Rhode Island Feeds

    

 

When I arrived back in Nashville this August I met a friend for breakfast at Noshville, the closest thing in Nashville to a Jewish deli-restaurant (not deli as in place to buy all your cold cuts, salads, hard rolls, bialys, rye breads, pickles, and cheesecake, because that doesn’t exist, but deli-type restaurant à la the Carnegie or Stage in NYC). They have H&H bagels! I never order them—they can only have been frozen, I figure, or at best Fed-Exed, and I do like mine warm and fresh from the store when I’m in NYC—but laud them for going to the trouble. What I order, without fail, is the blintzes. Only once have they been off the menu, when farmer’s cheese was nowhere to be found. Noshville serves their blintzes with sour cream and a somewhat gloppy and sweet but pretty decent blueberry sauce. The blintzes themselves are homemade, and they are good.

So I don’t usually make blintzes at home. But this week, a confluence of events and ingredients just begged for me to make them. I had bought some blackberries at the farmers market—the season was brief, due to the heat and humidity in August—and then saw, to my surprise, some wild blueberries that the people selling them had no idea where they came from except that “a Mexican man” brought them to them. These blueberries were the best I’d ever had—and that is saying a lot considering where I come from. Sweet and spicy, with true blueberry flavor. I thought I’d make a pie.

But then, while making room in the freezer (I froze some of these amazing berries, of course), I found a jar of crepe batter. Hmm, I thought, I really should use this. And then I opened the refrigerator and saw the left-over homemade crema from a Mexican luncheon this week—basically, homemade sour cream, made from the good high-fat heavy cream and buttermilk I buy at the farmers market from a Kentucky dairy farmer who drives down on Saturdays. I also had some of his whole milk, and thought I could make some fresh curd cheese. It was a confluence of signs, all pointing to one thing: blintzes. Here they are. Make at your own risk, as you may not be able to go back.

Black and Blue Blintzes

You can make these over the course of a few days. In fact, both the blueberry sauce and crepes (or crepe batter) will freeze well, allowing you to have them on hand to make blintzes on short notice. Serves 6.

Crepes

This is the batter I have been using since I was in college, and I’ve never found a reason to change it. It came out of Redbook Magazine in 1970, and this is it exactly except for changes in method. Makes about 14-16 7”crepes; freeze the extras.

1 cup sifted a-p flour
Dash salt
3 large eggs
1 ½ cups whole milk
Butter for frying

Combine flour and salt in a 1-2 quart bowl. In a small bowl, beat the eggs lightly with a whisk or electric mixer, then beat in the milk until well blended. Gradually add the egg-milk mixture to the dry ingredients, beating vigorously until smooth; it will have the consistency of heavy cream. Strain into another bowl or large measuring cup and chill 1-2 hrs.

To cook the crepes, lightly butter a crepe pan, preferably a well-seasoned iron one, and heat to medium high. Pour about 2 T of batter into the pan, tipping it to spread the batter evenly to coat, adding more batter if needed but keeping the crepe as thin as possible. Cook about 1 minute until the bottom is lightly speckled and the top looks somewhat plastic-y. Turn the crepe—I use an offset icing spatula to lift it from below the center and fold it gently over—and cook it for another 20 seconds or so. Crepes should be lightly browned.

The Filling

The filling is malleable—you can make it with farmer’s cheese, cottage cheese, store ricotta, cream cheese, your own fresh cheese, or a combination. Drain store-bought cottage cheese or ricotta well; some people add an egg yolk when using commercial cheeses, but it is not necessary if you use homemade cheese or farmer’s cheese. Makes about 2 1/2 cups.

2 cups homemade fresh curd cheese or true farmer’s cheese (see below for how to make fresh cheese)
8 oz Philadelphia® cream cheese, softened
1 T good honey, preferably wildflower
1/8 tea pure vanilla extract

Add the fresh cheese, breaking it up loosely  with a fork, or farmer’s cheese to the cream cheese and blend well. Stir in the honey and vanilla—you want only a hint of sweetness.

