the lazy lady’s turtle ice cream pie

the process was inglorious. rushed and sloppy, with toppings too hot and a sticky puddle on the floor. The pie plate, see, doesn’t exactly fit through the freezer door that does not open entirely, so you must tilt it. If your filling is too melty then it sloops out the sides onto the veggie remanents waiting to become stock.

frozen overnight, however, it was removed without incident. Lost its looks but ice cream, caramel, chocolate, and – oh crunchy delight! – graham cracker crust, who cares what it looks like.

the messy part need not be your fate.

make a graham cracker crust, fancified with chopped nuts if you like. i was rushing, as noted, to prepare this for a kitchen warming that it never it made it too, so I bought one. Baked in its tin on a cookie sheet in a 375˚ oven for 7 minutes. Toasted a few handfuls of chopped pecans in a hot skillet on the stovetop.

run a hand mixer through two pints of vanilla ice cream. Aim for spreadable but not runny (my first mistake). Pour and smooth into the piecrust. Refrain from using all the ice cream; save some room for caramel and chocolate. Strew toasted pecans over the ice cream. Pop in the freezer for at least 3 hours, preferably overnight.

in a small heavy bottomed saucepan simmer together ¾ cup cream, ¾ cup brown sugar, and 3 table spoons of corn syrup. Let bubble undisturbed for 9 minutes or so. Whisk in 3 tablespoons of butter, vanilla and a bit of salt (or sprinkle about ¼ teaspoon nice sea salt over it after its made its way to pie). Let cool completely.

spread over frozen ice cream; keep some aside for sauce on slices. Stash in the freezer for at least 3 hours.

in a small heavy bottomed saucepan combine ¼ cup of cream, 3 ounces of bittersweet or dark chocolate, and 1 tablespoon of corn syrup (or not – I skipped it, but the chocolate gets crazy hard so spread it thin). Stir over low heat until melted and smooth. Add some vanilla and salt. Let cool. Spread or drizzle over the caramel.

return the whole shebang to the freezer, and leave it be overnight.

do as i say, not as i do.

the feast of lights

from Chicago, Angel, who has lived in Sweden, posted:

It is no surprise you were born on the light-bringer’s day. Happiest of Birthdays. I love you. Mille Besos.

naughty fairies on the mirror of collective creation

even if you lie about your age—in this case, I publicly turned 95—the experience of birthdays via facebook is an almost overwhelming thing.  A dinner party, however, is less so. On the eve of my personal new year, which is also the feast of Saint Lucy, the saint of light (a coincidence my Sicilian Catholic great grandmother rapturously believed blessed), this radical muffin put out big time.

the preacher eater made the grand finale possible. His cousin, the cook from Sun in Bloom, might argue that the Rosemary Remembrance cake was the grandest thing on the buffet, selling it to everyone sidling up to the table and slipping the end bit in foil to go. Her aunt perhaps the white lasagna, with hand pulled noodles and slimly sliced marinated artichokes. Many were enthralled with the “prehistoric, fractal, underwater, alien” romanesca served whole like pine forested mini-mountains. For me, it was, as it always is, the pie.

this particular pie being Ohio Pie or Shaker Pie, a thing from the heartland, my homeland, humble and weird, sweet and tart. Made with whole lemons, sliced paper-thin. The recipe called from old church cookbooks and Joy, irresistible. So I raved and hinted and promised a winter of root veggies au gratin all the while with pie in mind thus the benevolent preacher eater gifted me a mandolin.

oh! this simple machine! I cannot oversell its virtues: swift and easy precision cutting; easy to clean; mad fine julienne potential; small, i.e. easy to store in teeny urban kitchens. The grace of fine design. If you’re most beloved kitchen witch doesn’t have one, find one for their tool box. ‘Tis the season.

offered presents early enough for cooking (the other being a seltzer maker; big party hit), I merrily slid three Meyer lemons down my new plane, shedding translucent sunny circles, pith and all. If you also have a fabulous mandolin then slice them right into a big glass bowl. Poke out the seed bits. Dump a cup of sugar and a bit of salt over the lemons, and let the whole mess sit. Hours. Overnight. In this case, as long as it took to make everything else with wonderful kitchen help from the preacher eater plus our charming guests from Takoma Park.

make pastry for a covered pie. Roll it out for your pan accordingly. Pat the bottom into place in your pan; cover its surface directly with something, like parchment paper. Roll out the top and likewise wrap it. Stash both in the freezer.

bring out four eggs to come to room temperature. Set ½ stick of butter, four tablespoons, in an ovenproof bowl to melt in your oven as it heats to 425˚. When mostly melted, pull it out, stir and let cool a bit.

