The Wednesday Chef

Nicole Kaplan's Caramel Coulant

It's time for another Role Reversal post, courtesy of Moriah of Where I'm Cooking From. Despite the pedigree of the recipe's creator and the fact that her other recipe went over so fantastically well over here, I had high hopes for this dessert, alluringly named Caramel Coulant. Unfortunately, well, I'll just let you keep reading:

"Last weekend I dusted off my email archives, bought cream and flour, and set to work making Caramel Coulant as written. I read the instructions first, then followed all steps to the letter. I'm actually proud of myself for doing that, because I have a habit of always tweaking a recipe before I've made a control group. 

It's a nice change of pace to follow exact instructions and see what happens rather than my usual method of cooking by instinct (ie, the seat of my pants). I would not, however, make this recipe again. It sounded for all the world like the tawny cousin of the molten chocolate cake - a delicate egg-risen puff with liquid gold oozing from the center. But it turned out to be just an under-baked cupcake.

The half-baked cake concept works flawlessly in almost all molten chocolate cake recipes, but without the flavor-power of chocolate, the flowing center of batter ends up tasting like cake batter. That can be good in small doses, but when there's about an ounce of liquid batter in each 4 ounce cakelet, it's too much. Of course, this may appeal to some people -- I understand that. But I'm very particular about being able to taste raw egg and flour, even in custards, so this grossed me out a little bit. I baked them according to the recipe, tasted one and took some photos, then put them back into a 300 degree oven until the centers were firm. My roommates quite enjoyed the fully-baked cakes and they saved me the trouble of having to eat more than one, though I entertained thoughts of spreading slices of dense cake toast with marmalade. 

On the upper-most-upside, the 3/4-cup of leftover caramel sauce made an excellent ice cream when mixed with 3 cups of milk and run through the ice cream maker.

Overall, I'm glad I tried this recipe, at least for the experience.  It was pretty obvious to me that it was scaled down from a huge restaurant-sized batch (it's from Nicole Kaplan, during her reign as pastry chef at Eleven Madison Park), because there was so much extra caramel sauce and no instruction on how to use it, and it produced a slightly-awkward number (5) of cakes. When quadrupled, it would use all the sauce and make a nice even 20 cakes. I didn't try it with salted caramel ice cream as suggested, but I don't think that would make a difference in my enjoyment of the dessert. What I should do is check out the dessert in its native environment at Eleven Madison Park, if it's still on the menu. You know, for research."

Caramel Coulant
Serves 5

For the caramel sauce:
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1/3 cup cream
1 ½ tablespoons butter
¼ cup milk

For the coulant:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
Pinch of fleur de sel
¼ cup plus 1 ½ teaspoons sugar
2/3 cup cake flour.
2 eggs

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Combine the sugar and ¼ cup water in a pot. Do not stir. Cook over medium-high heat to a dark caramel, swirling as it begins to brown to distribute the sugar. Reduce the heat to low and deglaze with the cream, standing back to avoid bubbling caramel. Add the butter and milk. (It will bubble again.) Stir until well incorporated. Let cool. (The sauce can be made ahead and refrigerated.)

2. Spray 5, 4-ounce ramekins with cooking spray; cover the inside of the ramekin with sugar and remove excess. Place on a sheet pan.

3. Make the coulant by warming 1/3 cup caramel sauce in a medium saucepan; then stir in the butter and fleur de sel. Off the heat, stir in the sugar, then flour, then eggs, adding the next just after the prior has been combined. Pour the mixture two-thirds of the way into each ramekin. Bake 8 to 10 minutes, turning the sheet pan halfway through, until the shell is cakelike but the center is flowing. Let cool. When ready to serve, rewarm the cakes in the ramekins for a few minutes. Place a serving plate over the ramekin and flip it to release the coulant. Serve with salted caramel ice cream.

Julia Moskin's Golden Apple Triangles

The first results of my Role Reversal experiment are in! Bonnie Small, of Savoir-Flaire, did us the honors of trying Golden Apple Triangles, published in the New York Times a few years ago, along with an article on quick and easy Thanksgiving desserts.

Bonnie says,

"Golden apple triangles were easy to make and good to eat. How wrong can you go with a list of ingredients that includes puff pastry, apples and sugar? 

As I was getting the bits and pieces together to begin, I admit I was a bit perplexed by the amount of apple to use. The ingredient list indicates “1 cup peeled and grated apple – about 2 apples” but those two calculations didn’t add up. One grated apple is roughly equivalent to one cup, so I stopped there, figuring, in typical schoolyard fashion, that my apple was bigger than their apple.

Freshly grated, one cup of apple would certainly be sufficient to fill 12 turnovers, however the recipe calls for the grated apple to be mixed with the sugar, salt and lemon juice and allowed to macerate for five minutes. The resting time draws out the majority of the juice from the fruit, leaving a large amount of reserved juice and a greatly reduced volume of apple - barely half a cup to be exact. So I just quickly grated the second apple, tossed it in with the rest and moved on.

The filling for these tasty tri-corners diverges from a typical apple turnover in a couple of ways. Firstly (and as noted above), the apples are grated rather than diced or sliced; secondly, instead of pre-cooking the filling ingredients, or quickly tossing the apples and sugar together before scooping them into the dough triangles, the apples are left to extrude their juices pre-assembly.

While the reserved juices are used both as adhesive for the edges of the dough and as finishing glaze, I can’t help feeling that almost a cup of the all important flavor (juice/sugar/lemon) went unused. Not to mention that with all of the liquid removed, one tablespoon of limp apple gratings seemed out of proportion with a 4.5 inch square of puff pastry.