To make fresh curd cheese: Heat 2 qts of minimally pasteurized whole milk in a bowl in the microwave for 5-7 minutes, or until an instant read thermometer registers about 160F. Stir in ¼ cup cider vinegar; it will immediately form curds. Place a strainer, lined with cheesecloth or a coffee filter, into a large bowl. Ladle the majority of the curds into the lined strainer to avoid splashing, then pour in the rest of the curdy liquid. Let it drain for perhaps 10-15 minutes, until quite firm. You can save the liquid (whey) for use as your liquid when making bread, or discard it. Makes 2 cups.

Black and Blueberry Sauce

1 heaping cup blackberries
1 cup blueberries
¾ sugar
¾ cup water
1 tea fresh-squeezed lemon juice
Pinch salt
Few dashes cinnamon or mixed cinnamon/clove
2-3 tea cornstarch

Put the berries, lemon, spice, salt, and sugar over low heat, stirring gently, until the berries begin to exude their juice. Add the water and cook, allowing it to bubble but not boil hard, until the sugar is completely melted and the berries are sitting in a light syrup but are still whole. Mix 2 tea of cornstarch with a little cold water, add to the syrup, and stir gently, still on a soft bubble, until the mixture has a saucy consistency; if needed, add another teaspoon of cornstarch mixed with a little water and cook a bit longer. Remove from the heat and cool. May be frozen.

Crema (Homemade Sour Cream)

1 qt high-fat, barely pasteurized heavy cream                 
¼ cup good-quality buttermilk or natural plain yogurt with active cultures

Stir the buttermilk or yogurt into the cream in a glass jar and set it, covered, in a warm spot (on a gas stove is ideal). Leave it overnight; it should have thickened, but if not, leave it another 8 hours or more, then refrigerate, where it will further thicken to the consistency of sour cream, but will be lighter and creamier. Makes 1 qt.

Assembling, Cooking, and Serving

Place a crepe on a board, speckled side down. Place 2 tablespoons of filling in a neat column in the center of the crepe. Working from the side closest to your waist (bottom), fold the crepe up over the filling to the center, and fold the top down to meet it; try to enclose the filling without a gap. Then fold over the edge from the left, and roll toward the right, tucking the ends in well, until you have a neat package. Repeat with the remaining filling.

               

Lightly grease a griddle or heavy pan. Place the blintzes seam-side down and cook until lightly browned; turn and cook the other side, tipping the blintz up onto its sides to brown those as well if desired. Remove to a plate and garnish with the crema and black and blueberry sauce.

 

                                                   

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       It seems that August has been Anne month on the blog. My last two posts were about Anne’s cooking, and this one is too. A pleasure to eat, and a boon to me as I traveled back to Nashville then began the work of getting ready for another academic year. Classes start this coming week, and I have been preparing courses of another kind than I do in my kitchen, limiting my cooking to my own dinner. But I should be back into the kitchen next week—and meanwhile, you benefit, as I do, from the work of my old friend Anne.

Anne and I are obsessed about a lot of things when it comes to food—I think I’ve written before about our tendency to analyze everything that passes our lips when we are together—but we are obsessed about nothing so much as Chinese food. More than baking, although that’s close. And recently Anne seems to be joining me in my devotion to Mexican. But it seems that when we ask the question, “what should we make?” if we are getting together to cook for ourselves, we usually settle on Chinese. Over the nearly 25 years we’ve known each other we’ve had a number of amazing Chinese meals, from simple suppers to full-blown banquets.

One evening this summer we had these spring rolls and noodle pancake (a particular favorite of Anne’s). There were so many vegetables in season that it seemed a crime not to use them all, so Anne did. She made the rolls while I stood around handing her the skins and drinking wine, and then I fried them outside while she finished up her noodle cake. She arranged everything beautifully, liberally scattering the rolls with the beautiful scallions that are Anne’s version of parsley; she thinks everything is improved by scallions, and it is hard not to agree. We ate every excellent morsel. My fix for this coming academic year in Nashville, where there is not a decent Chinese meal to be had for love or money—except from one’s own kitchen, that is.

