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Posts Tagged ‘lemon curd’

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My life since Thursday has been a blurry flurry of appointments, a steady regimen of eye drops, and cavorting nose-to-screen with my laptop after having corrective eye surgery. There’s a certain degree of weepiness and photo-sensitivity with the territory, like yesterday, when I looked as though I’d just emerged from an E.T./Schindler’s List double-header. And the sharpness of my vision keeps fluctuating while my eyes heal, making it take twice as long to write anything.

But it’s all cool. Spending 20 some-odd years backstage, in darkness or near-darkness, prepped me well to trust my other senses. I made spanakopita and lemon curd pretty much by instinct. And today my vision’s pretty decent. To celebrate, this evening I put on my wide sunglasses (to block the wind and dust) and rode to Ocean Grove for my first cone of the season. I have a system and everything.

  1. I go to Days, a 140-year-old, seafoam-green, outdoor ice-cream-garden, for its utter beauty and peace.
  2. I let myself have as many cones as I like in a summer, *provided* I ride my bike (about 2.5 miles distance).
  3. I go at night; ice cream has always been a post-dinner thing, and judging by how long the line gets every night after 7:30, it’s not just me.
  4. I get a kiddie cone (they call it a ‘short shot’).
  5. I sit on the steps to people-watch and eat.

No one waiting in line for ice cream is ever in a bad mood. The news lately has been appalling. No matter. People of every conceivable age and background are there, they are not thinking about the debacle du jour, and they are happy. In an ice-cream line is a good place to be.

Tonight I read the selections through the big glass window as I always do. It was blurry, but I still made it out, with no glasses or contacts. This is miraculous for a girl who’s been wearing glasses since 1979 and contacts since 1982.

I got a scoop of Key Lime Pie on a sugar cone. And I sat in peace enjoying it, as the old normal cavorted with the new normal.

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I’ve been utterly hamstrung by a sinus infection since Sunday. Today I turned a corner. For me, this can be determined in a single, no-fail way: it’s when everything I’ve let slide for three days looms up, looks into the bleary whites of my eyes, and says, AHEM. When you’re sick, you don’t notice, or if you do, you don’t bloody well care.

Corner turned notwithstanding, I am still sick, so am making myself move slowly. While this may be a cakewalk for some, it is not for me. I am a do-er. When I find myself only going through three tissues per hour instead of a dozen, it takes all of my effort not to scramble around setting everything to rights.

Yet…when one is surrounded by 817 things to do, all seemingly needing attention at once, it can be overwhelming. In cases such as this—and I have had many—I have found the best thing to do is to identify the priority. And that, typically, is to do something soothing. Something that honors the state of being that one is in, and fortifies for the stuff that needs doing afterwards.

I planned for this. Like I said…I’ve been here before. So yesterday, following a trip to the doctor’s office and the pharmacist’s, I bought four Meyer lemons. I knew lemon curd was just what my internal doctor ordered.

I’ve written about this luscious treat before. Meyers are a sweeter and less astringent lemon variety, and have been quite the darling of pastry chefs for some time now. They are my favorite choice for curd, and are in season all winter—exactly when we can all use the Vitamin C most.

This morning I felt well enough to stir some up, and let it chill and thicken in the fridge. Then I ate some right out of the pan as I read the second Bridget Jones book. She would have been so proud of me.

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Actually…I should have called this post ‘two nice things’, because afterward I felt even better, and baked up a very easy, tender, homey pumpkin cake with some of the last of my fresh pumpkin puree. A warm piece after dinner just soothed that much more.

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Hot sourdough bread with butter.

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Same slice. I just couldn’t decide which was the purtier.

So maybe it’s because I went from making a 12-ingredient* fruitcake over Christmas to drizzling Baileys into snow last week that’s really making me appreciate the value of simplicity. Or maybe it’s because I’m an editor as well as a writer, and stripping the superfluous out of everything from copy to my Facebook friends list to food ingredients appeals to me. Or—this is probably it—it’s that the simpler the ingredients and prep, the more satisfying the dish.

People usually assume that since I’m a food writer I put all of my focus on fancy restaurants, but to be honest, the opposite is true: I don’t care about fine dining. I care about ingredients. Choose the best ingredients and don’t mess with them too much. Why should you? They already had big plans to speak for themselves.

Years ago Dr. Andrew Weil said his idea of the ultimate dessert was good-quality dark chocolate alongĀ  with fruit, in season (this matters) and perfectly ripe. It’s both healthy and heavenly.

