Curried Coconut Cashew Rice Krispies Treats
As a kid, Rice Krispies Treats were indeed a treat, and a rare one at that. I marveled at how something so simple–just three ingredients–and something so easy–ready in ten minutes–could make me swoon. It was my first lesson in the concept of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts though I doubt my ten-year-old self would have described it that way. Adding to the mystique of the treats was the fact that I didn’t care much for marshmallows unless they were blistered in a camp fire with gooey, molten centers guaranteed to burn the roof of my mouth. Now that is a marshmallow. The slippery amorphous goobers buried in my aunt’s unnaturally green pistachio fluff could easily trip my gag reflex. Ditto for the ambrosia salad that found its way onto every family buffet table (Marshmallows and sour cream? Really?). Even worse was the discovery of mini marshmallows suspended like flotsam in the one food I’ve loved to hate for four decades–Jello.
…I went to college. Fell in love. Lost my dad. Got a real job. Moved to Florida. Fell in love again. Went back to college. Had my heart broken into a million pieces. Got a big girl job. Moved to South Carolina. Got another boyfriend. Moved to Chicago. Got a new job and a new boyfriend….
My beloved Rice Krispies Treats fell between the cracks somewhere between Pittsburgh and Chicago. When I had the time, occasion, or adequate kitchen space to make something sweet I gravitated towards baked goods–cookies, cakes, and brownies, the kind of sweets that could fill my tiny living spaces with the scents of chocolate and vanilla and make a 450-square-foot apartment feel like a home. The simple pleasure of my favorite simple marshmallow treat was all but forgotten.
…I fell in love for what I thought would be the last time. Bought a house. Lost my mom. Got married. Got a better job. Went back to college for the third time. Damn near got divorced. Quit my fat job….
One night in 2008, one magical night at the Violet Hour, I was reunited with my first love–Rice Krispies Treats. My eyes told me they were the sweet transcendental treats I’d loved as a child, but my mouth filed a very different report. The squares were sweet, crunchy, and slightly chewy exactly as I had remembered them, but these treats were savory with a surprising bit of heat. I immediately reached for another and then another trying to crack the code of flavors that were exploding in my mouth. Curry!
I’ve made and tweaked my version of curried Krispies treats a dozen times since the night they first blew my mind, starting with the recipe that appeared in Food and Wine Magazine shortly after my Violet Hour visit.
I know, I know, marshmallows are made from lots of the ingredients that Michael Pollan (a man I have nothing but respect for, the same man who taught me that if I’m not hungry enough to eat an apple then I’m not really hungry) and others say we should avoid. I’ve tried with limited, unsatisfying success to make these treats without marshmallows. A mix of egg whites, sugar, and a bit of flour will do the job of holding the rice and nuts together, but the squares are brittle and crumble with the first bite. Yes, I’ve considered making my own marshmallows, but that wrecks the inherent simplicity of these no-bake sweets. For now, I’m sticking with the marshmallows. Besides they’re called “treats” for a reason.
Curried Coconut Cashew Rice Krispies Treats
For road trips I make these in a 9×9-inch pan and cut them into 3-inch square monster treats. For cocktail parties I use a 9×13-inch pan to create bite-sized squares that are perfect companions for a glass of bubbly. Want to glam them up a bit? Try drizzling the squares with melted white chocolate.
Ingredients
-
3 tablespoons coconut oil, plus more for greasing the pan (You can substitute butter.)
2 tablespoons Madras curry powder (yellow curry)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup unsweetened coconut flakes, lightly toasted
1/2 cup cashews, toasted and coarsely chopped
5 cups Rice Krispies Cereal
Preparation
- Lightly grease a 9×13-inch pan with coconut oil.
- In a large saucepan melt 3 tablespoons of coconut oil over low heat. Add curry, salt, and marshmallows and stir until the marshmallows are completely melted. Remove from heat.
- Add vanilla, coconut, cashews, and rice cereal. Stir until well coated.
- Using lightly oiled hands or waxed paper evenly press the mixture into the prepared pan. Let cool at room temperature.
