Day 1 of Pie Week: Pumpkin Custard in Lemon-Ginger Pâte Sucrée

The only thing I want to do anymore is poetry and pie. 

Is that bad? 

My mother rarely baked pies, so I don’t have any crust secrets to summon from our DNA. But a few years ago, when I found myself beset by anxiety, baking pies proved as good as atavan. I’m still not very good at crusts, but it doesn't matter. When baking pies, a floury calm seems to settle over the kitchen that tames my jumpy monkey-mind, and makes me feel like I’m in exactly the right place. Plus, when you bake pies, the whole building smells great and everyone loves you – even when the crust isn’t perfect.

Thanksgiving's just a week away, the start of the holiday craziness. It’s the ideal time for a nice anxiolytic dose of pie-making, don't you think? So I had this idea – what if I made a pie a day for a week? I promise to try to make them interesting. By the end of the week, I’ll have some mad pie skills to share with anyone as obsessive as I am about pies. And the kitchen will smell great, and everyone will love me:)

See you in ten pounds!

Day 1: Pumpkin custard in lemon-ginger pâte sucrée

Filling adapted from Cook's Illustrated (1993), crust riffed on Warm and Toste

I’ve been thinking about a way to make pumpkin pie less like the dense and churlish boy next door, and more like a dashing, mustachioed uncle from Paris. The makeover started with the crust, which should snappy and gingerish, but not gingersnappy. A bright and elegant lemon and ginger cookie. I settled on a pâte sucrée – the kind of short crust you get with a fruit tart – but flavored with pumpkin-complementary lemon zest, grated ginger, and a hint of cardamom. And the filling – custardy and just a little sweeter than the average pumpkin pie so you wouldn’t need whipped cream. I hunted through a bunch of crust recipes for the flavor I was tasting in my mind, and couldn’t find one, so I winged it (gulp). But I did find a really fine recipe for the filling in Cook’s Illustrated, which I adapted. I think Uncle Maurice would like it beaucoup. (Leo did.)

Pâte sucrée

2 1/2 cups flour

8 oz (16 Tbs) cold butter, cubed

1 Tbs shortening - I used 3/4 Tbs coconut oil

1/3 cup sugar

zest from 2 lemons

1" fresh ginger, grated

1/2 teaspoon cardamom

1/4 cup heavy cream

Pumpkin filling

1 15-oz can pumpkin puree (or roast and strain your own, about 2 cups)

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

2 teaspoons ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg (or grated fresh)

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon salt

2/3 cup heavy cream

2/3 cup milk

4 eggs

Crust: I make mine in a Cuisinart fitted with a steel blade, which changed everything. But if you are an advanced pie crust maker, feel free to use a dough cutter or forks or your fingers.

Some pointers: get everything as cold as you can. When it's hot in the kitchen, put all the ingredients in the freezer for a few minutes before mixing. Some people put their food processor bowl in there too.

Combine first seven ingredients -- all but the cream -- in the bowl of the food processor. Process until it looks like a course meal. Add cream and pulse until the dough pulls together, but don't overmix. It may be crumbly but will stick together when you squeeze it. With the heel of one hand, quickly press the pastry by two-spoonful bits on the board away from you, smearing it out about 6 inches. This is called fraisage. Using a scraper or spatula, gather the dough and knead it quickly to form a smooth ball. Separate in half and flatten each into a disk. Sprinkle with flour and wrap in plastic. Put one in the freezer for use in up to 6 months. The one you're baking, either put in the freezer for at least an hour, or in the fridge for two - or overnight.

Generously sprinkle flour on your work surface. Remove the one disk and sprinkle with flour lightly. If the dough it's hard, beat it with a rolling pin a few times (be sure to put on your apron and mad face when you do this.) It should give a little when you press it. If it cracks when you try to roll it, let it sit a bit longer, but not more than 5 minutes. Roll out a few times in one direction, turn the dough 90 degrees, then roll it again a few times, continuing like this until it's about 9" in diameter. If it gets sticky, toss a little flour under it. Flip it over and roll it out in all directions -- no turning -- until it's about 1/8" thick and 14 inches in diameter.