 

      

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Eating fish within hours of its being caught is similar to eating corn minutes after it is picked. Both have a taste and texture so fresh, sweet, tender, and pure that it is identifiably different from the same corn or fish eaten a short time later. So much so that, not being much of a fish fan, I rarely order it at a restaurant or buy it unless I am cooking for someone who is. But fish straight from the water is truly amazing—a different kettle of fish, I almost said. And if the fish has been fried—well, you know that a thing fried is always a wonderful thing.

My last evening in Little Compton before heading back to Nashville was spent eating such pristine, fried fish. Almost better, it was prepared by someone else, friend and fellow cook Anne: the perfect combination of good food and no work. It was caught by her husband and brothers and their kids, and yes, that striped bass in the photo that looks like a trophy is one of the actual fish, digitally captured by Anne’s father Frank Parker of Bookstand World fame. In fact, the photos here are a mix of mine and Frank’s. There was flounder, too.

The fish was dredged in a flour/cornmeal mix and simply fried, served with homemade tartar sauce, corn on the cob, a perfect lettuce salad, and cole slaw. We had divine stuffed squash blossoms with tomato sauce to start. Every component of the meal was local and new. I made the cole slaw, from a Walker’s cabbage, Karla’s carrots, and the Fruit Lady’s apples. There was a very good cake and good wine. The evening was lovely, winding down around the fire pit, a glowing memory of summer to tide me over ‘til next year.

LCS 

LCS means Little Compton Slaw or Local Cole Slaw, whichever you like. I make my cole slaw similar to my potato salad, with the addition of mustard, celery seed, and buttermilk instead of cream; directions are general and proportions are approximate and to taste. I added the apples at Anne’s request; just leave them out if you don’t have or want them.

1 Savoy cabbage, outer leaves removed, cored, and finely sliced with a knife
2 or 3 large carrots, 3 or 4 times more if they are little new ones, peeled and grated
1-2 T very finely minced onion
2-3 small tart apples, peeled and grated (optional)
2 cups homemade mayonnaise or Hellman’s® only
1 T sour cherry cider vinegar from the pickled sour cherries or cider vinegar
Few small splashes of buttermilk
2 tea Grey Poupon® Dijon mustard
1-2 tea Celery seed
Salt, freshly ground pepper

General notes: Cut the cabbage in half with a large, heavy cleaver or chef’s knife; be careful. Slice finely crosswise, preferably with a Japanese Usuba or a very sharp chef’s knife. Your onion (and apple if used) should be so fine that it disappears. This cole slaw’s outstanding flavor is achieved through the right balance of seasoning, which is onion; vinegar; mustard, celery seed , salt, and pepper. Start with less, add more to taste. It should be fresh and tangy, but not sharp or sour; don’t overdo, particularly on the vinegar, mustard, and celery seed, none of which should be pronounced. It should be creamy but not watery, so be cautious with the buttermilk and use only very fresh onions and apples, and pat them and your carrots with a paper towel before grating. Absolutely simple, but everybody loves it.

      

 

                                     

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The local peaches are in from Young Farm. They are amazingly good, with the kind of all-too-rare correct texture that makes even me, who generally prefers her stone fruit cooked, happy to eat them raw and dripping. But of course, like all fruit, they are wonderful cooked with a little sugar, and I am very fond of them with pound cake.

In the process of cleaning out my freezer in Little Compton, I came across a single chicken breast, and a little rye bread that I had made this summer. I had two peaches on the counter, so I decided I would make a last lunch for Carlton with it all before I left. I toasted the bread and pan-grilled the chicken; peeled and sliced the peaches; and sautéed them in some butter, brown sugar, salt and pepper, and a splash of lemon. I topped the chicken crostini with the peaches and walked them over to Carlton with a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. We had a very nice chat and I had a needed break from packing.