- Cut into 1-inch squares and serve.
Makes 9-10 dozen.
White Space and Milk Jam (Confiture de Lait)
White. In all directions. White.
I’m adrift in a sea of white. My empty porcelain mug. The blanket of snow covering the herb garden that only a week ago was offering me fresh mint and thyme. The milk and sugar simmering in the pan on the stove. The blank page before me, full of promise of what might be, of what I might be. The snow too is making its own promise, a permission slip to go slow and to stay inside. A need to venture out to the market is replaced by a longing to raid my pantry and fridge.
I stare at the falling snow and then the page, then back again at the snow. A black cat approaches from the alley. I scurry to the door and rapidly tap the cold glass with my knuckles to frighten him away, not wanting anything to mar the pristine blanket just outside my door. My warm chair welcomes me back. The blank page is still waiting. I’m reminded of my favorite Viktor E. Frankl quote, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
I’m lingering now in that space. It feels like a long, deep inhalation.
The garage door opens, and Greg slowly makes his way from the garage to the house. His six-foot frame looks small amid the snow drifts. With each step he perforates the lovely blanket. It’s time now to exhale. I fill my mug with hot coffee; its contrast against the white porcelain is unsettling. I plop a vanilla bean into the simmering pot of milk. I pick up my pen and put it to the paper.
Confiture de Lait (Milk Jam)
Confiture de Lait or Milk Jam is a French confection hailing from the region of Normandy. It’s often confused for and compared to the Latin American milk caramel dulche de leche. Both are made with sweetened milk, but confiture de lait is made with vanilla.
Do pardon the hyperbole, but this stuff may be the single best spoonful of anything you ever put into your mouth. As the silky caramel melts across your tongue, every receptor in your brain will flash, “more, more, more.” Spread it on bread or a fresh from the oven vanilla scone. Drizzle a warm ladleful over a bowl of butter pecan ice cream. Drown your poached pear in it. Or simply enjoy it by the spoonful right from the jar. The downside to all this deliciousness is that it’s an excruciating exercise in patience. A “quick” batch can take two hours and will likely be lumpy though every bit as satisfying as a “slower and lower” batch.
Ingredients
-
4 cups whole milk
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 vanilla bean, slit lengthwise
Preparation
- Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan.
- Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then immediately reduce heat to the lowest setting–just below a simmer. The lower the heat, the longer the cooking time, and the smoother the caramel. (If the heat is too high, a shiny skin will form on top of the caramel. This skin will make the jam lumpy. If this happens, don’t despair; simply give the finished jam a quick whirl in the blender to eliminate all signs of your impatience.)
- Stir every 20 minutes for the first hour or two. Each time you stir, press the vanilla bean against the side of the pan and scrape the vanilla seeds that accumulate there back into the milk.
- Once the jam begins to thicken, stir every 5-10 minutes to prevent scorching.
- When the caramel is the consistency of melted chocolate turn off the heat. The caramel will thicken as it cools. (If it’s thicker than you prefer after it cools, simply reheat it and thin it with milk or bourbon or any spirit that pairs well with caramel.)
- Remove the vanilla bean. Scrape it with a knife and stir the remaining vanilla seeds into the milk jam.
- Whisk or blend until smooth and glossy.
- Spoon into sterile jars. Cover when completely cool and refrigerate. The milk jam will keep for several months in sealed jars.
Makes about 2 cups.
Want more gooey caramel goodness? Try these Sea Salt Vanilla Caramels or Salted Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes.
New Year, Same Me and Rosemary and Orange Magdalenas
Recipes for brothy soups, kale salads, and hearty grain dishes have smacked me in the face at every turn ever since the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve. To my horror, one of my favorite baking and pastry bloggers even posted a recipe for chicken soup.
Enough!
I love a piping hot bowl of miso soup (especially when it precedes a platter of hamachi sushi partnered with a generous dollop of brilliant wasabi). Kale in any form–roasted chips or shredded with apples in a salad–tickles my food fancy. And hearty grains have been a part of my regular diet for years now.