Once assembled, quickly frozen, and finished with cinnamon and turbinado sugar, they baked up beautifully and were eagerly devoured by all.  My husband (not a fan of copious fruit fillings) thought they were just right, but I couldn’t help thinking about the yummy apple flavor still sloshing around in the bowl."

Hmm. I rather like a copious fruit filling. I think I'd probably make smaller pastry squares if I tried these, or I'd double the amount of filling and then have leftover puff pastry with which to make cheese straws or something (Like these Cheese Puff Pastry Strips, which I made long before this blog existed and which were totally delectable, plus easy, though also tragic because I made them for a dinner party, tried them fresh out of the oven, then packaged the rest up to take on the train out to my friend's place - in Forest Hills! Where I live now! Oh, life - and ended up leaving them on the subway platform at 53rd and Lex. Sob.) I would also suggest boiling that remaining apple juice-sugar concoction down into a syrup and drizzling it on oatmeal or stirring it into iced tea. Genius? Terrible?

Oh, and one more thing. There is a serious drawback to this Role Reversal game. I am without my own Golden Apple Triangle. Must have my own Golden Apple Triangle.

Golden Apple Triangles
Makes 12

6 tablespoons granulated sugar
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup peeled and grated tart apple, like Granny Smith (about 2 apples)
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon salt
Flour for rolling out pastry
2 sheets frozen puff pastry, thawed overnight in refrigerator
2 tablespoons coarse sugar like Demerara or turbinado (optional)

1. Heat oven to 375 degrees. In a bowl, combine 2 tablespoons granulated sugar and cinnamon; set aside. In another bowl, mix apples, remaining granulated sugar, lemon juice and salt. Let sit 5 minutes, and drain, reserving juice.

2. On a floured work surface, roll out a sheet of puff pastry to a rectangle roughly 9 by 12 inches. Cut into 6 squares, and place 1 tablespoon apple filling in center of each. Lightly brush edges with reserved apple juice; fold into triangles, and seal edges by crimping with a fork. Repeat with remaining puff pastry and filling. Transfer turnovers to freezer, and freeze until firm, at least 15 minutes. Turnovers can be kept frozen in zipper-lock freezer bags up to 1 month.

3. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper or nonstick pan liners. Brush tops of frozen turnovers with apple juice, sprinkle with cinnamon sugar and arrange on baking sheets. (If reserved apple juice is no longer available, use commercial juice or water.) Sprinkle with coarse sugar. Bake until well browned, 20 to 25 minutes, rotating pans halfway through baking time. Let cool slightly before serving.

The Tasting Room's Cheesecake

I always thought cheesecake was one of those inarguably beloved foods, like expertly prepared French fries or the perfect baguette or the tender oysters of a roast chicken, plucked delicately from the carcass. But in a highly unscientific study I did a few weeks ago, I discovered something quite to the contrary. It turns out that more people dislike cheesecake than like it.

I know, earth-shattering, right?

The complaints all seemed to be the same. Too rich, too heavy, too much. To the people whom I polled, cheesecake was a thing of the past. And once I turned the poll on myself, I realized I wasn't exactly cheesecake's biggest advocate. Give me German Kaesekuchen or Italian torta di ricotta over a slice of cheesecake any day. Airy, refreshingly sour, and - most importantly - not a leaden brick sinking in my stomach, those cakes feature Quark and ricotta, relatively light fresh cheeses when compared to our dependably stodgy cream cheese.

But my compulsive recipe-clipping led me to a cheesecake recipe from all the way back in another lifetime - February 2001 - when Amanda Hesser wrote about a cheesecake from New York City's Tasting Room restaurant. Her description, of a cheesecake akin to a wedge-shaped marshmallow, is what made me stop and think twice. I simply had to try it.

The filling of the cake is quite straightforward: cream cheese and vanilla, folded into a shiny, billowy mass of beaten meringue. You pour this ambrosial, cloudlike mixture into an almond crust and bake it in the oven. There's no water bath, which means that the cheesecake will probably crack. Not at first (ah, hubris), so you'll think you're in the clear, but as it cools, oh man, it can get ugly. Never mind. Just tell yourself it's rustic that way. Oh, and in any case, the recipe has you cover the top of the cheesecake with vanilla-flavored, sugared sour cream for another run in the oven. I assume this is meant to mask some of that crackage, but it can also backfire, leading to a cheesecake that practically looks like a crucifixion in cheese.

(Quite fitting, that, since this was my contribution to our Easter lunch with our friends upstairs.)

But when you cut into it, all thoughts of cracks and ugliness disappear. What you're left with are towering wedges of the lightest, airiest cheesecake you can imagine. At our table, we had two avowed cheesecake foes and they had two pieces each. Two! Each!

Here are my quibbles, though:

For one, the crust was a pain in the neck to eat. It was quite tough and hard - each time I tried to use my fork to pierce it, pieces went skittering across my plate. Next time, I'd make this with a traditional graham-cracker crust.

Second of all, the vanilla flavor can be somewhat overwhelming. Now this may be an issue of personal preference. I happen to like lemon in cheesecakes. I happen to also like the combination of vanilla and lemon. Vanilla all on its own is a little bit...cloying? Next time, I'd add some lemon zest to the filling and perhaps reduce the vanilla by a 1/4 teaspoon.

And last but not least, that damn layer of sour cream. I'd leave it off if I make this again. It was a little goopy and I didn't really understand its point. Mask? Topping? Crack-filler? It did none of these things very well.