whisk together the eggs. In a fine stream, pour in the butter, and sprinkle in three tablespoons of flour (a small fistful). Stir the macerated lemons into the egginess, pull out your pie pan, and pour it all in. Smooth out the lemons in the custard, and top.

to ventilate, cut out shapes into the crust with cookie cutters. We used a peace dove for this, with sweeping slices at its wings.

bake for half an hour. Lower to 350˚, and bake for another 20 minutes or so, until the crust is puffed and browned. Bring out to cool on a rack before serving. The custard has to set up, and if you cut into it right away, you’ll have lemon lava mess.

lemon for light

hopefully, the others ate their fill, because, admittedly, I ate the lion’s share the next day, Saint Lucia’s day, heaped in a bowl and drizzled with heavy cream. Eaten in bed under thick covers against the first snow and its accompanying shattering cold. Although not brought by girls with candles in their hair and no charming men sang the Star Boy song, Brooklyn being far from Stockholm, it felt as domestically magical.

mercedes pie (peaches’n'southern comfort)

oh lord won't you buy me a summer peach pie

today should be about waffles perhaps, but I bought peaches at the farmers’ market. I see peaches- I think pie. So visions of pie not waffles bloomed from the two quart containers of soft green cardboard piled with white and yellow peaches.

as the good professor Brillat-Savarin’s noted on truffles, so said America’s homemaker Ida Bailey Allen:

There are pies and pies.

this pie was of the “old-fashioned kind” invoked in one of those “pies,” the latter, I think. Not dainty; no meringue or fuss. Typically, I approach pie with a well-researched, agonized plan but this was extemporaneous.  Whimsy pie…that must be lifted with two hands and intention.

crust is coming easier after the rhubarb pie triumph using the Baking Illustrated pastry recipe (the methodical chef-writers of “Cook’s Illustrated” reprise the book’s recipe in the magazine’s fall issue, October 2010). Using half butter and half shortening for fat delivers flavor and flake. Using half icy water half alcohol for liquid limits moisture absorption that develops tough gluten yet allows steam to form layers of flakiness. Our cabinet held half a bottle of Southern Comfort to accompany these peaches.

start a pot of water to boil for peeling the peaches then assemble the crust. Cut a cold stick of butter into pieces and scoop out ½ cup of veggie shortening. I store shortening in the freezer since its sole use is pastry. In your biggest bowl, sift a cup of all-purpose flour over the fat and rub well together. If the kitchen is warm, stash it in the fridge for a few minutes to keep your dough cold.  Sift an additional cup of flour along with a pinch of salt into the bowl and rub in until just combined. Stir in a ¼ cup each of icy water and Southern Comfort until it all just comes together. Form the dough into two circles, wrap in waxed paper, and refrigerate for at least an hour.

drop the peaches into boiling water, cover, return to a boil then turn off the heat and let stand for 3 minutes or so.  Remove with a slotted spoon or tongs to a colander; the peachy-water makes excellent brew water for ice tea, so don’t toss it! When the peaches have cooled enough to handle, slide off their skins. A gentle drag downward of each skin should do it; some may want a paring knife, though no need for peeling zealotry.  Halve the peaches, removing the pit, and slice.

in a big bowl, combine the peach slices with a few handfuls of turbinado sugar, teeny pinch of salt, and dusting of flour.  The flour, what I had on hand, can cook up gluey so use a light hand. Auntie Ida would add quick cooking tapioca to thicken up the filling, and cornstarch also works. Maybe I should add that I have small hands—the peaches did not want much sugar. Try adding the minced needles of a sprig of rosemary.

preheat your oven to 450°.

clean off a generous work surface, and roll out your pie dough. The kitchen witches all say the trick to fine crust is deft handling of the dough, so work quickly and add just enough flour to keep it from sticking to the counter or rolling pin. Turn and flip the circle between passes of the pin, working from its center toward the rim. Roll to a thin (1/4 inch) round large enough to drape into your pan up its sides with overhang. I used a cast iron skillet.

pie in flight

carefully lay one round into the bottom of the pan and gently press it into place. Dump the filling in. To cover, roll the second round of dough onto the pin then unroll over the pie. A pie with fillings as juicy as peaches need ventilation—hence the traditional lattice top I am too lazy to make—so cut slits in the top or use a cookie cutter to make art in your top crust. Like this dove. Working around the rim, roll the top and bottom edges together between your fingers to seal. Leave it free form or crimp with a fork or ruffle using your thumb & forefinger as a mold, pressing into it to form a sort of “U.” Paint the top with a bit of cream. For those without brushes, fingertips work fine.