For a real challenge along those lines, for a week (or more) keep recipe ingredients down to the bare minimum—three to five, tops. Pared down just to the essence of themselves, offered in the best possible light with the matchmaking** of your two sweet hands, and people start to call you a good cook. It’s nutty.

The shots here are bloody good memories of mine. Every component of every dish is of good quality and consequently didn’t fail me. And none have more than five ingredients.

I’d continue, but I don’t want to shoot my premise in the foot.***

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Just-picked organic strawberries and cream.

Mozzarella in carrozza: a cheese sandwich dipped in egg, dredged in flour, and butter-fried.

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Organic figs I picked, then dipped in dark chocolate and sprinkled with fleur de sel.

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Scotch Woodcock: toast smeared with butter and anchovy paste, then topped with very softly cooked scrambled eggs and a couple whole fishie cuties.

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Lemon curd: lemon zest, juice, sugar and eggs, plus a little pat of butter.

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Gianduja (homemade Nutella): dark chocolate, toasted hazelnuts, sugar, cream and butter.

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Popovers: all-purpose flour, eggs, milk, butter and salt.

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A pineapple kebob-like thing I came up with: fresh cut pineapple doused in Malibu rum and dusted with sweetened shredded coconut.

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Another invention of mine: mulberries picked from the tree outside my balcony and cooked down into a jam with sugar, several hefty splashes of Petite Syrah, and ground cardamom.

*And it would have been 13 but I couldn’t find candied angelica.

**I couldn’t think of this word. I could only think of ‘shiddoch’. True story. So I Googled that to get me to the English word. The nine remaining drops of my sanity are going to fall out of my ears one of these days.

***I also mix metaphors the way good things come to those who take the bull by the horns.

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Comfort food #1: gingerbread-chocolate chunk cookies.

I recently finished Neil Gaiman’s latest novel, The Ocean at the End of the Lane. It’s about a little boy’s surreal adventure with his neighbors (and monsters. We’re talking about Gaiman here). And in his characteristically masterful way, he drives home his plot without ever coming near a cliche.

To show the difference between the climate in the boy’s home (precarious) and the climate in his neighbors’ home (safe), Gaiman uses food. We learn the boy has grown up scared of it: his grandmother would tell him not to gobble as he ate. School food was to be eaten in tiny portions. And if he didn’t like something served at the dinner table, he’d be chastised for not finishing it. All of this sorely damaged his relationship with food.

Then we’re shown a stark contrast: the boy enjoys hearty portions and happy mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie and spotted dick* at his neighbors’ house. These folks care for him and protect him unconditionally. In the safety of their kitchen he feels comfortable and accepted, and for the first time in his life, he is able to eat, and eat well—without fear.

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Lemon curd, cooling and regrouping.

Having a safe place to eat is a fundamental, primal need. Where do you have to be to relax when eating?

Mind you…I don’t mean eating food that tastes best in certain places, as in eating crabs by the beach, or Brie and baguettes in Paris. That’s about charm and locale. I’m talking about eating in a place that’s peaceful and comfortable enough that you can have your fill and be satisfied.

I think of the squirrels outside my window, who will nibble a seed while sitting on the ground, but if they win the carb lottery with half a discarded bagel they will scoot up a tree to eat it. I think of my late and much-missed dog, who—much to the consternation of my mom—always ran into the dining room to eat on the silk Oriental rug. I think of my favorite hangout when I was home from college**, a place lit by ancient, battered candles, checkered tablecloths with cigarette burns in them, crappy, slanted paintings on the wall, the best thick-cut, toasted, buttered pound cake I have ever tasted, and Dutch coffee—a concoction that’s about 10% coffee and 90% heavy cream, whipped cream, and butter. The place was started by hippies and since I am a hippie, I sank into my chair like butter on that pound cake and was completely content. I was relaxed enough to taste—really taste—every single bite. Aside from my own dining room table today, that’s my place.

Where is it for you?

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Homemade Nutella (gianduja)–warm semisweet chocolate, toasted and ground hazelnuts, cream, butter and a little sugar.

*A classic UK pudding of cake studded with currants or raisins and served with custard. I saw it on the menu in a pub in a tiny Scottish village called Pool of Muckhart. It was a toss-up, but I had the jam roly-poly instead.

I love the UK.

**The Inkwell in West End, NJ, now and forever.

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