Cheesecake
Makes one 9-inch cake

1 1/2 cups ground almonds
3 tablespoons brown sugar
1/3 cup butter, more for pan
1 1/2 pounds cream cheese, softened
4 egg whites
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon plus 1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 pint sour cream

1. Heat oven to 350 degrees. In a small bowl, combine almonds and brown sugar. Melt butter, then stir in. Butter bottom and sides of a 9-inch springform pan, then press nut mixture into bottom but not up sides.

2. In a small pan, warm cream cheese over low heat. When very soft, remove from heat, and set aside. In a large bowl, whisk egg whites and 1 cup sugar until they hold soft peaks. Be patient, this can take quite a while. Fold in cream cheese and 1 tablespoon vanilla. Pour into pan, and bake 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in center comes out only slightly moist; cake should not be brown.

3. Meanwhile, in a small bowl whisk together sour cream, remaining sugar and vanilla. When cake comes out of oven, increase setting to 450 degrees, and carefully spread mixture over cake. Return it to oven for 5 minutes. Do not overcook or it will crack or turn brown. Remove, and let cool in pan. Chill in refrigerator. To serve, run a knife along edge of pan, and remove sides of pan. Cut into wedges and serve.

Geraldine's Date Cake

After sitting glumly on my butcher block for the past three weeks, my dryish Israeli dates - cast aside in favor of their juicy, more voluptuous sisters -  were finally used this weekend and, like an 80's movie wallflower in a pink dress at a long-awaited prom, they bloomed and shone.

You all offered up some great suggestions for my dates, but Heather's comment stood out:

"Luisa - I have an amazing date cake recipe from my Granny that is perfect for dates that are a little mangled or tough. The dates soak in hot coffee or chicory so they kind of fall slightly apart, giving the cake this awesome texture. It's got a little bit of chocolate in it for good measure. Let me know if you want the recipe!"

Key words: mangled, tough, a little bit of chocolate.

Um, yes, please?

Heather's grandmother, Geraldine, sure knows her way around a dried date. Her chocolate-chip dappled cake combines coffee-soaked, pureed dates with an easy cocoa batter to velvety-soft effect. This is the kind of unassuming cake that you make once or twice and then commit to memory, enshrining yourself in family lore as the originator of a truly great snacking cake. You can't really taste the dates and coffee, but there are revelatory grace notes of fruit that give the cake an unexpected complexity. The elusive flavor of coffee deepens the chocolate flavor.

I made this cake for dessert on Saturday night and my friend Pat said, between mouthfuls as he ate, that it was the best cake he'd ever eaten. I know this just happened with the squash pie, but I swear to you that I do not put my friends up to this kind of hyperbole. I swear it! They come up with it all on their own.

I loved the fact that the cake required no fussy frosting or gilding-the-lily icing. Sliced into thick wedges, we topped them with a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream. But you don't even really need to do that. It can be nibbled on at the counter in the kitchen or refrigerated and cut into squares for a plain afternoon office snack. I baked it in a 10-inch pan, but you could do a 9 x 13-inch rectangular pan or even a 9-inch round pan for a thicker cake (just adjust the baking time somewhat). The cake is delicate, yet sturdy and has a crumb so soft and moist that it almost melts in your mouth.

I made this cake to get rid of the dates sitting on my counter making me feel guilty, but we've both fallen so hard for it that I've now been instructed to keep our pantry stocked with dry-ish, sub-par dates. It turns out we need this cake on a regular basis. Sigh. Oh, okay. Twist my arm, why don't you.

Thank you, Heather and Geraldine!

Geraldine's Date Cake
Makes one 10-inch cake

2 cups of pitted dates, halved
1 1/4 cups hot coffee
2/3 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar, lightly packed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large eggs
1 cup unbleached white flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup good-quality chocolate chips

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 10-inch round cake pan, line the bottom with a round of parchment paper and butter the paper as well. Set aside. Loosely fill a 2-cup measure with the pitted, halved dates and cover with the hot coffee. Let sit for 5 minutes while you prepare the other ingredients.

2. Cream together the butter and sugars until fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and the vanilla extract. Sift the flour, cocoa powder, salt, and baking soda into the butter-egg mixture. Mix gently to combine.

3. Pour the dates and coffee into a blender or use an immersion blender to puree the mixture completely. Add the pureed dates to the batter and blend to combine.

4. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and sprinkle the top evenly with the chocolate chips.Bake for 40 to 45 minutes or until the edges begin to pull away from the side of the pan. Cool the pan on a rack until cool enough to handle, then gently turn the cake out onto a cake plate. Serve at room temperature.

Sherry Yard's Fig Bars

I normally am not a fussy-cookie kind of girl. I like them plain and simple, dropped from the edge of a spoon. A bit of vanilla extract here, or a few good chunks of chocolate there, a sparkle from buckwheat flour or a nubby bit of ginger, and that's all. The crunchier the better, since those kinds are best dipped in tea, but I'm democratic: I'll eat them even if they're soft and chewy. I guess the only requirement I have is that they be easy to make. I spent one evening before Christmas years ago awake all night dealing with the nightmare that is the production of Zimtsterne and while I love those little things with a hot, burning passion, I will never make them again. Uh-uh, life's too short.

So while the idea of homemade fig newtons always appealed to me, the reality of all that cooking and processing and rolling and filling seemed like far too much work for such a layabout like me.

And then. (There's always that, isn't there?)

I had express instructions to myself to do nothing - but nothing - this past weekend. To stay home, keeping the kitchen warm, detaching from every single possible thing outside the confines of the four walls of my apartment. But you know, five hours of cooking meat sauce only takes you so far. Plus, I happened to have all the requirements for a homemade fig newton in the house already, meaning I wouldn't have to leave the house for a single thing. (I told you I was lazy.) And then I considered the fact that, since I refuse to eat commercial fig newtons anymore, I haven't had one since my freshman year in college. Which is far, far too long to have gone without a fig bar, wouldn't you say?

