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Posts Tagged ‘lemon’

I love lemons and I love old recipes. Recently, after a long hiatus that involved too much hither and yonning all over the state, I got on Google maps and actually found my kitchen again. The above and below are testament to what can be done while exhausted and needing to be comforted.

My friend Rachel loves to bring me little treats when she visits, and last September she brought me a copy of Woman’s Home Companion Cook Book (1942). I don’t mind relaying that I can do without their recipe for Boiled Asparagus, and don’t understand the preoccupation of the day with suspending almost anything in gelatin. But most of the recipes are true blue, and many more look really incredible; to my modern mind, the authors show a wonderful audacity with ingredients and flavors, and I really, really envy how common oysters, black walnuts, and persimmons were back then. Whew.

But a few days ago I was in the mood for lemons, certainly because it’s spring and they’re in season, and also likely because I was run down and in need of a smack of citrus. This was a treat: Called Delicate Lemon Pudding, it combines lemon juice and zest, sugar, milk, egg yolks, egg whites beat to stiff peaks, butter, and a little bit of flour to hold it all together. It gets poured into a baking dish, set in a bain-marie, and baked. Then it goes into the fridge to chill up.

I made this during last week’s heat wave and told my friends I imagined people in the ’40s pulling it out of the icebox on a sultry day. Did it myself. When you dip into it, the pudding has an appealing way of being dry and tender on top (that’s the browned meringue), frothy in the middle, and sweet and milky underneath, almost like a lemon milkshake. Next time I’ll use less sugar and more lemon juice and zest, but it was a really lovely win.

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Everyone I know is getting sick. I guess it’s Winter’s last villainous hurrah. Or mwahahahaha and a flicking together of the fingers, as is typically the case with pointy-chinned Scooby-Doo villains.

I did the only sensible thing and made lemon squares. Been eating two a day like a good girl.

What, it’s citrus.

🙂

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I’m on a lemon kick, I suppose. Did you ever have a craving just clobber you upside the head? This morning I happened upon a Nigella recipe for lemon yogurt cake and that was it: I got dressed, drove to the store, and bought a lemon.

This should have been a simple cake to make—there are few ingredients, they’re all recognizable, etc.–but it wasn’t written well. The measurements she gives are fine, but the process was frustrating; she kept instructing us to use a pot of this and a pot of that instead of the very measurements she calls for above. Grateful that I’ve spent most of my life in the kitchen and knowing I could grope my way out of this, I just stopped for a second, decided this was a basic cake—wet stuff added to dry stuff, combine and bake—and ignored everything in the middle of the recipe.

While stirring this up it occurred to me that I rarely go by the letter when I cook. Instead, I edit before I start. No, this doesn’t need two cups of sugar; good Lord almighty, one teaspoon is not going to be enough for something entitled a vanilla cake. And so on. I don’t do vegetable oil, so I substituted olive oil for this cake, and it was successful. Butter would have been good, too, obviously. And it called for the zest of half a lemon, but I know myself, and I like lemon desserts to taste quite powerfully of lemon. Delicately lemony cake, cookies, bars—not for me. So I zested the whole fruit.

Took a little bite when it was cool, and the inside is lovely and tender, almost creamy, like a really good pound cake. But even that whole lemon’s zest wasn’t enough for me. I’ll add the juice to the batter next time. Maybe I’ll end up squeezing it over the whole thing tomorrow like a filet of Dover sole.

One more thing: Nigella calls for the cake to go in a tube pan, but the only one I have is a Bundt. The cake’s a tad short in stature, as you can see. I’m going to try to eat it all before I learn if it has a Napoleonic complex.

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Carrots with the dirt still clinging. I hacked off the tops and fed them to Esmerelda Goat at Silverton Farms. She quite enjoyed them.

Dear Organizers,

Okay, yesterday clinched it.

Compliments first—and soak ’em in, because once I’m done all bets are off.

You know I’m a big fan. I’ve sung arias to farmers and their markets time and again. (Even more than that.)

Here’s what you get right:

1) You created the market in the first place, reviving a homespun way to buy food.

2) People get to meet, kibbutz, share recipes, and have a groovy old time.

3) We get the opportunity to buy food straight from the dirt. And sometimes it still has dirt, or feathers, or errant sticks in with it. This is a plus, I’m telling you. I like finding inchworms. It’s nearing high summer in New Jersey. I’m wildly digging the butterstick squash, the beans, the little potatoes, the sweet bells, and the countless other treasures borne of our happy little Zone 7’s earth and rain and sky.