My growing resentment is rooted in the stark contrast between these “healthful” foods and the butter-laden ones I spent the last two weeks indulging in. I’m a big fan of grapefruit, but I can’t pretend to be excited about it for breakfast when I’ve been feasting on shortbread with my coffee for days on end. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to say good-bye to mid-week, mid-day champagne toasts (for now). And while my ill-fitting jeans say otherwise, I simply can’t muster up the gumption required to jump on the detox bandwagon this year. Yes, it’s hard to resist the New Year’s hype and the promise of a New Year and a New You. Last year Greg and I jumped on the wagon with a thud, ringing in 2011 with a raw food cleanse. Raw food, of course, equaled cold food, and suffice to say that cold salads and lukewarm tomato sauce in January can do more harm than good specifically to your relationship with your mate. We lasted four days on cold soups before throwing in that towel of good intentions.
This year I’m not buying the hype. Several of my close friends and family members were touched by sickness and tragedy as 2011 drew to a close, which suddenly made many of my New Year’s resolutions seem downright petty. New Year, New You? I’m not sure I want a new me. Arguably the old me isn’t perfect and has ample room for improvement. But instead of changes, drastic or otherwise, what I really need is to embrace the imperfections and the old me. Living on shortbread and champagne is sadly unsustainable. And for me, so is living on a daily dose of pink grapefruit. What I’m really seeking is the balance between the two. We’ve returned to our go-to, pre-holiday breakfast of peanut butter and a smidge of jam smeared on homemade whole grain toast. I’m saving my grapefruits for a new marmalade recipe I’m itching to try. For dinner we’ve eliminated the meat centerpieces and “roast beasts”, instead warming our spirits and over-stretched tummies with steaming bowls of garlicky cannellini beans and broccoli raab with a few chunks of Italian sausage thrown in for good measure.
These lovely magdalenas (Spanish “cupcakes” typically enjoyed for breakfast) are another nod to balance. They’re light and slightly sweet. And they’re made with olive oil rather than butter. Magdalenas are also small, which makes them the perfect guilt-free sweet to enjoy as you continue to ween yourself off of salted caramels and fudge.
Here’s to a peaceful, prosperous, and healthy new year rich with good tidings, good friends, and good food. Cheers!
Rosemary and Orange Magdalenas
Magdalenas are considered by some to be the Spanish cousins of the famed French madeleines. Country of origin aside, the biggest difference is that magdalenas are made with olive oil while madeleines are made with butter. I’m an equal opportunity baker: I baked my mini Spanish cakes in a French madeleine pan.
Ingredients
-
2/3 cup flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
2 large eggs
1/3 cup powdered sugar
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon orange blossom water
2 teaspoons fresh rosemary, minced
zest of one orange
1/4 cup olive oil, plus more for greasing the pan
Equipment
-
A madeleine pan or mini muffin pan.
Preparation
- In a small bowl whisk together the flour, salt and baking powder.
- Beat in honey, vanilla, orange blossom water, rosemary, orange zest, and olive oil. Gently fold in dry ingredients.
- Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
- Preheat oven to 350°F.
- Coat the insides and rim of a madeleine pan with olive oil.
- Fill the cups of your pan almost full with batter. (Each cup of my madeleine pan holds one tablespoon of batter.)
- Bake for 8-10 minutes or until the cakes spring back when pressed lightly. Invert immediately onto a dry, clean towel. (If you turn them onto a wire rack, you’ll likely end up with some unsightly dimples on your delicate treats.)
- Cool completely. Dust with powdered sugar before serving.
In a large bowl whisk the eggs and sugar until pale yellow and thick. (I used an electric mixer with a whisk attachment.)
Makes 12 magdalenas.
Ho Ho Ho: My Lessons in Holiday Baking for 2011
For me, baking is a continual learning process, and that’s one of the reasons I enjoy it. Unfortunately, I have little control over the timing and nature of those lessons. When a cookie experiment goes awry, I’m wont to chuck my rolling pin in the drawer and wave my white, flour covered hands in defeat. I know, I know, it’s just a cookie. On some rational level, I understand that it’s not a life or death situation, but that doesn’t mean that tears have not been shed.