I'd even argue that the fig-filled cookie is one of America's greatest contributions to the cookie lexicon. (Or perhaps the derivative hermit.) Along with the graham cracker and the chocolate chip cookie, of course. Am I leaving something out?

Anyway, all of this to say that, yes, fig bars are more work than a simple drop cookie. But they are also worth that work if you have an afternoon to spare, one in which the skies darken prematurely - requiring cuddles and cookies to keep you warm. (I happen to think fig bars are paired best with a glass of cold, cold milk. Biscotti can have their hot tea. Newtons need their milk.) Plus, while they are more work, they are not necessarily harder work, which can be an important differentiation.

The vanilla-speckled dough (so, so pretty) is flecked with little shreds of orange peel and the luscious fig filling (of which, luckily, there is too much, so you can eat it for breakfast on toast or stirred into yogurt all week long) is crunchy and aromatic and just exactly what you'd imagine a homemade fig newton to be filled with.

If it at all possible, and I know that it might not be, try to resist eating all the newtons at once. Because kept overnight, they sort of transmogrify into an even better version of themselves - the cookie softens somewhat, the filling squidges just so. The different parts of their anatomy all sort of coalesce perfectly in the night, leaving you with the best newton you ever ate - yielding, fragrant, simple, delicious.

You might find yourself converted then, as fussy-cookie-loving a girl as they come.

Fig Bars
Makes 40 (1-inch) cookies

This recipe makes more fig purée than is needed for the cookies; the extra can be spread on toast and will keep for 1 week refrigerated.

1 cup (12 ounces) finely chopped dried Black Mission figs, packed
1 cup apple juice
3/4 cup sugar, divided
1/8 plus  1/2  teaspoon grated orange zest, divided
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1 large egg white
Seeds scraped from 1/2 vanilla bean
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups flour

1. In a medium saucepan, combine the chopped figs, 1 1/2 cups of water, apple juice and one-fourth cup of sugar and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and cook at a bare simmer for 1 hour, until the figs are so soft that they're spreadable. Transfer to a food processor fitted with the steel blade, add one-eighth teaspoon orange zest and process until smooth. Remove and allow to cool to room temperature.

2. While the figs are cooking, cream together the butter, remaining one-half cup sugar and one-half teaspoon orange zest in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or in a large bowl with a hand mixer) for 2 to 3 minutes on medium speed. Scrape down the bowl and paddle or beaters. Add the egg white, vanilla bean seeds and vanilla extract and beat in. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and the paddle. Add the flour and beat on low speed until the dough comes together. Shape the dough into a flat rectangle, wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours.

3. Place racks in the middle and lower third of the oven and heat the oven to 350. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.

4. Unwrap the dough and center it on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper measuring 12 inches by 16 inches. Lightly flour the surface of the dough and place a large piece of plastic wrap over the dough to prevent it from sticking while it is rolled out. Roll out the dough to the dimensions of the parchment; it will be less than one-eighth-inch thick.

5. Cut the dough lengthwise into four (12-by-4-inch) strips. Spoon a line of filling down the center of each strip, leaving one-half-inch of room on either side. To roll the dough over the filling: Gently lift the long edge of the parchment under the first strip and roll it, along with the dough, over the filling, carefully peeling the parchment away as you go. You should have a sort of log-shaped roll. Because the dough is thin, it may crack; if this happens, allow the dough to sit so it warms a little, then try again, being gentle and using the parchment under the dough to force it to fold over. When the roll is complete, gently slide a flat cookie sheet under the log and transfer it to the parchment-lined cookie sheet. Pinch the ends of the log closed. Repeat with the three remaining strips, placing 2 logs lengthwise per cookie sheet.

6. Using a serrated knife, slice each log on the diagonal into 10 cookies. Bake, rotating the baking sheets from top to bottom and from front to back halfway through, for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden. Remove from the oven and allow to cool on a rack. The bars will keep, stored airtight, for 2 days.

Pichet Ong's Squash Pie

I'll just start this post by saying that, after taking a few bites of this squash pie last night, my friend Andy put down his fork and said, "This is the best dessert I ever ate." He then picked up his fork again, and through bites said I could quote him, in fact that I must. So there you have it, readers. This pie blew Andy's mind.

It's pretty darn good, I'll say. I was going to make it for Thanksgiving, but my father took one look at the cream cheese in the ingredient list and put the kibosh on it right quick. (Who knows - he's a bit of a mystery.) So instead I saved it for the dinner party we had last night and it was a resounding - nay, stunning - success.

The recipe comes from the now-defunct The Chef column that used to run in the The New York Times. I miss that column. You too? I got so many good recipes from it, like a chicken liver sauce from Judy Rodgers and a Breton butter cake from Gabrielle Hamilton. (I'm still waiting for Gabrielle's memoir with recipes to be published, by the way. This year, I think!)

Pichet Ong, he of P*ONG and The Sweet Spot, delivered the recipe for the squash pie. It's thick with cream cheese, flavored strongly with cinnamon and nutmeg, and nestled in a completely addictive crust that you should commit to memory for any number of other things, like cheesecake or banana cream pie or key lime pie (though I still think this Grape-Nuts crust version via Gemma takes the cake (groan) for that).

The pie is silky and creamy and really, really easy to make. A crumb crust is a joy to make, an uncomplicated antidote to all those hand-rolled pie crusts of the holiday season. Plus, it means you'll end up with a few extra graham crackers knocking around in your cupboards, which is a very good thing indeed.