Okay, put away the Kleenex and turn off the Luther Vandross*. All set? So glad. We’re going to hear a lot more on that last note:

What the…? Mangoes? On a New Jersey farmers’ market table? Jesus H. Sebastian God. I saw a dozen of these yesterday, and it wasn’t the first time. Lemons and limes. Bananas. Blueberries from Canada, when they’re in season right here, right now. When NJ produces 52 million pounds every season.**

Even more insulting, peaches and plums bought at bloody Pathmark, transferred to an aw-shucks-ain’t-that-homey-hope-they-don’t-notice-they’re-from-Bolivia pint box, presented to us with the store stickers still attached, and with the price marked up. To make matters worse (as if you could), most often all of the produce, local or not, is tagged with a ‘Jersey Fresh’ label. That’s stones. Oh, also? That loses you at least one customer, and I can’t imagine I’m alone.

Forget that this mishagoss doesn’t support NJ. Forget that often enough you’re continuing to hoodwink the consumer into thinking produce is in season when it’s not. Even forget the number it’s doing on the environment, bringing in food from thousands of miles away when you can get it right down the road.

Factor in nothing but the incomparable, insane flavor and nutrition that come from collards that were in still in the ground at 7 this morning and still have 4 this-morning’s dew on them. I’ll pay more for them. They’re worth more.

I’m at a farmers market, people. I don’t want some bollocksy greens that were picked a week ago Thursday and have been on vehicles with six different plates from three different countries. If I wanted greens that have more stamps on their passport than Beyonce, I’d go to Pathmark.

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Red plum from a NJ farmer’s tree.

Educate me. Please. I know quite a few farmers. I would never suggest the work a farmer does is easy. I know the powerful resilience it takes to fight the fight every season—against the weather, the bills, the aging machines (especially if he or she is one of them), the land developers whispering sweet nothings through screen doors. Making ends meet and staying optimistic takes a mighty, consistent effort, and they have my respect and gratitude always.

You might be thinking:

1) Some farmers sell non-local produce because they had a bad season.

2) Some only grow two things and want to sell their wares just like everyone else, want to make the trip to the market worth their while.

My rebuttal:

1) This has been a lovely, good-sun and good-rain growing season so far.

2) I see this practice most often among farmers who already have a dozen-plus different homegrown offerings. They set out all of their beautiful produce right next to watermelons from Georgia, picked unripe so they could travel the distance intact, when NJ’s own luscious melons will be in season in only two or so more weeks.

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Purple cabbage in noon-time sunshine.

It’s time—long overdue, to be perfectly honest—to take a page from Greenmarket in NYC. Many years ago when the Market was in its infancy some growers began showing up with bananas. The higher-ups ix-nayed that. Food was to be local, harvested within a certain number of miles, or it wasn’t allowed on the tables.

What’s keeping NJ—or any state or country’s market—from doing the same?

Pull it together,

MCP

*Actually, that you’re welcome to deep-six entirely.

**No, that’s not a typo.

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The one I ate after dinner.

I had to dash out for more eggs mid-recipe, my ladyfingers ended up looking like amoebas with a gland problem, but I’m happy to report this totally off-the-cuff recipe was still a rousing success. It started with me trying to think of other breakfasty/snacky/desserty ways to use my honeysuckle syrup. Many readers gave me some killer ideas—mix it in with white sangria, add it to barbecue sauce for ribs, drizzle it into fruit salad. (I still plan to make marzipan cake or pound cake and soak that sucker in it.)

Then I remembered Umbrian reader Letizia’s beautiful recipe for ladyfingers, the one she offered for part of my cooking project, and everything came together in my head on the drive home from the farm today: ladyfingers soaked in syrup and layered with tart yogurt.

At first I was thinking of including strawberries (not that I’m ruling it or any other fruits out down the road and now that I think about it, slightly unripe apricots would ROCK). Then I thought of how good the simplest European treats are, like crepes filled with just a thin layer of jam and dusted with powdered sugar, and decided to ease off. The ladyfinger batter calls for lemon, and that was going to be a good, kind friend to the honeysuckle. The tangy yogurt would be checks and balances to the sweetness.

Ladyfingers, those dense, spongy cookies made structurally sound with lots of egg, are used most famously in tiramisu. Here in the States people throw that name around so often with stacked dishes that you can hardly order a club sandwich these days without some whack chef calling it a turkey tiramisu. We Americans are an obsessive lot. Let’s call this dish a trifle. A little tiny one that you could make enormous if you wanted to, for a summer shower or other party.