This year, I took a page from my dusty Corporate America playbook and conducted a holiday baking post mortem, which is to say, when the dust and flour settled and the cookies were packed and shared with family and friends, I reviewed the week of baking and made careful notes to ensure that the lessons would stick.
- Never get cocky about toffee. Even a seasoned veteran can end up with an inexplicably grainy batch with a texture closer to shortbread than crunchy toffee. And be gracious when your unseasoned significant other makes his first ever batch of toffee and turns it out perfectly. This may require lots of practice if your S.O. is prone to gloating.
- Don’t get excited when you bake fifty-five florentines from Gale Gand’s recipe that promised only forty cookies. It’s not a miracle. You haven’t outsmarted one of the top pastry chefs in the United States. Gale just didn’t mention that you’d break at least fifteen when you were trying to spread the chocolate on the uber delicate, paper thin, brittle cookies. You’ll also need more than four ounces of chocolate, because even with careful spreading, it will ooze out of the lacy holes. This, as any chocolate lover will note, is not a bad thing.
- The recipe for rugelach in Baking with Julia will take you six hours over the course of two or three days. You can shave off an hour if you are disciplined enough to make the apricot or plum version and not both. Yes, it’s okay to cry when half of them unwind as they bake looking more like a giant, ruptured Fig Newton than any rugelach you have ever seen in pictures or pretty little pastry shops. Do try to bite your tongue when your S.O. tells you that no cookie can possibly be worth six hours and then reminds you of all the cookies you could have made in the same amount of time. The next morning, when your S.O. is enjoying an unsightly, but mind blowing slice of rugelach for breakfast, he or she will eat those words and offer to help you the following year in an effort to simplify the process.
- No, the 1-1/2 teaspoons of salt called for in Martha Stewart’s holiday shortbread isn’t “too much”.
- When making old school fudge, pour yourself a glass of wine and take a seat before you get to the step where you “beat until it just begins to lose its gloss.” You could be “beating” for a very long time.
- Giovanna Zivny’s maple creams may never set up properly no matter how many times you try. If you end up with a pan of fudgy goodness that won’t harden, score it and freeze. Then cut the fudge into pieces and freeze again. Immediately dip frozen fudge in melted chocolate. You’ll avert a gooey fudge crisis and end up with a creamy centered chocolate that rivals any you can buy in a candy shop. Be sure to graciously offer these treats to guests and pretend that they turned out exactly the way you intended them to.
- Don’t expect everyone to be as excited about your culinary experiments as you are. This year I added rosemary and lemon zest to our family sugar cookie recipe and made sandwiches using a mix of lemon curd and mascarpone. The refreshingly sweet treats moved to the top of my favorites list after just one bite. My husband Greg, a long-time devotee of the icing-laden cut-out cookies of years gone-by was not impressed.
- As a corallary to the above lesson, try something new even if you’re the only one who might enjoy the fruits of your labor. The cookies shown in the photo are ma’amouls. I fell head over heels for a beautiful wooden cookie mold at my favorite Middle Eastern grocer in Chicago. The shop proprietor explained that the mold was used to make ma’amouls, a Lebanese fruit or nut filled cookie made with an orange blossom scented semolina yeast dough. For less than ten dollars I went home with the hand-carved mold and everything I needed to make my own batch of ma’amouls. The cookies were at the top of my “must try” list, but each day I found a new excuse to not make them. On my final day of baking I reached for the lovely mold that had intimidated me all week. I poured myself a glass of wine and got down to the business of making my first ever ma’amouls. An hour later I had a tray full of pretty cookies that looked just like the ones I’d seen at Chicago’s Nazareth Sweets. They tasted as good as they looked. And this time my husband agreed.
What lessons did you learn in the kitchen this holiday season?
Mom’s Browned Butter Coconut Haystacks
My mom peacefully slipped away eleven years ago today. It was a comparatively subtle ending to a messy and painful battle with cancer. Mom was a big, hard woman. Her cancer was bigger and harder. Days, even weeks go by without her lingering in my mind. I seldom, at the risk of sounding callous, miss her in the way that I might if things had been different between us.