Also, though the recipe calls for a Kabocha squash to be steamed and peeled and pureed, canned pumpkin works beautifully here. Yes, Kabocha would have been lovely, all sweet and dry and tasty, but Pichet himself says that butternut squash and cheese or sugar pumpkins (which is what are usually found in those cans - remember to only buy the "pure pumpkin" ones, not the cans that are labeled "filling"!) are a good substitute, so cut those corners, come on.

Lastly, with no brandy in the house (I know! A crying shame. But you might not have any either, so let's be brandy-less together.), I substituted a splash of pure vanilla extract. It perfumed the pie ever so subtly.

Whatever you do! Make sure you serve this with creme fraiche. (You like how I did that, told you how to make your own, and then told you how to use it all up? You're welcome! A pleasure, really.) The cold, slightly sour cream cuts the sweet richness of the squash pie just perfectly and rounds out the flavors a bit. I'd say, honestly, that the pie just isn't right without it.

So serve up the pie, let your guests do the dolloping, then sit back, put your feet up, and let the compliments just wash over you. After all, wouldn't you, too, like to be responsible for the best dessert someone ever ate?

Squash Pie
Serves 8

For the filling:
1 medium kabocha squash, about 3 pounds, or 2 1/2 cups of canned pumpkin (skipping the steps below for roasting and pureeing the squash)
10 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
3/8 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg (about 1/4 of a nutmeg)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons brandy or 2 teaspoons of pure vanilla extract
2 eggs at room temperature

For the crust:
3/8 cup (2 ounces) walnuts
1/2 cup packed, light brown sugar
3/8 cup graham cracker crumbs (about 7 crackers)
Grated zest of 1 lime
3/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
3/8 teaspoon salt (I'd use less salt next time, just 1/8 of a teaspoon)
1/4 cup (2 ounces) unsalted butter, melted
Crème fraîche, for serving (optional)

1. For pie filling, bring an inch of water to a boil in a large covered pot fitted with a steamer basket or rack. Put in squash, cover and steam, replenishing water as needed, until fork tender, about 1 hour. Turn squash over halfway through steaming. Set squash aside until cool enough to handle.

2. Heat oven to 325 degrees. For crust, place walnuts on a baking tray, and toast in oven, stirring once or twice, until fragrant, about 15 minutes. Let cool. Reduce oven temperature to 300 degrees.

3. In a food processor, combine walnuts with a few tablespoons brown sugar and pulse a few times, until nuts are coarsely ground. In a large bowl, whisk nuts with graham cracker crumbs, remaining brown sugar, lime zest, spices and salt. Pour melted butter over this mixture, and mix with your fingers until butter is distributed. Press evenly into a 10-inch glass pie plate. Bake crust until lightly browned, about 12 minutes, then set aside. Keep oven at 300 degrees.

4. When squash is cool, cut it in half and scoop out seeds and pulp. Scoop squash flesh into a measuring cup until you have 2 1/2 cups.

5. In a food processor, process cream cheese with sugar, spices and salt until light and smooth. Scrape down bowl, add squash and process until smooth. Mix in brandy and then eggs, one at a time. Finish mixing with a rubber spatula.

6. Place pie plate on a baking sheet and scrape filling into crust. Bake until just set in center, about 1 hour. Let cool, then serve topped with crème fraîche.

Karen DeMasco's Cashew Brittle

It's been five days since I turned 30. It'll be four days until I leave for Brussels. Seven to Christmas, nine to when I get to Berlin, thirteen until 2008, and sixteen until I'm all the way back here again, sitting at my desk, waiting for Ben to come home. I've got a lot of numbers on my mind these days.

The end of December: it's artificial, in a way, but it really does feel like the end of something. You start, inevitably, looking back over the year, over everything that happened or didn't happen to you. But you've also got a fair dose of excitement in you for what lies ahead. Yeah, sure, when January 3rd rolls around and you've worked off your hangover and you're back in your daily routine and the sky feels somewhat oppressively gray, you might think January is just as stinky as any year, but right now you're still thinking that January is 2008! And 2008 is something new! A clean slate! A fresh start! And that's pretty nifty.

I didn't even realize how big 2007 was for me until the past few days. I got a new job, a challenging, interesting, fulfilling job; I moved in with Ben, discovering that one can indeed grow more love in one's heart for a person at the same time as wanting to throw that person's every last pair of sneakers left haphazardly around the house entirely out the window; I left Manhattan - my sacred space - for Queens, realizing only that I should have done the move sooner; and I turned 30, with no gray hairs and plenty of laughs in sight.

So I didn't make apple butter or chutney or homemade Christmas cookies as I swore up and down (again) that I would. That's okay. I'm totally fine with it. Part of me thinks it's because I'm 30 now and I am actively learning to Just Let Some Things Go, but the other part of me knows that's total bollocks. The real reason why it's okay? Is because I made cashew brittle instead.

Brittle is the world's easiest gift. It requires one trip to the store (for cashews and corn syrup, since I assume you've got the rest - sugar, baking soda, kosher salt, and unsalted butter- lying around), about half an hour of your time, perhaps some pretty bags for packaging, and That. Is. It. Cool, no? Very cool. Especially when you drop little bags of it, tagged nicely, off for people who think candy-making is very complicated and difficult indeed, and who, in addition, think brittle is the best thing to nibble on in the whole wide world. (They would be right, you know - about the second part, I mean.)

The recipe comes from pastry goddess, Karen Demasco of Craft and Craftbar fame (remember that chocolate cupcake I told you about ages and ages ago?) and seems absolutely foolproof. You need to be careful around boiling sugar, yes, but a calm head, oven mitts, and long-handled spoons will help. You don't need a candy thermometer and though she calls for cooking spray, I just buttered parchment paper to line the baking sheets and it was perfect.