My friend Anne loves Karla’s peaches as well. They were part of her Southern ladies’ luncheon a few years ago, and of course, we both like peach pie when the spice and thickening are just so. Peaches are made for preserving, and Anne told me that when she looked at a peach the other day she thought it was so beautiful that she decided to make some jam and leave the skin on. I do that when I make jam with local cherry tomatoes, so this made perfect sense to me. Here are Ann’s iphone photos, which I fooled with a bit, and how she made her chunky preserve. As she said, all pink and yellow and lovely.

Ann’s Peach Preserve

6 cups sliced and roughly chopped peaches
3 cups sugar
¼ vanilla bean (the long ones), split and scraped

Mix and boil, skimming, until it reaches about 220 F.

 

        

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There are several faithful, or fateful, signs of waning summer. One that never ceases to catch me off guard is the dusky lilac-pink of Joe Pye-weed looming, portent-like, by the side of the road—how is it that something so large and attention-demanding can rise up so suddenly, seemingly overnight? The Queen Anne’s Lace, far more quiet, just as if it had been there all along and you had been too fool to notice.

At my old house I could measure the pace of summer on my early morning walks down the farm road behind my house, counting the season from wild iris to berries, to thistle and goldenrod and sunflowers, to Queen Anne’s Lace, Joe Pye-weed, and rose hips. Now I rely more on the farmstands to tell me where we are in the swift gauntlet of summer, to signal me with a sign in the form of a red-ripened pepper or an early apple. The peppers are still to come, but the heirloom Yellow Transparents are in, a steal at $1.00 per bag, summer on fire sale to make room for fall.

The air has changed. Nights are cooler, and the sky at evening has a wistful look, its radiance faded from the intensity of just a few weeks ago, its colors muted as if to more age-appropriate hues. In the morning when I take my coffee outside, the sun’s slant barely reaches the table top, quitting its old job of cup warmer, and telling me to trade in my hat for a sweater. Even the sounds are different. They seem to say, it’s time to go.

Country Apple Cake

I like the light texture and unusual flavor of this moist cake made with whole wheat flour. Like one of our family favorites, Dutch Apple Cake, it is homespun but special. You can also make it with dried apples or pears. Serves 8.

3 whole eggs
3 eggs, separated
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup sugar (preferably pure can sugar)
1 tea baking powder
½ cup lard, softened
½ cup unsalted butter, softened
Pinch salt
2 small apples (about 1 ½ cups), diced, or same amount of dried fruit
Additional T of sugar

Brown sugar or 10x for dusting
Heavy cream and/or fruit for garnish

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Butter and coat with sugar a 9” pan, preferably springform.

Beat the eggs, egg yolks, and sugar together until light. Add the flour, baking powder, and salt, and mix until combined; beat in the lard and the butter.

Peel and roughly chop the apples into about ¼ dice; stir them into the batter.

In a small bowl beat the 3 egg whites til foamy; add the additional tablespoon of sugar and continue beating to stiff peaks. Fold gently into the batter.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 45 minutes. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes before releasing from the pan to cool to warm room temperature. Serve with fruit or just with a dusting of light brown sugar or confectioner’s sugar, perhaps some heavy cream.

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OK, as a writer, I know that’s a mixed metaphor, or at least a trick with homonyms. But as someone who divides her time (no pun intended) between the True North and the Deep South, who is a RI Yankee in Jefferson Davis’s court, and is all too aware of the political, religious, and cultural differences, it is nice to have something on which we can agree. Cornmeal is that something.

Rachel, one of my most loyal readers—and eloquent commenters—recently bestowed upon me an honorary G.R.I.T.S. designation, which I humbly accept. For you Yankee readers who, like me, had no idea what this meant when I first heard the acronym, it means Girl Raised in the South. This, apparently, is akin to a secret society, is a high honor, and may even entail ancient rituals into which, if so, I hope to be initiated. There might even be hazing: I suspect that this might include baptismal dunking in buttermilk or partially set Jell-o®, force-feeding of fried chicken, memorization and recitation of the methodology, highly refined over generations, for making the men think they are in god-like charge while the women actually control everything and do whatever they want (a practice for which I may be constitutionally unsuited, but that fascinates nevertheless), and marathon shopping in endless strip malls containing surprisingly exclusive boutiques. Sounds like fun.