If.
I’m careful with my memories of her, most of which lie dormant in the inner recesses of my mind throughout much of the year. I unpack them in December like a box of fragile, mismatched ornaments, only pulling out my favorites, and leaving the ugly ones to hide in the box until I can face them or part with them. Out of my memory box come the trips to the country where we cut down our tree together while dad pouted at home. I dust off the only times I can ever remember my parents lovingly embracing. I polish to a shine the way she complimented my pretty cookies.
Mom’s best, our best, came shining through at Christmas like the warm Chicago summer that can make you forget how brutal the winter was. As a kid, I spent eleven months of the year wanting to be somewhere, anywhere other than my house, but at Christmas time our warm, chaotic, vanilla infused kitchen was the only place I wanted to be. Cue the Johnny Mathis music. Preheat the oven to 350°F. And start creaming the butter and sugar–always by hand, never with a mixer. With the help of my grandma, sisters, aunts, my childhood best friend Jen, and even dad who perfected the art of rolling perfectly round one-inch balls, our bustling kitchen turned out hundreds of dozens (yes, hundreds) and nearly 30 varieties of cookies including:
-
Pecan Tassies.
Peanut Butter Temptations.
Swedish Cremes.
Nutmeg Logs.
Thumbprints.
Macaroon Kisses.
Snowballs.
Early in December I make my holiday baking list always with mom in mind. Old family favorites make up the bulk of the list. It’s sprinkled with a few new family favorites like Sea Salt Vanilla Caramels and punctuated with recipes I’m dying to try. This year’s newcomers will include the Brown Eyed Baker‘s Chubby Hubby Truffles and Date Ma’amouls from Leite’s Culinaria.
Like my mom, I’m crazy about coconut, so these haystacks make the list every year. They’re like the prettier, better tasting cousin of a Hershey’s Mounds Bar. I think they’d be lovely with a little rose water, but I can’t bring myself to add it. I don’t fuss with mom’s cookie recipes, because a single bite of a coconut haystack can remind me of the happy times we shared in the way that only food can do.
Merry baking!
Browned Butter Coconut Haystacks
The recipe below is exactly how it was written on mom’s recipe card. I use unsalted butter, heavy cream, and unsweetened coconut. Mom made hers with salted butter and sweetened coconut flakes. She dipped the bottoms in whatever chocolate she had on hand: chips, Hershey Bars, you name it. I dip some of mine in Ghirardelli bittersweet for the dark chocolate fans and the rest in Hershey’s milk chocolate. You’ll need six ounces of your favorite chocolate.
Ingredients
-
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup cream
2 cups powdered sugar
3 cups coconut
chocolate (for dipping)
Preparation
Melt butter, heat until golden brown. Stir in remaining ingredients. Drop by spoonfuls onto wax paper and chill. Shape when still slightly tacky and chill again. Dip bottoms in melted chocolate.
Makes 3 dozen.
More sweet holiday treats: Double Chocolate Cookies with Thin Mints, Madras Curry Chocolate Truffles, Dressed Up Gingersnaps, and Coffee Rum Truffettes.
Magic and Salted Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes
“Aunt Bobbi, is it done yet?”
I walked to the stove and peaked over my niece Bailey’s shoulder while she dutifully stirred the contents of the copper sauce pan. The short answer to her question was “no,” but I wanted her to figure it out on her own. Her question smacked slightly of impatience, that exuberant Christmas morning kind of impatience. Bailey and I had been baking together all day, yet it was one of the few times that I was reminded of our near thirty year age gap. Fond memories of childhood road trips to Sea World rushed at me, “Mom, are we there yet?”
“What’s the recipe say?” I prompted.
Bailey poked at the white mass with her spatula and glanced at the recipe next to her on the counter. “Let boil until amber in color.”
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“It’s all lumpy. And it’s not really boiling,” she said with a giggle and a wide, bright smile that somehow made her brilliant burnt orange hair glisten more than usual.
