’s really most it.

What you can’t see: that this was my very first scone endeavor; that it was inspired by this book by Molly Wizenberg, and the recipe for Scottish Scones with Lemon and Ginger that can be found on page 174; that I made them in preparation for a visitor from afar; that they filled the whole house with the most incredible, subtle aroma of oranges and blackberries; that, as they baked, the half-and-half glaze and the generous sprinkling of turbinado sugar oozed and carmelized, releasing an intoxicating nutty scent into the air.

That’s the rest of it.

I’m going through a lot of changes in my life, as I have been for the past year or more. But what remains consistent is the beauty of the baked thing. It’s very simple, really. Sometimes, I feel like it hardly needs me at all. My efforts, yes, they are important, but it’s the alchemy of the process that I am most drawn to—it takes over, it is enchanting; it is, really, in so many ways, outside of my control. There’s a subtle comfort in that; a beautiful unpredictability.

For this recipe, I made a number of modifications. I loved the sound of lemon and ginger scones, but I eat something like this very regularly from a café near work—I eat one of those ginger scones maybe weekly, even. They are delicious—spicy and warming. But now, they also remind me of my workweek.

In the original recipe, Molly notes that you can try these with berries in place of the crystallized ginger and lemon zest. She describes “jammy pockets of soft fruit.” That was all I needed to hear.

Recently

It’s been a little while. My writing chops feel rusty. I can practically hear the words halt and screech as they try to make their slow way from my brain to my fingertips.

There are some small (and some not-so-small) things to catch you up on. For one thing, I toured the great American Southwest recently. There is no better place, really, to let your words completely leave you. So that’s what I did: feet up on the dash, dusty shoes, bad gas station coffee, amazingly good, frequently hilarious, company by my side. We used images instead of language to document the trip; and that, I think, was a very good call.

A treat for the wayward

This is something different.

First of all, pardon my long silence. There are numerous excuses that I could provide, but that would be tiresome. The most honest thing that I could say is that I’ve been in a period of hibernation; mulling over various things, doing a lot of reading, and something else too—making art again. Maybe I’ve never mentioned it here, but that was something that I used to do a lot of.

And, well, after forsaking it entirely upon finishing my MFA degree, it has come back, full-speed ahead. I woke up one morning and it hit me over the head in the form of a cyclone of new ideas and a renewed urgency that I haven’t felt in years—“go do this now,” it seemed to whisper to me. I abided.

As I try to bring all of these parts of myself together into something called a “life,” certain things have moved to the wayside, at least temporarily. I’m beginning to pull the various, seemingly disparate pieces back together now I think, making room for both new and old as I go.

In the midst of this crisis/artistic revival, however, I did do one notable culinary thing—the only thing, perhaps, worth telling you about (I take it you don’t want to hear about the tuna fish sandwiches I sometimes made for dinner, or the quick pastas and hasty salads that I threw together while I was busy doing other things, right? No, neither do I).

The one event that I could mark my culinary calendar by went something like this: a pâte à choux, flecked with thyme, speckled with black pepper, and oozing with melted gruyère; an intrigued orange cat who kept me company on the chair next to the table as I worked; and a restless roommate, sporting nothing but a towel, saying wistfully, as he hovered over me, are they done yet?!

Gougères. That’s what they were. They weren’t done yet; and this despondent roommate had to wait several hours until he came back home later that evening to try one.

I, on the other hand, picked one up steaming from the oven, tore it open with celebratory glee, and consumed the hot, steaming roll in a rush of hunger and passion—burning the roof of my mouth slightly as I went. Sexy. (Also, stupid.)

*

Gougères live, in my mind, at a café on the corner of 18th and Guerrero in San Francisco. If you can stomach the line that wraps around the block in the mornings (I usually can’t), you can find yourself in the company of flaky croissants, quivering bread pudding, sticky and fragrant morning buns, and rows of slick, shimmering cakes and cookies. Past the case (if you make it this far) is, in my mind, where the true treasures lie—the savory things: gougères, and cake aux olives, flaky quiche with crème fraîche and swiss chard, and croque monsieurs piled high with baby shiitake mushrooms and creamy béchamel.

I both love and hate this café.

But gougères… I ache a little when I go too long without one. And it turns out that they are easy enough to make at home. So easy, in fact, that you will be surprised that you haven’t attempted it before.

I have tended to feel like any bread-like thing that one could possibly make would be incredibly arduous and time-consuming: all of that rising and punching and kneading that I’ve seen countless bakers do. The careful prodding and feeding of the “starter”—a strange, amorphous little creature that is somehow “alive” and somehow responsible for any good crusty, moderately sour bread.

But gougères are different—they are not really a bread at all in the traditional sense; they require no yeast, no rising, no amorphous “starter” waiting to pass out in your fridge if it is in the least bit neglected by you.

They are very simply composed of an egg-based dough, whisked together on the stovetop, to which grated gruyère, thyme, and an incredible amount of black pepper is added in the last moments.

Easy.

Also, delicious and warming. The result is, as Elisabeth Prueitt puts it “…the perfect combination of a crusty, caramelized outside and a soft, eggy inside.” Yes, indeed.

These are best taken with a glass of rosé and a small dish of olives; all the better if there is a crackling fire raging just beyond your toes.

Gougères

Adapted from Tartine

A couple of notes: I do everything by hand (mostly because I lack the proper equipment), but this recipe could also be done using a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment; it will make the slow incorporation of the eggs, which must go in one by one, much, much easier. Also, the original recipe adamantly declares that nonfat milk must be used (do not replace with 2% or whole milk)—it’s something to do with all of that fat from the 10 tablespoons of butter that you need to make these delicate little rolls.

For the pâte à choux:

1¼ cups nonfat milk

10 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup flour

5 eggs

¾ cups grated gruyère cheese

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon fresh thyme, chopped

For the topping:

1 egg, beaten with a pinch of salt

Grated gruyère

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment.

Combine the milk, butter, and salt in a medium-sized saucepan, and place over medium heat. Allow the butter to melt, and bring the mixture to a full boil. Once this occurs, add the flour, all in one shot, and stir quickly until the mixture forms a smooth mass and pulls away from the sides of the pan (1-3 minutes).

This is your simple choux paste.

Transfer it to a medium bowl, and add the eggs, one by one, incorporating each egg completely before cracking in the next. When all the eggs have been incorporated, mix in the gruyère, thyme, and black pepper with a rubber spatula.

Using a large spoon, drop the batter onto the prepared baking sheet into 3-inch mounds, roughly 1½ inches high. They should be spaced approximately 2 inches apart.

Brush the beaten egg onto the tops of each pastry (smoothing out the surfaces of the gougères slightly as you do this) and sprinkle with gruyère cheese.

Bake for 35-45 minutes, or until the gougères have puffed up and are nicely browned.

Remove from the oven and poke a hole in the side of each gougère to release the steam and prevent them from collapsing.

They are delicious consumed warm, and also very good the next day.

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.