Parenthetical comments are Letizia’s; mine are in brackets. Click the honeysuckle syrup link above for my recipe.

*
Ladyfingers

75 gr (2/3 cup) granulated sugar
3 eggs, separated
Grated zest of 1/2 lemon
1 tsp vanilla extract
75 gr (2/3 cup) 00 or pastry flour [I used all-purpose]
1 scant tablespoon plain yogurt or milk [I used goat’s milk–awesome]
2 tablespoon powdered sugar plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, mixed in a small bowl

Preheat oven at 150°C (300° F). Line a large baking sheet with buttered parchment paper. If you don’t butter the parchment paper you will have to eat it as it’s hardly possible to remove it from the cookies after baking. [Somehow I missed her note, twice, about greasing the parchment. Please heed her warning.]

Whisk or beat egg whites until firm. Cream the sugar and egg yolks, add lemon zest, vanilla extract, flour and milk or yogurt and keep whisking to obtain a very thick batter. Fold in egg whites using a metal spoon. Make sure to incorporate them lightly, with circular upward movements so to obtain an airy mixture that will not deflate while cooking.

At this point, using a pastry bag, you should pipe the batter into 10 cm (4 inch) long strips on the baking sheet. (I hate pastry bags, so I use a soup spoon making sure to keep the strips at least 3 cm (1 inch) apart. One spoon of batter is enough for one ladyfinger.) [My hat is off to Letizia. I was sad crap at this. Using a pastry bag next time.]

Now sprinkle half of the sugar mixture onto the strips. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden around the sides. Makes about 2 dozen.

Letizia Mattiacci
Umbria, Italy

incampagna.com

*

This is so simple, so delicious, it’s almost lyrical. Funny how a flower can do so much for a dish.

Grazie, Letizia!

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Whites beaten to stiff peaks can sparkle like snow. Kinda cool.

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Whites folded most of the way into batter.

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Amoebas baked to a golden brown and sprinkled with sugar.

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The one I’m having for breakfast. Layered with the yogurt and sitting in a happy pool of syrup.

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The groovy thing about honeysuckle is you smell it before you see it. The other groovy thing is the stuff you can make with it.

By last fall I missed my chance on the making stuff part, and mourned about it here. This year, I’ve been picking flowers like a nice little Victorian who’d hit the Coca-Cola just a smidge too hard*, and making simple syrup infused with them. The flowers, not the Victorian and Coke.

Growing up we used to love to pull the stamens very gently through the flowers and drink up the drop of nectar that emerged. This past weekend’s syrup project was an elaborate version of this.

Step 1: Find honeysuckle, which, being invasive, is everywhere in the suburbs in June. I went for ones that weren’t on people’s property because it would likely have come into contact with pesticides. That and the homeowners might have taken issue with me swiping their flowers and all. Choose flowers that aren’t wilted, and get a mix of yellow and orange. The former’s flavor is lighter; the latter’s is deeper.**

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Step 2: Take them home and rinse them gently. (Inherently sticky plus dusty is an undesirable combination.) In a small, heavy saucepan whisk together 2 cups filtered water and 1 cup granulated sugar. Bring that to a boil. Then take it off the heat and immerse your flowers into it.

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Step 3: Wait nicely until it comes to room temperature, then strain out the flowers through a sieve lined with cheesecloth. Pour into an airtight container. Taste, and promptly swoon. (I wrote to my friends on Facebook: ‘If Hawaii were a liquid, it would taste like this.’)

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Step 4: Offer some to your favorite local bakery, whose pastry chef loves to work with infusions, then get mightily stoked when he uses it in whipped cream to top a lavender panna cotta.

Step 5: Muse on how to use it in mixed drinks, and call upon the prodigious powers of your brother-in-law, who knows from these things.

Step 6: Put a pint Tupperware container of the syrup into your bag and take it with you to your family’s party, where you meet up with your brother-in-law and try it with bourbon, lemon, and rum. Get opinions, and determine it’s pretty good in all cases.

Step 7: Ask your sister-in-law how she’d want it served, and taste her one part vodka to one part syrup over ice. Go a little delirious, because it’s that good. THAT good, which means a lot considering you’re really not much of a drinker, and become relieved that you’ve supplemented all of this experimenting with a wrap and a half of breaded chicken and romaine from Surf Taco.

Step 8: Your sister-in-law will name this last drink ‘The Vacation.’ You will deem it a most worthy name.