Magic.
Judging from the white lumps in her pan, Bailey had a few more minutes of stirring before her sugar would be transformed into caramel. I’ve made caramel countless times over the years. Each and every time I marvel at the alchemy of a dry white solid becoming a silky liquid. This was Bailey’s first-ever batch of caramel, and I couldn’t wait to see the magic through her wide eyes.
Sharing the kitchen with Bailey felt more like baking with a girlfriend than with any twelve-year-old. For hours we’d whisked, stirred, tasted, and sang. Jason Aldean’s “country rap.” Lady Gaga. Pitbull. We had the Moves Like Jagger. Baby we were Fireworks. Together we rocked out a chocolate truffle cake, a pumpkin pie, and a walnut crostata. But this caramel and the petite pecan cheesecakes standing at attention awaiting their caramel caps were all Bailey’s.
“Aunt Bobbi, look! Look, it’s melting. The sugar is melting.”
“Keep stirring Bailey. You’re almost there.” Before our eyes the clear syrup began to gently bubble at the edges of the pan.
“It’s getting dark fast,” Bailey said. “Does that look like amber to you?”
“Yep, I think you’re there.”
Bailey turned off the heat under the pan. Relishing the rare occasion of being a sous chef in my own kitchen, I handed her the butter and cream that I’d measured out for her while she’d been patiently watching her bubbling pan. More whisking. More singing. Perhaps for Bailey the magic was fleeting though I knew it was a moment she’d not soon forget. For me, watching my niece thoughtfully drizzling her tiny cakes with gleaming caramel, the magic continued.
Salted Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes
Inspired by this recipe at BakeorBreak.com.
Ingredients
CRUST:
-
2 cups pecans, lightly toasted and finely chopped
1/3 cup brown sugar, firmly packed
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
FILLING:
-
16 oz cream cheese
2/3 c. granulated sugar
1/4 cup heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks
1 whole large egg
TOPPING:
-
1 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon water
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1/2″ cubes
1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
24 pecan halves, lightly toasted
Flaky sea salt for finishing (I used my favorite Maldon.)
Equipment
2 mini cheesecake pans (If you only have one pan, bake the cakes in two batches. You can also bake some now; refrigerate the remaining ingredients; and bake the rest tomorrow. The filling will keep for a couple days in the refrigerator.)
Preparation
CRUST:
- Preheat oven to 325°F.
- Combine the ingredients.
- Spoon a heaping tablespoon of the crust crumbs into the bottom of each mini cheesecake cell.
- Using the blunt end of a wooden spoon or similar, tamp the crumbs until firmly and evenly compacted.
- Bake for 8 minutes.
FILLING:
- Place the cream cheese and sugar in a large bowl and mix on medium/high speed until fluffy, about 2-3 minutes.
- Add the whipping cream and vanilla extract and beat until thoroughly blended. Add the egg yolks and egg and mix on low until just combined.
- Spoon the mixture on top of the crumb crusts leaving about a 1/2″ between the top of the filling and the top of the pan.
- Bake for 25 minutes or until the cheesecakes are firm to the touch. (They will puff up above the top of the pan. Don’t fret, they will sink as they cool, and the caramel will hide any and all imperfections.)
- Allow the cakes to completely cool on a wire rack before removing them from the pans.
TOPPING:
- Combine the sugar and water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Let boil until amber in color, about 3 minutes.
- Remove from heat and stir in the butter until melted and fully incorporated. Then stir in cream. Set aside and let cool to room temperature.
- Drizzle caramel over cooled cheesecakes.
- Top with a toasted pecan half and a light sprinkle of sea salt.
Makes 24 mini (2″ diameter) cheesecakes.
*Note: If you lack the pans or the patience for the minis, you can make a single cheesecake using an 8″ springform pan.
Hungry for more mini cheesecakes? Try these Sweet Curry Chocolate Cheesecakes with Coconut.
Kitchen Experiments and Apple Cheddar Quiche
Apples. Cheese.