In any case, neither true Yankees nor Southerners would be caught dead using anything but stone-ground cornmeal—here in Rhode Island we even have our own revered strain of corn—and we both use it for everything from breading and breads and sweet cakes and some variant of jonnycake to our own forms of mush, which Southerners call grits. And we both mix the latter with cheese, a meltingly good, somewhat decadent, combination. Here, cornmeal is cooked to a polenta-like stage, fried up, and topped with whatever you may please.

 

Little Cornmeal-Cheese Cakes

You can serve these as cocktail appetizers (topped with, for example, a little chopped tomato sautéed with pancetta; chopped marinated roasted red peppers; roasted figs and onions; or a little corn and tomato cooked in cream), or for breakfast with bacon. Leftovers reheat acceptably in the microwave. Serves3- 4.

1 cup boiling water
½ cup stone-ground yellow or white cornmeal
½ tea salt
½ cup whole milk
1 cup store cheese (good-quality aged cheddar), grated or cut in chunks

Flour for dusting
Butter and oil for frying

Mix the cornmeal with the milk. Bring the water to the boil with the salt; add the cornmeal mixture, stirring, and let it boil and bubble for about 5 minutes, stirring as needed so it does not scorch. It will have a pasty consistency. Cover and steam on low or over boiling water for a few hours, or steam it in a microwave. When quite stiff and pulling away from the pan, remove and add the cheese, stirring until melted. Grease 6 or 8 compartments of a muffin pan and divide the mixture among them, pressing it down evenly with the back of a spoon. Chill for a few hours or overnight. Turn out and let sit a bit to take the chill off. Flour lightly, and sauté in a mixture of butter and oil until golden brown, turning once. You may keep them in a warm oven. Serve while hot.

 

        

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We have all been gathering, baking, and putting things by (preserving) to beat the band, as when the fruit is in, there truly is no tomorrow: it will be gone if you don’t use it now. So the Fourth was picking time not only for cherries, but for blueberries, those grown by my friend Linda’s husband Bob, also my source for striped bass.

Linda and Bob were out house-hunting when I went over to pick berries to make dessert for a barbecue at their house—excellent ribs and dogs, supplemented by my potato salad—to celebrate the Fourth. The  blueberry patch was neatly netted against the birds. And me, as it turned out: I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to get in. I was beginning to worry that I was in fact overeducated, and not the practical, competent, can-do sort of girl that I liked to think of myself as, when I figured out the simple and ingenious system Bob had rigged. It took me about 10 minutes of walking around, pulling on the netting, and testing the staples (immovable) to discover a cord, a sort of soft version of a Colonial door bar, strung across one side and knotted to nestle into eye-hooks. I undid that, but the opening it produced was too small; probably I could squeeze through, but surely 6’3” Bob could not get in this? Hunting more, I found a piece of molding down lower that fitted into nails on either side and lifted easily away and up, giving access.

With the castle breached, I faced another problem: there seemed to be very few ripe berries. Had they just picked the night before, I wondered? Whatever the reason, I  thought I’d be lucky to get a cup or at best two—not enough for a pie, I thought, but perhaps I could forage enough for a simple cobbler. Pushing on down the rows, it was not until I went around to the other side—the shady side that blueberries prefer, I later learned--that I found one bush that was just bursting with blue. I began to pick, discovering something I had quite forgotten: blueberry picking is back-breaking work. You have to lean over, and delve deep into the bushes in that crooked pose. But my labor was rewarded with a generous bowlful of perfectly ripe (I picked only the most uniformly blue) fruit. Yes, enough for a pie.

Blueberry Pie

Bob’s blueberries this year were delicious, juicy and spicy as they should be. Serves 6-8.

 

9” pie plate
Pastry for 2-crust pie, divided in two: my recipe for pastry for fruit pies is here. It’s been unusually muggy in LC; use less water if it’s muggy where you are too; start with 3 T and work your way up as needed.