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*You know its history, right? http://www.snopes.com/cokelore/cocaine.asp

**I remember noticing a difference between the two flowers even as a kid. Funny the stuff we notice.

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It’s high summer, so last week I jumped at the chance to make faithful reader Katerina’s beautiful jam recipes from her native Athens, Greece. With its average summer temperatures in the low 90s (F) and very little rainfall, local fruit has the chance to go all Greta Garbo on the vine or tree and just get sweeter by the day. People who are used to such luxuries know how best to enjoy them, so like a good girl I followed Katerina’s recipes to the letter.

First one, and here’s Katerina:

Melon Jam

I made this recipe because I found myself with lots of melons. I have done many attempts to find the best way of treating the fruits. Please have in mind that the taste of the jam depends on the variety of the fruit.

Melons (I use the ones of August – they have the best taste and aroma)*

Granulated sugar (depending on taste)

I do not give exact quantity of sugar since the fruits can be very sweet. The best approach I have found is to melt the fruits in a food processor and add sugar in small quantities, let it dissolve and taste the result. When satisfied, put the mixture of fruits and sugar in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and let it boil at medium temperature, stirring occasionally. Add 1 tablespoon of lemon juice per pint of jam. When thick, it is ready. Put it in sterilized jars, turn them upside down in order for them to be sealed, and during the winter you’ll have a taste of summer.

*

Me again. It’s true that you won’t know what the jam needs until you taste the fruit, and it can vary pretty widely. Melons are desert natives. Here in temperate NJ, if the summers are sunny and dry and Gobi-like, our local melons are better than a candy store. But if we get too much rain, they’ll taste like their cucumber cousins and depress the crap out of your peanut butter sandwich.

I used a really ripe, local, organic cantaloupe. If you can do the same, I heartily endorse it. Unless your supermarket carries local melons (and read the fine print on what they consider local; it still might be from 1,892 miles away), they just aren’t going to have the sweetness and character of fruits that were grown close by and allowed to ripen on the vine. Mine needed only a bit of sugar. I added some fresh grated nutmeg, too.** It cooked down to a luminous orange and tasted remarkably of pumpkin (another cousin). But it’s a more cheerful version of pumpkin, as pumpkin would taste after getting the top car on a Ferris Wheel and swinging it back and forth, much to the consternation of its little sister.

The next jam is even yummier. I make peach goo*** every summer, but loved the idea of adding stuff that hadn’t occurred to me.

Peach Jam with Ginger

700g. (about 1.5 lbs) peaches

500g. (about 1 cup)  granulated sugar

50g. (about 1.5 ounces) fresh ginger root

2 cinnamon sticks

1/2 tsp cloves

Juice of 1 small lemon

Wash fruit. Cut peaches into small pieces and crush them lightly with a fork. Peel and then grate the ginger on a coarse grater. Put the peaches and ginger in a saucepan with a thick bottom and sprinkle with sugar. Allow to soak in the juice until sugar is completely dissolved. Place the pot over high heat and add the spices and lemon juice. Allow to boil 5 minutes, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon and removing the foam from the surface. Lower heat and let boil for 3-4 minutes more. Remove the foam and cinnamon sticks and fill sterilized jars with the hot jam. Shut tight and push up the lids. Turn the jars upside down till the jam reaches room temperature.

*

At the tippy top of the post are the peaches I used. They’re local, ‘light spray’ (it’s hard to find an organic peach in NJ), and look the way peaches look when the farmer doesn’t fuss over them. Russeting and some marring is good. In my many years of picking and eating peaches, I can say with some authority that the ones that are a little rough around the edges will be sweeter. The difference in flavor is striking enough that last year I blogged about it here.

The peaches cook down to an mellow-tasting amber mixture, and the spicy hit of fresh ginger, then cloves and cinnamon, is surprisingly fun. I’ve been eating this stuff out of a Tupperware for the past week.

Both recipes are good on sandwiches, on toast, or on the fantastic bagels brought by your summer visitors from the city.  Bonus: They can be made after a day of fun at the beach, or dreariness at the office, or vice versa, allowing you to go all Greta Garbo—a perfectly acceptable way to be this time of year.

Thanks to Katerina Papaspiliopoulou 🙂

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Melon (cantaloupe) at top; peach ginger at bottom.

*Absolutely true, and in NJ,  September melons can be even better.

**Angie Wink, that one’s for you.

***Sometimes jam, sometimes compote, we had this discussion.

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