That’s how I considered them when I was young, if I considered them at all. An apple in my worn brown paper lunch bag. A slice of cheese–a Kraft single–oozing out between toasted slices of Wonder Bread.
Apples + Cheese.
As a curious twenty-something this pairing marked the start of my culinary experimentation. Crisp, slightly tart apple slices slathered with a creamy blue were an unusual pairing for my unsophisticated palate. I devoured them hoping to make up for lost time.
By the time my 30s arrived the near perfect partners had found their way into my salads. Balsamic laden greens were casually and frequently tossed together with diced apples, Gorgonzola crumbles and a sprinkle of toasted walnuts for good measure. No longer an experiment, apples + cheese became a staple at our house especially in the fall.
I stumbled on my first recipe for an apple cheddar pie in my mid thirties somewhere between sunchoke and bone marrow experiments. And I kept right on going. It wasn’t the cheddar in place of my trusty blue that threw me. It was the notion of baking them together. I feared the end result would be like the pizza with too many toppings, each independently delicious ingredient yielding its identity to a tasteless conglomeration.
Applecheese.
But desperate times call for desperate measures. And by desperate I mean that by Sunday I couldn’t stomach another slice of turkey or scoop of stuffing. I was over the ubiquitous blog posts citing fresh ideas for Thanksgiving leftovers. I’d already turned my leftovers into leftovers twice over. When I moved the remains of Thanksgiving aside in the fridge I found a bag of Cortland apples from Michigan snuggled up to the Carr Valley aged cheddar Greg bought for me on his last trip to Wisconsin.
Applecheese?
Outside the gusting winds crashed against our 100-year-old home until it creaked and groaned. It was another blustery grey day and the glossy red and sherbet orange colors of the apples and cheddar warmed me. If Mother Nature denied me sunshine, I’d bake it into a soul satisfying quiche.
This forty year old’s applecheese fears melted away with the first indelible bite. It was like the love child of a croque-monsieur that mated with an apple crème brûlée. See? It was the kind of bite that fills your head with deliciously crazy thoughts like foods procreating.
Sweet velvety apples + assertive tangy cheddar + salty ham + rich custard.
Now bring on that apple cheddar pie.
Apple Cheddar Quiche with Ham and Sage
Resist the urge to substitute bacon for the ham; it could overpower the apple. And if you’d prefer a meatless version simply double the amount of apples.
Ingredients
PASTRY:
-
1 1/2 cups whole wheat pastry or all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup ice water
FILLING:
-
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 shallots, thinly sliced
1 large Cortland apple (or other pie apple), cored and cut into 3/4″ chunks
1/4 pound baked ham, roughly chopped
pinch of cinnamon
3 large eggs
1/2 cup crème fraîche (Sour cream will work too.)
3/4 cup milk
1 teaspoon sea salt
4 ounces aged cheddar cheese, chopped or grated
1 tablespoon chopped sage leaves, plus a few whole leaves for garnish
Preparation
- For the pastry: place the flour and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse until pea-sized crumbs form. Add a little cold water and pulse a few times. Add more water and pulse again. Continue just until the dough starts to come together. Turn the dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap. Squeeze the dough together and flatten into a 1-inch thick disk as you tightly wrap it with the plastic. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour.
- On a lightly floured surface, roll out the pastry dough to a 12-inch circle about 1/8-inch thick. Carefully transfer dough to an 11-inch fluted tart pan by folding dough in quarters, then placing the dough point in the center of the tart pan and unfolding. Press the dough against the sides and bottom of the pan. Roll the pin along the top of the pan to remove the excess dough. Gently press the sides again so the edge of the dough is slightly higher than the pan. Refrigerate the pastry shell for 20 minutes.
- Preheat oven to 400°F.
- Line the tart shell with aluminum foil and fill with pie weights or dried beans to keep it from puffing while it bakes. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove the weights and foil. Return the crust to the oven for 10 minutes longer.
- Reduce oven temperature to 325°F.