bake for quarter of an hour, until the crust begins to brown, then lower the heat to 350° and bake about 25 minutes or until the crust is crispy golden and filling bubbling, oozing up through your art.

let stand for an hour or so. Serve generous slices to beloved guests with vanilla ice cream (or ginger, raspberry, butter pecan…), whipped cream perhaps gussied up with a bit of sea salt or booze.

rhubarb pie

the ultimate slice of early summer

i love wicked vegetables: potatoes and eggplants from the nightshade family, mysterious mushrooms, and rhubarb, flashing crimson warnings on its stalks, its broad leaves toxic.  It is the collective wisdom of generations of cooks that lets me Betty Crocker it up with poisonous plants.  Not that rhubarb is as risky as, say, blowfish.  Just don’t eat the leaves.  And who wants leaves in their pie anyway?

rhubarb also goes by “pie plant,” its number one use.  The red, celery-textured stalks of this vegetable are so associated with sweets in the U.S. that by court decree rhubarb is a “fruit.”  In making pie, the rhubarb is hardly the scary part.  It is making piecrust that should put the fear of God in you.  Or maybe that’s just me and my history of crusts that scorch, liquefy or otherwise manage to send billows of smoke out of my oven (or the ovens of others—sorry Morgan!) and right to the smoke alarm.  Lesson #1: always put a cookie sheet under a baking pie.  Even with perfect crafting, they tend to bubble and ooze onto the oven floor.

rhubarb is also a harbinger of sweeter summer fruits, at its peak just as strawberries hit the farm stands.  Perhaps that’s why the two seem to go hand-in-hand, although my mother calls adding strawberries the “suburbanization” of rhubarb pie, blaming America’s over-sweet tooth for an adulteration of rhubarb’s tart flavor.  She’s not really a sweet sort of lady, and I am right there with her.  To generously fill a regular pie pan, you want about 8 cups of fruit total and can allocate the proportion of rhubarb to berries as suits your tastes.  Although I used about two cups of berries in this particular pie, I held back on the heaps of sugar called for in most rhubarb recipes.

rinse off about two pounds of rhubarb stalks and slice them into half inch pieces, about 6 cups.  In a large skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of butter or vegetable oil.  Over medium heat, cook the rhubarb with ¼ cup of sugar for 8 minutes or until it just begins to get soft.  Dump the lot in a colander, put a plate over the fruit, set the whole thing in a big bowl and stash it in the fridge to cool and drain.  According to the scientific sleuths who wrote Baking Illustrated, pre-cooking the fruit protects the crust from saturation and sogginess.

take a deep breath and put together dough for a double piecrust.  Measure out 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour.  Rub in 11 tablespoons cold butter and ¾ cup vegetable shortening.  If you have a pastry cutter or know how to do that thing with knives cookbooks say is possible then do that.  For the rest of us, gently work the flour and fat between your fingers, rubbing them between your thumb and first two fingers, until you have it all in pea sized bits.  It helps to freeze the shortening by the teaspoon beforehand and to stick the whole bowl in the freezer for 3 minutes about halfway through the rubbing, especially if it is hot out.  Add 2 tablespoons sugar and a bit of salt.  Fold in 6-8 tablespoons ice water, just enough for the dough to come together.  Pat the dough into two flattened disks, wrap in wax paper and refrigerate for at least an hour.

when the crust and rhubarb have thoroughly chilled out, transfer the fruit to a big bowl and heat the oven to 500°.  Whisk together ½ cup sugar, 2 tablespoons cornstarch and a pinch of salt.  The cornstarch slightly thickens the filling; arrowroot also works well.  Prep two cups of strawberries by rinsing them, slicing them if they are large and hulling them if they have a noticeable core.  This week’s berries were the first of the season, tiny and sweet, happy to be left whole or, at most, sliced in half.  Add the berries to the barb and sprinkle with the sugar/cornstarch/salt.  Carefully stir to combine.

roll out the two crusts.  Line a pie pan with one and gently press into place.  Fill and cover the pie, pinching off the rim to seal.  Cut 8 slits in the top crust, brush with a beaten egg white and sprinkle with sugar.  Lower the oven to 425° and bake on the lowest rack for 25 minutes.  Turn the pie, lower the heat to 375° and bake another half an hour.  Remove to a wire rack and cool at least 3 hours before serving.  In addition to saving delicate mouths from lava-like filling, the cooling time lets the fruit set up for slice ability.

if you come into a bumper crop of rhubarb—or later in the season, peaches!—then make a big ol’ pie in a cast iron skillet.  It does an amazing job browning the crust, and such a generous, homey dessert completes a dinner party with a celebration of summer’s abundance.