5 cups blueberries, picked over but not washed
Scant (about 7/8) cup sugar
½ tea mixed cardamom and cinnamon, a little more to taste but don’t overdo
1 tea freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 T flour
2 T cornstarch
Pinch salt
2 T unsalted butter, melted

Heat the oven to 375 F.

Roll out half the pastry into a circle of about 13” and fit it into the pie plate, smoothing it along the bottom and leaving any overhang. Put in the refrigerator to cool.

Prepare the filling by gently folding the sugar, spice, salt, lemon juice, and starches into the berries using your hand. Add the melted butter and toss lightly, with your hand.

Roll the remaining pastry out to 12” and, using your eye to judge or a ruler, cut it into 1” strips with a very sharp knife or pastry wheel. Scrape the filling gently into the pan, evening it out. Weave a lattice over the filling with the strips. Trim the bottom and top pastry strips as needed to within 1” the rim of the pan; turn both under together, and flute to seal. You can use any left-over scraps to cut decorations if you want.

Bake for about 45 minutes, until the juices bubble up and the crust is golden. If the crust begins to darken too much before the pie is done, protect it with a pie protector or a few strips of foil loosely curved around the pan.

Let cool completely before cutting. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

 

       

                                      

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I got a call around 8:00 on the Fourth of July. It was Dick Hart, the fruit lady’s husband, asking if I wanted to come pick cherries. In my sour-cherry-obsessed world, this is what is known as a rhetorical question (of course I want to pick!). He told me that he and his wife had picked about 8 quarts the night before, pitted, and frozen them. Best to get them before the birds carried them all away (he hadn’t put up a net this year). Why didn’t I come over around 9:30? Whatever you say.

An already perfect Fourth had become more perfect still. Arriving at the farm, we had the usual discussion on the treacherous subject of how much I wanted. I had learned well that underbidding was safest. A quart was expected, three would be seen as pushy. Would two quarts be all right? As it turned out, yes and then some. While dropping my pickings into my can on a string, Dick brought me some quart baskets, and encouraged me to pile them high. I ended up with about 5 pounds, or two and half quarts, plus an overflowing cup of currants, for $13.00.

An embarrassment of riches is its own kind of quandary. What to make? It was hot, hot, hot, not the best day for preserving, but I would have to be a fool not to make my favorite sour cherry preserves, which sustain me through the winter with not only memories of summer in Little Compton but also a taste pleasure, spooned over good vanilla ice cream, that is a kind of happiness. They took forever to gel in that relentless humidity, but they eventually did, and they are wonderful. I also decided to make the other sour-cherry preserve that I really like to have on hand, some pickled sweet-sour cherries; they are marinating away as we speak, the vinegar having been poured off and bottled. I had been fortunate enough to have  had a goodly share of cherry pie, thanks primarily to Anne, over several days, so thought I’d do something different. I settled on a sour cherry upside-down cake, a kind of experiment. It came out pretty well.

That about did it for my pickings. But when I was leaving the Hart Farm that day, Mr. Hart suggested that there might be more—that they would see how they went after he and his wife and some other unnamed person got some, and that we might divide up what remained. When the call comes, I’ll be ready.

 

Sour Cherry Upside-Down Cake

Upside-down cake is best served while it is still warm from the oven. It can be reheated briefly in the microwave if there is any left over. You can, of course, make this with almost any other fruit. Serves 9 (squares) or 8 (wedges).

For the caramel layer

3 T unsalted butter
¾ cup firmly packed light brown sugar
¼ tea cardamom

Generous pint of pitted sour cherries

For the cake

4 T unsalted butter
4 T lard
¾ cup sugar
2 large eggs
1 tea vanilla
1 ½ cups a-p flour
1 ½ tea baking powder
¼ tea salt
½ cup buttermilk

Heavy cream or ice cream for serving

 

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

Lightly spray an 8” square or 9” cake pan with Pam. Place the 3 T butter, the brown sugar, and the cardamom in the pan on the stove. Melt, stirring together, until the mixture just bubbles. Remove from the heat. While it cools, make the cake batter.