- Prepare the filling while the tart shell bakes. Melt the butter in a medium skillet. Add the shallots and sauté until they begin to soften, about 3 minutes. Add the apple chunks. Cover and cook over low-medium heat, stirring occasionally until the apples yield slightly when poked. Resist cooking them longer; they’ll continue to soften as the quiche bakes. Stir in the ham and cinnamon.
- In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, crème fraîche, milk and salt.
- Spoon the apple mixture into the cooled pastry shell. Scatter the crumbled cheddar evenly on top. Pour in the custard. Sprinkle the sage, including a few whole leaves, over the top.
- Bake for 30-40 minutes until the custard is set.
- Allow quiche to cool on a wire rack for ten minutes. Remove the outer ring and serve.
Ready for another savory winter tart? Try this Ricotta Tart with Maple Glazed Winter Squash.
Whole Wheat Pumpkin Pecan Pancakes
Thanksgiving is still two days away, but Greg and I started preparing early Sunday morning. I wanted to ease into the gray day with a leisurely breakfast–a little coffee, a crossword puzzle, and maybe some pancakes. Greg had other plans. He struck up a casual conversation about Thanksgiving table arrangements—a subject that’s anything but casual for us—while I poured my first cup of coffee. Before I knew it dining tables were moved, turned, and moved again. Chairs came out. Chairs went in. Chairs turned. Tables moved again. To a peeping Tom the scene probably looked like a game on the Price is Right. Greg was measuring and muttering and trying his best to keep his cool. My coffee cooled on the counter. I couldn’t think of a worse start to my Sunday morning.
Table arranging for Thanksgiving brings out the worst in us both. Arguing over where people (Greg’s family and a few friends thrown in for good measure) sit for our Thanksgiving feast is an unfortunate part of our holiday tradition. If Greg gets That Tone in his voice–the one he inherited from his father–it can all break bad very fast. My contribution to the kerfuffle is usually a new idea or new way I think we should do it. The past, I believe, can always be improved on. Unfortunately my visions aren’t always an accurate reflection of the space available. “Bob, that won’t fit. We’ve tried it before,” Greg will say in That Tone. I stubbornly insist it will work and duck as Greg flings the snaking metal measuring tape across the dining room.
An hour later the chairs, high-chairs (four and counting) and tables that would accommodate seventeen adults and five kids were in place. But we weren’t out of the woods yet. The equally contentious matter of who would sit where remained. Delicate issues like girth, eating habits, and hearing problems were considered as we shuffled placecards from table to table, from seat to seat. For the first time in ten years of hosting Thanksgiving, we pulled off the table and seating arrangements without a single argument. And we were way ahead of schedule.
It was time for pancakes; we’d earned them. I savored every maple-soaked, nutty bite, every moment, knowing that my next chance to relax wouldn’t come until after the elaborate feast was over. Now, with the part of the holiday I least enjoy already out of the way, only the best is yet to come–sharing a bountiful meal with our loved ones nestled into their carefully arranged seats.
Whole Wheat Pumpkin Pecan Pancakes
These pancakes are denser than your typical fare with a texture reminiscent of pumpkin bread. I like to keep the spices on the light side so the pumpkin flavor shines through, but you can change it up to suit your own taste.
Ingredients
-
1 1/2 cups milk
2 eggs
1 cup pumpkin puree
2 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 3/4 cups whole wheat pastry flour (All purpose flour will yield an equally satisfying though slightly denser pancake.)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 cup pecans, toasted and chopped
Butter for the griddle
Maple syrup for serving
Preparation
- Whisk together the milk, eggs, pumpkin puree, maple syrup, and oil.
- In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and spices. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones, mixing only until combined. Stir in the pecans.
- Melt some butter on a griddle over low-medium heat. Ladle about 1/3 cup of batter on the griddle for each pancake. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until bubbles appear on top and the underside is nicely browned. Flip the pancakes and cook for another minute or two until browned.
- Continue cooking the pancakes until all the batter is used.
Makes about 12 pancakes.
Why stop at pancakes? For a pumpkin breakfast trifecta: Pumpkin Pie Waffles with Bourbon Pecan Syrup and Pumpkin Scones.