Fold the dough loosely into quarters and put it in a 9" glass pie plate. Fold the excess dough up to the top and press your fingers to flute it.

Refrigerate for 20 minutes. Then prick the entire pie with a fork every 1/2 inch or so, including the corners. Cover with aluminum foil and press to follow the concave shape. Prick the aluminum foil bottom about 10 times. Chill for another 30 minutes.

Pop the oven open and put the rack on the bottom most slot. Heat to 400*. Start  your filling when you put the pie in to bake. Bake 15 minutes and press down on the foil to flatten air bubbles. Take the foil off and bake 10 minutes longer until the crust just starts to turn color.

Filling: The key, according to Cook's, is to add the filling to the crust when both are hot: this will make the custard firm up faster, and prevent it from soaking into the crust. Genius! 

Cook the pumpkin mixture, stirring until shiny and thick.

Process the pumpkin, brown sugar, spices, and salt for one minute. Transfer to a large, heavy-bottomed pot and heat medium-high to a sputtering simmer, stirring constantly until shiny and thick. Mine looked like a slightly thinner-than-usual frosting. This should take about 5 minutes. 

As soon as the pie crust comes out of the oven, whisk in the milk and cream and bring to a very low simmer. In the food processor add eggs and process about 5 seconds until mixed. With the motor running, slowly and carefully add half the hot pumpkin filling through the tube. Stop the machine and add the rest, then process 30 seconds.

Pour the custard right away into the hot pie shell and pop into the oven. After 5 minutes, you can ladle in any excess -- the custard will have settled a bit. Bake until the filling is puffed, lightly cracked around the edges, and the center wiggles when gently shaken. This should take about 25 minutes. Remove to a wire rack, where it can cool for an hour or more.

Days of Awe and Roasted Pepper Salad

You know someone like this, right? Someone who belongs
to the "mighty dead," as Keats called them.
Don't you wish that person were here now
so you could touch their feet and whisper, "You are my god"?
From "Get Up, Please" by David Kirby

With the end of the Jewish holidays and the beginning of a new year, I'm thinking ever more about my parents -- and my mother who inspired this blog. The holiday kitchen was our nexus, the place where we came together, the stage for our family joys and psychodramas. That word may be too serious for the mostly warm, fun, creative feelings I associate the preparation of holiday meals - at the center was always her Moroccan Sephardic holiday side dish, "Salade de Piments," a version of matbucha. 

For my mother the holidays were all about the food - the palpable and delicious expression of love, which for some reason, had to be prepared as quickly as possible. She put the rush in Rosh Hashanah. In keeping with the holiday, we had to suffer a little for our rewards (the yum in Yom Kippur?), starting with a frantic shopping trip to the grocery store.

It was frosty in those wide aisles, but in the days before the Jewish new year, my mother, sister and I were in a sweat as we elbowed past troops of ladies competing for the best cuts of brisket -- straight to the vegetable aisle. The peppers at the Publix were the size of an infant’s head and covered in a fine white powder. We'd pick out 4-5 pounds of the biggest and smoothest peppers, trapping their sunny, musky scent in a plastic bag until we got home. The produce was for the her star holiday condiment of garlicky, semi-carmelized roasted peppers and tomatoes that was traditional in my mom’s family. 

Before we could unpack the brown bags of groceries, Mom snapped the broiler on high. Broiling brings out the devil in sweet peppers. Their skin starts to bubble, blister and melt like zombie faces. They hiss and spit out searing fluids. Open the oven and you’re hit with an inferno of dry peppery air. Once a pepper exploded in the oven and cracked the glass window. 