The one thing I found tricky was calibrating the flame under the pot. Too low and you'll evaporate too much moisture off while waiting for the boiling sugar to caramelize. Too high and the molten sugar will boil over, leaving you with a disaster to clean up. But don't let this discourage you - I just want to give you a heads up that you'll want the flame at about medium high and if you feel like it's taking the sugar too long to get golden-brown (Karen says it should take around 10 minutes), then turn up the heat, keeping a careful eye on the bubbling mass and its proximity to the edge of the pot. Yes? Yes!

The brittle is delectable - buttery and crispy-crunchy and sweet-salty all at once. The cashews are rich and yielding - far better than peanuts in this incarnation - and the shiny brittle snaps pleasingly. Try to stretch the brittle with the forks (as directed below) as much as you can, because that results in a thin, refined brittle that fairly shatters under your teeth. Thick is fine, too - I doubt you'd kick chunky brittle this good out of your bed - but I find it somewhat less alluring. To each his own, I think. Or hers.

Best of all, you'll feel all the satisfaction of making your own edible presents and yet none of the stress that usually comes accompanies it. Which feels like a gift in and of itself. Wouldn't you agree?

Cashew Brittle
Makes 3.5 pounds

4 cups sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
2/3 cup light corn syrup
1 1/4 cups water
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons kosher salt
1 1/2 pounds salted, roasted cashews

1. Line two baking sheets with lightly buttered parchment paper or lightly coat the sheets with cooking spray. Do not use wax paper or plastic wrap.

2. Combine sugar, butter, corn syrup, and water in a large saucepan and stir together. Cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally, until the caramel turns a medium-golden color, about 10 minutes. Remove from the heat. Carefully whisk in the baking soda and then the salt. The mixture will rise and bubble. Using a wooden or metal spoon, stir in the nuts, then immediately pour the brittle onto the prepared cookie sheets, using the back of the spoon to spread the brittle out. Allow the brittle to cool for a few minutes, then, using the sides of two forks, pull and stretch the edges of the brittle to create a thinner candy, about 3/8-inch thick.

3. Once brittle is completely cool, break it into bite-sized pieces using the back of a knife or your hands. The brittle can be stored at room temperature, in an airtight container, for up to two weeks.

Amy Scattergood's Bruleed Pumpkin Pie

Oooh, the frustration! It burns, it burns. Man! Here I was, absolutely inundated with beets, I mean, beets coming out of my ears, beets in the crisper, beets on the stove, beets in a Tupperware hidden in the office fridge, beets, beets, beets. My CSA had a glut of beets, you see. They actually called it the Year of the Beet. And so we ate a lot of beets. For most of September and October, we ate beets every time we had dinner at home. In November, I staged a little protest. I let those funky, rooty things hang out in the fridge for a while - our farmer told us the beets would store just fine in the crisper drawer and so I took her at her word. Bah. Tonight, I come home, armed with a new recipe for beets that was sure not only to taste delicious, but also be interesting enough to tell you all about (none of that toasted walnut/feta-or-is-it-blue-cheese/mint/been-there-done-that stuff), and furthermore, finally rid me of the last pound or two of beets ghosting about my fridge - and what happens? The beets went soft. Soft and wrinkly and totally grody-to-the-max, as my seven-year-old self would have told you. I stood in front of the fridge, stamped my foot, and threw the beets in the trash. So long, beets. 2007 is coming to a close anyway. May 2008 be the Year of the Something Else Entirely, please.

So, anyway, while I try to figure what else I can have for dinner tonight, I'll tell you about the pie I made for Thanksgiving. Yeah, yeah, I know - snooze. Who cares about Thanksgiving when there's Christmas to look forward to? (No roast goose for me this year as we're celebrating in Brussels - with oysters!) Well, some people, like the person I happen to share an apartment with, think that it's an abomination and a personal affront that pumpkin pie is associated with only one holiday a year. And you know, I actually tend to agree. Okay, so eating pumpkin pie would probably be strange in late June, when all you should be doing is eating soft, swollen, juicy fruit out of hand - but I don't really see why the third Thursday in November is the only Thursday in the year that really gets to own pumpkin pie.

And if you're making this pumpkin pie, the one that Amy Scattergood contributed to the LA Times's absolutely gorgeous Thanksgiving spread this year (color-coded - totally genius!), then I think you'll agree it could stand to be eaten on quite a few more Thursdays per year. And Fridays. And Saturdays, too.

First of all, the crust? A marvel. Amy credits it to Deborah Madison and I have to say it's absolutely wonderful. Faintly lemony and speckled with nutmeg, it's flaky as all get-out and a delight to eat. Look, look at the flake!

Or how about from this side, isn't it pretty? So pretty. (Yes, those are little stars. My stepmother owns a set of cunning little star cutters and so I went into full Martha mode on Thanksgiving, stamping out these tiny shapes, fixing them carefully to the edge of the crust, brushing them with egg wash, and feeling inordinately pleased with myself when they came out looking just as pretty as could be.)

(Flaky!)

Then the filling. First of all, you know that anything with Armagnac in it will turn out deliciously, don't you? You should. So that's a relief. Then, you can totally make this with canned pumpkin because that's, more relief, what the recipe calls for. (Though you should know, too, that it works out very well with freshly roasted and pureed pumpkin as well - which is what we, because we are apparently total over-achievers, did on Thanksgiving. Like there wasn't already enough stuff to do.) Thirdly, it has cardamom in it! Any pie (or bread or cookie or pudding, let's be frank) that has cardamom in it is destined to be a hit; it's simply written in the stars.

