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Posts Tagged ‘cookie sheet’

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Today I told my Facebook tribe that when my friend Rachel made me the gift of a tart pan, my very first, I flipped out. It’s because for as long as I can remember an Alsatian apple tart has danced in my head where sugarplums ought to. Now I could finally make one. Last night I did.

Only one venerable restaurant in my area made this dessert, a place I visited a few times growing up. It was so lovely that I think I ordered it every time. And now I’m glad I did, because the restaurant—I’m still in shock—recently closed.* I might be the only one in my area now who makes this tart.

Letting that thought wash over me.

I confess I don’t remember where I got the recipe. But Google can help you if you’re tempted to be a part of the Alsatian Apple Tart workforce. Join me, and let us rise above the frozen $11 apple hucksters of the land!

Here’s what I did.

1) Zipped up the pâte brisée (that’s the pie dough) in my Cuisinart. Chilled the dough in the fridge for 30 minutes, then pressed it into the pan. You can do the same if you’re as lazy as I was last night**, or you can roll it out. Those stalwart cooks who roll it out can probably boast a more consistent thickness, as opposed to me, who had to coax the finished product from the removable base this morning with all ten fingers, like a surgeon who’d lost his subway fare inside an appendicitis patient.

This is the dough in my happy new pan, after docking (when you prick it all over with a fork so it doesn’t bubble up in the oven).

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2) I covered the dough with tin foil and poured dried beans into it. This also keeps the bubbles down while the crust bakes. Pie weights, widely available at cooking specialty stores***, are an expensive frill. Set the tart on a rimmed cookie sheet. This is always a good idea, because pies like to leak. This went into the oven for 12 minutes.

The last time I was at my favorite organic farm I bought up their last bushel of apples, which they procured from an Amish farm in Pennsylvania. I think they’re Honey Crisps. The recipe called for Golden Delicious, but you can use whatever you want (except don’t use McIntoshes. They’re too soft, and are best for eating out of hand or for applesauce. You want an apple that will keep its structure even after a hit with a 375-degree oven).

3) I cut up, cored, and peeled three apples per the recipe, but I needed another small one. Tossed the slices in a bit of granulated sugar, and made a pretty flower that ended up oddly off center. 15 more minutes in the oven.

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4) I made a custard of sugar, milk (you can use milk and cream), and eggs and whisked it up. Using a measuring jug is the ticket here because you need to pour the custard on top of the tart. For some reason there was only room for half of the custard before it started overflowing, which is another solid reason why the crust was as irretrievably stuck to the base as it was (see ‘subway fare’ above). I poured the rest into two 1-cup ramekins, plunked them into a Pyrex pan, and filled the pan with water halfway up the sides of the ramekins. (This is a bain-marie, which gently cooks custard desserts. If I was to put the custard ramekins in the oven straight up, they would have scorched.)

When the tart came out, it looked like this. Well, in the morning it did. I shot the earlier shots last night by my unfortunate overhead kitchen light. Note the change in light from lurid to pleasantly natural!

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And when I cut it, it looked like this…

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And this was my breakfast. I put in on a dish with an apple on it. You can kind of see it peeking out the right side. IMG_7517

Here’s what I liked about this tart: The crust was wonderfully tender and the custard delicate. And I had a surprise: I really enjoyed the experience of eating an apple dish that didn’t call for cinnamon. Until I made this, it hadn’t occurred to me how cinnamon always seemed to show up whenever there was an apple around. It’s great, of course. But it’s become predictable. Eating just apples with no other spices was clean and pure.

Here’s what I didn’t like: Nothing.

And I have one more custard to eat.

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*The Fromagerie, in Rumson, NJ. It had changed owners and all and wasn’t the same. But I’m still reeling.

**Like I don’t do this every single time I make pie.

***I love you, Williams-Sonoma, and my condolences on the loss of Chuck. But I doubt his mother or grandmother used fabricated pie weights for their crusts, either. They used beans.

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Ants in my pants yesterday, what with the rain and all. My brain felt like a pinball on the first day on summer vacation, if pinballs had that sort of thing. This went on all morning.

When the rain stopped, I did the only sensible thing: I put on a long white cotton dress, dusted plum eyeshadow onto my eyes, cheeks, neck, and shoulder blades, clipped a sheer organza curtain to my head as a veil, and trekked out to the Zombie Walk here in Asbury Park. I had a calling to be The Corpse Bride, you understand.

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This bride had cold feet. Cold everything, to tell you the truth.

It’s always mobbed there. Hundreds of people—adults, kids, dogs, all zombiefied. You don’t want to drive in if you can avoid it because often enough the zombies climb all over your car and you get stuck in the middle of the road.* I love seeing people I know, but it’s just as much fun goofing off with a bunch of strangers. Everyone’s being silly. People say and do things they wouldn’t typically do; it’s like we pull aside the sheer organza veil between the everyday and the whack and let ourselves go all upended. People driving by grin and wave at me and I do the same back because I forget I’m supposed to be freaky. It’s strange, this world we create for a few hours. Relaxing. And lots of boardwalk vendors offer zombie specials.

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I went in to the little shop and found a crock pot that the owners had filled with a gallon of apple cider. There was a small ladle resting on a saucer and three bags of little paper cups for us to use. It was lovely.

When I got home, the ants-in-pants thing had abated, so I changed into pajamas and dove into making fondant.** I made a lot of that years ago. It tastes nothing like the dreck from AC Moore, largely because it has milk and sugar and butter in it. The milk is sweetened condensed milk. Maybe you know of this substance and have tried it. Maybe you have the wherewithal to keep from spooning it out of the can and into your face without stopping. I am not blessed thusly.

Fondant, warmed and pourable, is the ‘icing’ that tops petits fours. But it’s also a proper candy in its own right. You can roll it into balls and dip it into yummy things. And you can shape it as long as you work quickly.

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Spatula’ed out of the bowl and onto a powdered-sugared scattered cookie sheet.

Once you make it up, you’re supposed to knead more powdered sugar into it. I will remember next time that heaping it as I did above is foolish, and covered my hands like so much Nickelodeon slime. Spreading it far and wide across the cookie sheet means more surface area touches more sugar. THEN you knead. Noted.

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Here it is containing almost as much sugar as a six-year-old on Halloween night, and ready for the fridge.

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday: if you can’t think straight and need a recharge, doing something insane is an excellent place to start. I’m still trying to get all of the mascara off. And I’m thinking the fondant would make a really cool present for someone if I can keep myself from breaking off pieces of it and eating it this week.

*I typed that with a straight face because it’s true. Someday I’ll live someplace normal.

**Still had the heavy plum shadow all over me. If anyone had looked in my kitchen window they’d think I needed a solid couple of days off.

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