Separated at birth?

http://veganyumyum.com/2007/03/how-to-roast-a-pepper/

http://assets.gearlive.com/comics/blogimages/ZombieGirl.jpg

It was our filial duty to join Mom in her frenzy. But it was hard to keep up, handling blazing-hot vegetables at the speed of light, fencing her blade-sharp corrections. “Look, you left a whole clump of pepper seeds,” she’d scold in her French accent. “Why do you always insist on using that tiny knife - s'mata!” (S'mata was a Ladino expression that meant, literally, "one could kill," but was used as an almost affectionate admonishment for obnoxious behavior.) Only after years did we learn a trick: put the hot wrinkled peppers in a bag, where they magically start peeling themselves like shy aging strippers.

Only after the ingredients made it into the pan – a slow-simmering elixir of olive oil, garlic, peppers and tomatoes – did we feel free to relax. We settled around the table, taking in the Florida north-facing light and sounds of my son and nieces playing in the pool outside her sliding doors. The pinched bleachy smell of chlorine, the musky scent of peppers. My harried Mom would exhale and glow with the satisfaction of being in the place she loved best - in her kitchen, with her family, waiting for food to finish cooking.

We talked about everything – politics of the day, the progress of our various family members. Distant relatives were called to send holiday good wishes. We drank a little tisane. As the Salade de Piments gave off its aromas, we danced our way across the kitchen. Karren was d-jay with a playlist of songs from Mom’s youth and our family’s golden years, the 60s and 70s. Mom taught us to cha-cha, salsa, swing dance and rumba. We sang, usually out of tune, but for that moment, we were in complete harmony with our mother, so vivid, loving, and full of life.

After Mom passed away, I took up the gauntlet for the High Holy Days – a cheerful pink oven mitt that does little to protect me from the loneliness I feel as I go through the Salade de Piments ritual without her. Instead of wheeling a double-wide cart through Publix, I squeeze through the produce aisle of the Park Slope Food Coop, still stunned by the bounty – heaps of red, orange, yellow, green peppers bursting with organic good health – a kaleidoscope of cherub-cheeked peppers that would have brought tears to my mother’s eyes. Instead of battling grandmothers for the best cuts of brisket, I face the Birkenstock-heeled Coop shoppers, a formidable crew in their own way.

 http://foodcoopheygirl.tumblr.com/

When I leave the Coop there's no blast of tropical warmth or air-conditioned car. I cart my precious peppers home seven blocks and up three flights of stairs to my own urban kitchen. Here, the northern light has a bluish tint. The kids at the nearby grammar school sound almost like my nieces and son playing in the pool. I open my bag of peppers and take in their familiar nightshade smell. I sing Fly Me to the Moon quietly to myself. I allow myself a little cry. I feel that my mother is right here with me. Hurry up, sweetheart, she tells me, we don't have all day.

Salade de Piments (Matbucha)

8 sweet bell peppers, varied colors if available
12 plum tomatoes (or can of stewed, whole tomatoes, drained and chopped roughly)
4 cloves garlic, sliced thin
1/2 cup olive oil
1 bay leaf
pinch red pepper flakes
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to broil.

Prepare peppers: Set broiler on high and arrange peppers on a foil-covered baking sheet 4-6” from flame, turning often with kitchen tongs until blackened on all sides. Or you can roast over a gas flame, turning evenly. Place in a paper or plastic bag for at least 15 minutes to loosen skin. Peel, core, seed, and cut into ½” strips.

Prepare tomatoes: Score tomatoes. In a large pot of boiling water, submerge for 10 seconds and remove with a slotted spoon. When cooled, peel, core, seed, and cut into ½” strips.

Heat olive oil in a large pan over medium-high heat. Add garlic (and optional red pepper flakes) and cook until scented, but not browned. Add peppers, tomatoes, and bay leaf. Reduce heat to a slow simmer, cover, and stir periodically. After one hour, add ½ teaspoon salt. Simmer for another 45 minutes to an hour, uncovered to reduce and thicken the sauce, until tomatoes have disintegrated, but peppers still retain some shape. Salt and pepper to taste.