The only small (ish) problem is that you kind of have to plan ahead, like, make the pie the day before you're going to eat it, because it has to chill sufficiently before you can sprinkle sugar on top and brule it into glamly burnished perfection. We may roast our own squash for pie, but we do not plan ahead - at least not when we are at my father's house. But that's okay (yes! this pie rules), because if you are like us and can't make that happen, just add the final 1/4 cup of sugar, meant for the bruleed crust, to the filling and no one will ever know the difference. Your pie will be balanced and flavorful and delicious, with that softly yielding inside and that delicately crisp outside.

Oh, and one more thing: Do yourselves a favor when you make this, and be sure to have seconds. Because otherwise the pie will be gone in one fell swoop around the dinner table and there will be nothing - no cold slice in the morning for breakfast, or the next evening as a soothing dessert - left. But of course, that ends up making the very point I started with, that this pie shouldn't just be for that one night a year. So, buy two cans and plan ahead. Who cares that Thanksgiving's over? What are you doing this Thursday night?

Bruleed Pumpkin Pie
Serves 8

Pie crust
2 1/„4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
3/4 cup (1 1/„2 sticks) plus 2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter
1/2 teaspoon vinegar
1 egg, separated
Scant 1/„2 cup ice water

1. Place the flour, salt, nutmeg and lemon zest in a food processor and pulse to combine. Cut the butter into 1-inch cubes and add the cubes to the flour, pulsing 4 to 6 times to break up the butter.

2. Combine the vinegar and egg yolk in a measuring cup and add enough ice water to bring the volume up to one-half cup. Add the liquid in a steady stream to the food processor, while pulsing, until the flour looks crumbly and damp, 25 to 30 pulses. The crumbs should adhere when you gather them together with your fingers.

3. Turn the dough out and divide into two equal pieces. Wrap each in plastic wrap and press into a disk; refrigerate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

4. Roll out one piece into a 12-inch circle, one-eighth-inch thick. Trim the edges flush with the rim of a 9-inch pie pan, place the dough circle into the pan and gently press the bottom and sides to fit. Roll out the other piece to a one-eighth-inch thickness and cut leaf shapes out of it. The leaves can be cut using a leaf-shaped cutter, or by hand using a stencil (ours was 1 inch by 3 inches) and paring knife. Using the back of a dinner knife, press a pattern into each leaf: Press one crease down the center, and 5 or so on each side of the crease. Mix a little water into the reserved egg white and, using a pastry brush, brush a little of the mixture around the edge of the pie crust. Press the leaves around the edge of the crust, overlapping them slightly and using the wash to adhere them, then brush the assembled crust with the wash. Freeze the pie crust for at least several hours and up to overnight.

Pumpkin pie filling and assembly
1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup milk
3 eggs
1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons Armagnac
1/3 cup light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon white pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/4 cup superfine sugar for bruleeing

1. Heat the oven to 450 degrees. In a mixing bowl, whisk together the pumpkin puree, cream, milk, eggs, egg yolk, Armagnac, light brown sugar, white pepper, cloves, cinnamon, allspice and cardamom until blended. Pour the mixture into the frozen pie shell and bake for 15 minutes, turning once for even browning. After 15 minutes, reduce heat to 350 degrees and continue to bake 25 to 30 minutes more, rotating again. Remove and let cool until room temperature. Chill overnight.

2. Just before serving, carefully fold strips of aluminum foil over the leaf-covered edges of the pie, being sure not to cover the custard. Scatter the superfine sugar evenly over the top of the pie and brulee under a hot broiler until the sugar caramelizes. (Or use a brulee torch if you have one.) Serve immediately.

Alice Medrich's Whole-Wheat Sables

I made a bunch of cookies on Saturday afternoon, when it was cold outside and my oven and I were indulging in a little love affair. They were delicious, the cookies, all sandy and and buttery and wholesome and it was so calming, the process, making the simple dough and chilling it in a long, thin rope.

The small discs of dough turned golden brown in the heat of the oven, a frilly edge forming around the base of the cookies that crumbled deliciously under my fingers as I lifted the cookies off the sheet to cool. We ate them, dunked in tea, as we sat on the couch and at the desk in the waning daylight. Billie Holiday was on the radio and all I could think about was that the sound of her voice, on these cold, autumn days, just sounds so exactly right. You can't really listen to Billie in the summer, not with the same melancholy longing that you get when it's slowly growing dark outside and Manhattan glows coolly, gently on the horizon.

You might think that adding whole wheat flour to a regular little butter cookie might toughen it a bit, or make it too grainy, but I promise that it doesn't. In fact, you barely notice that these cookies are different - they're as delicious as their classic cousins. I chopped up a handful of lackluster dried dates to add to the dough, but I wouldn't do that again (they get too hard and chewy, lodging unpleasantly in your teeth) - do as Alice Medrich says and add cocoa nibs or toasted hazelnuts, chopped, of course. In fact, I imagine you could even add a little shower of chopped bittersweet chocolate and produce an elegant, Gallic version of the chocolate chip cookie.

With Thanksgiving around the corner, one could mistakenly think that cookies aren't exactly what the doctor ordered, but I've got to pipe up here and nudge you, delicately, because it's often exactly these kind of days that require a simple cookie and a hot cup of tea to bolster you. You could be stuck in traffic or stranded at an airport on the way to where you'll be celebrating: a couple of these cookies might make you feel a little less helpless. If you're hosting the feast this year, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by the kitchen prep that awaits you, a sable or two could make you stand up straight again, suddenly sure of your menu. And if you're just making a side dish or two and bringing them to a potluck, well, then you've already got the oven going - is it really that much more work to pop a few of these in the oven? Go on, go ahead. You'll be happy you did.