Resolution: renew my vows to chocolate

Moroccan Chocolate Bark Recipe with Ras-al-hanout

The holidays have brought me to the brink of chocolate exhaustion. It peaked around Christmas, a chocolataganza of chocolate pecan pie, chocolate peanut butter cookies, and a stocking gift from my sister: a pretty little gold box of See’s Candies that somehow has carried me, in stealth tastings, through the New Year. (This will be the first my family knows about it. I didn’t share with anyone.) 

I considered a cleanse, but have never been able to stick to a diet. Then a post for the Bon Appetit Food Lover’s Cleanse appeared on my FB newsfeed.  It was an oxymoron made in heaven: delicious and healthy. I yelped when I saw a chocolate bark dessert. It was svelte version of a chocolate bar studded with roasted pumpkin, sesame and flax seeds, with a spare sprinkling of Maldon salt flakes – a gold mine of grown-up tastes that left me completely satisfied me after a few nibbles. 

I started to meditate on ways to make it even more gratifying.

So the other night, making a tagine I was reminded how much I love the versatility of the traditional Moroccan spice blend, ras-el-hanout.

Ras-el-hanout means “top of the shop” in Arabic -- the best spices that the shop has to offer. There are many variations, often kept secret by the purveyor who may blend up to 100 spices. (I couldn’t find a 100-spice recipe; if anyone does could you let me know?) Some day I’d like to do a ras-el-hanout tour of Marrakech spice shops. At one time, the blend included aphrodisiacs like Spanish Fly. 

The ras-el-hanout I use is based on an Epicurious recipe. But it varies depending on what I have on hand. My current batch is a little heavy on cinnamon and ginger, making it perfect for desserts. Ras-el-hanout involves roasting a bunch of spices and blending them up – a slight pain so I mix up a bunch at a time and store it in a well-sealed jam jar. I use it for tagines, as a rub on roast lamb, and even to spice up my coffee. Why not chocolate? The fruity spices and cayenne create a firestorm of flavor that is mellowed slightly by the chocolate. It made me very happy again - just what chocolate is supposed to do.

Moroccan Chocolate Bark Recipe

Adapted from Bon Appetit

Ingredients

1/4 cup raw shelled pumpkin seeds
2 tablespoons flax seeds

2 tablespoons sesame seeds

¼ teaspoon flaky sea salt or kosher salt

1/2 -1 teaspoon ras-al-hanout*

8 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate (for a good one like Scharffen Berger or Valrhona) 

Preparation

Heat a dry skillet over medium-high heat to toast the seeds. I like to use cast iron. The key is to avoid burning so rely on your nose and do not leave the stove. Add pumpkin seeds and toast, stirring often, until the pumpkin seeds first start to pop. Remove to a bowl. Toast flax seeds in the same skillet, stirring frequently, until fragrant and just starting to turn color, about 30 seconds. Add to bowl with pumpkin seeds. Toast sesame seeds in the same skillet over medium-high heat until fragrant and just starting to turn golden, about 30 seconds. Add to bowl with other seeds.

Place chocolate in small pan and heat over medium-low, stirring constantly, until melted. Stir in ras-al-hanout.

Pour melted chocolate onto wax or parchment paper with a spatula and smooth out into a thin even layer. This is easier than you think. Sprinkle seed mixture over chocolate. Let stand at room temperature for at least 2 hours, until set. Break into 6-8 pieces. Store airtight in refrigerator. Let stand at room temperature for a few minutes before eating.

Variations: You can substitute with nuts on hand, such as roasted hazelnuts, chopped to pumpkin-seed size. The next time, I’d like to up the Maghreb-ness of it by adding some lemon or orange zest and a little more cayenne.

*Epicurious has a good recipe for ras-el-hanout, but you can also find it pre-packaged at places like Sahadi's. You can also order it online from other purveyors.