Whole-Wheat Sables
Makes 3 1/2 dozen cookies

1 cup (4.5 ounces) flour
Scant 1 cup (4 ounces) whole wheat flour
1/2 pound (2 sticks) butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 cup cacao nibs or chopped toasted hazelnuts

1. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour and whole wheat flour and set aside.

2. In another medium bowl, using the back of a large spoon or with an electric mixer, beat the butter with the sugar, salt and vanilla until smooth and creamy but not fluffy, about 1 minute. Add the cacao nibs and mix to incorporate. Add the flour and mix just until incorporated. Scrape the dough into a mass and, if necessary, knead with your hands a bit, just until smooth.

3. Form the dough into a 12-by-2-inch log. Wrap the log tightly in plastic wrap; refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight.

4. Position the oven racks in the upper and lower third of the oven and heat the oven to 350 degrees. Line baking sheets with parchment paper.

5. Using a sharp knife, cut the cold dough log into one-fourth-inch slices. Place the cookies at least 1 1/2 inches apart on the baking sheets. Bake until the cookies are light golden brown at the edges, 12 to 16 minutes, rotating the baking sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through baking. Allow the cookies to rest on the sheets about 1 minute to firm up, then transfer them to a rack using a metal spatula. Let them cool completely. Store the cookies in an airtight container.

Claudia Fleming's Maple Baked Apples

In the blink of an eye, my melancholy about the end of summer evaporated - poof! - like the puff of steam rising off a cup of coffee in the cold. I think it might have something to do with our Sunday - the day that started out with cozy, chocolate-studded rolls on the couch, the lazy morning that was too cold for my flimsy summer nightgown and called for my beloved 12-year old high school sweatshirt to be donned (much to Ben's chagrin, I'm sure).

In the crisp afternoon air (is there anything better than a September afternoon in New York City? Anything better at all, seriously? I don't know how there can be), we hopped on our bicycles for our first (we've been unpacking for a looong time, I suppose) real exploration of our neighborhood. Down one street, then another, past the archetypal Forest Hills high school, over a flimsy overpass, down a set of crumbling stairs, we emerged triumphant near Meadow Lake - a pretty little body of water situated conveniently between two highways (aaaah, New York, so pretty, so peaceful - does there need to be a highway everywhere? Apparently, yes.).

From there, where we saw a little turtle sunning himself insouciantly on a water pipe and wild geese getting their webbed feet wet, we cycled over to Flushing Meadows Corona Park where we saw cricket matches and soccer games, heard the crowd roaring for the Mets at Shea, and felt our bicycle tires whooshing through the very first little yellowed leaves, fallen and crisping along the walkways. Back home, we kept our balcony door closed, and cooked up our gateway meal into the colder season - the perennially delicious lemon chicken. And all the while I was thinking, practically humming: fall is here and it is glorious.

I am fickle, aren't I?

The next few months stretch ahead deliciously - with tickets to The New Yorker Festival (finally, after years of spending that week at a convention center in western Germany), a blustery weekend for walking on the beach, reveling in the cloudless blue skies on near-constant repeat, and apple-picking galore. The apples now are so good - hard and crisp, snowy-white, glossy-skinned. I know I was just mourning the passing of those mounds of warm summer tomatoes, but if I can have a counter top filled with new apples, bursting with juice and crunch, I can be happy indeed.

The truth is that these first apples of fall are best eaten raw, really, polished to a high sheen on the lapel of your jacket (ooh, jackets, appealing again after so long) and munched on an outdoor walk, or quartered and coupled with a piece of cheese, beads of apple juice pooling at the bottom of the plate. But if you've got your mother, say, coming to town and need to serve a wholesome dessert after dinner that can be eaten with a spoon (is there anything more soothing after a transatlantic flight or at the close of the kind of day that makes your hair stand on end?), you'd be well-served to bake a few of your apples in an inch of fragrant apple cider, stuffed with a chunky mixture of dried fruits and nuts.

Basted with the cider and a spoonful or two of syrup, the apples soften and swell, turning cloud-like in the heat. Firm apples are the ones to choose, but even those might not be immune to an explosion here or there, snow-white flesh spilling out of its red-jacket casing like a Victorian bosom. You could pour a thin line of heavy cream around the apples, creating a caramel-cream sauce, but that almost goes too far - we ate these warm and plain and found them divine.

Oh, fall. 

Maple Baked Apples
Serves 6

1/3  cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
3 tablespoons roughly chopped dried cherries
3 tablespoons chopped dried figs
2 tablespoons roughly chopped toasted sliced almonds
2 tablespoons roughly chopped toasted pecans
6 large firm baking apples, cored but not peeled
3 tablespoons butter, cut into 6 pieces
1/2  cup apple cider
2 tablespoons maple syrup

1. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. In a small bowl, mix together the brown sugar, cherries, figs, almonds and pecans.

2. Place the apples in a baking pan or casserole dish and stuff their cavities with the fruit and nut mixture. Place a piece of butter on top of the stuffing.

3. Pour the apple cider and maple syrup into the bottom of the baking pan and bake the apples, basting every 5 to 7 minutes, until they are tender, 25 to 35 minutes.

4. When the apples are tender, transfer them to a serving platter and cover with foil to keep them warm. Strain the pan juices into a small saucepan and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer the mixture until it becomes syrupy and reduces to a sauce, about 5 to 10 minutes. Spoon over the apples and serve immediately.