Cream the butter, lard, and sugar; beat in the eggs and vanilla with a wooden spoon. Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt, and add to the creamed mixture alternately with the buttermilk, beginning and ending with the flour mixture and stirring until just combined.

Arrange the cherries, pitted side up (good side down) very close together on the caramel (it may be firm—that is OK). If you use a square pan, arrange them all around the outside edges, then work your way into the center in smaller squares; if you use a round pan, arrange them in concentric circles.

Scrape the batter over the cherries, smoothing it gently and evenly into the corners and along the surface. Bake for about 45 minutes. It will be golden brown; the sides will begin to pull away from the pan; and the center will spring back to your touch. Remove and cool on a rack for 15-20 minutes.

Cover the pan with a platter or plate larger than pan and, grasping both firmly with potholders or a towel, turn over quickly and confidently. Serve immediately with good, unhomogenized heavy cream poured over, or with vanilla ice cream.

 

      

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One of the things that people either love or hate about me is that I am a person of strong convictions. I have principles that underlie my judging and deciding, and that guide me in all things. Food is no exception. And really, what could be more subject to nuanced judgment than the question of what is the proper thing to eat? To serve?

A principle that I live by, and that has been adopted by and become somewhat of a joke among my friends, is that “you must have something fried” in order to call an eating occasion a party. Otherwise it’s just supper, or a few friends over. A cocktail party must have one or two items (out of 6 or 8) that are deep-fried. A large dinner party—let’s say, 10 or more—must have something fried: appetizer, main course, side, dessert—your choice. For some paradoxical reason, the most simple, down-home of all cooking methods is also one of the most special and even elegant. Frying is festive, and can be, culinarily speaking, low- or high-brow.

Now, an entire fried meal is something else altogether. It is pure indulgence. It is sublime excess. It is summer on a plate. And as we all know, this is high summer.

So the other night we fried. The impetus began with a lament about the general inability to get good onion rings anymore; apparently, it is too much trouble for most so-called restaurants to cut up a few onions, dip them in a simple batter, and lower them into a fryer. There are estimable old-time hold-outs, including the Common Lunch in Little Compton, Nooley’s in Nashville, Pal’s Cabin in West Orange, NJ, among my own haunts. I’m sure, and fervently hope, you have yours. But what is really galling here in New England is the disappearance of real onion rings (and real French fries) at the fried fish shacks, the so-called temples of fried food. I’ll name names. Evelyn’s. Flo’s. Aunt Carries. Champlin’s. Etc. They’re frying the fish and shellfish, and doing a very good job with it. But putting that pristine, golden-encrusted fish or clams next to a sorry frozen fry or ring defies logic. It’s sacrilege. It’s self-destructive. I don’t go anymore.

OK, back to the meal. We had little golden puffs of cheese to start. Sea scallops caught 30 or 40 miles off the coast of New Bedford. And the raison d'être, onion rings. Accompanied by homemade tartar sauce, malt vinegar (this is New England, after all), lemon, ketchup. Cole slaw prepared by my friend Mary, and apricot and sour cherry pies prepared by Anne. It was incredibly windy, so we ate inside. Ideally, fried food of the low sort, of which this was, should be eaten outside. But you can’t always have everything.

Frying is easy, if a bit messy when you do it for a crowd. Its key is fat at the correct temperature, first and foremost. This ensures the golden, crisp seal to the tender, moist but fully cooked interior of whatever you are making. Most items are fried at a temperature of 350-375 F. Batters or breadings are simple—as simple as plain flour if you want. Salt as the food comes out of the fryer, unless you are holding it briefly in a warm oven (which you can if you must), in which case I recommend salting right before serving.

You can fry without a thermometer, learning to judge the fat temperature through various tests like frying a cube of bread til golden in one minute, or visually recognizing the shimmer of heat at certain temperatures before it smokes, or using the palm of your hand to estimate as you would an oven or grill. This is what I had to do for the cheese puffs and scallops, sliding the pan around to control the temperature, as I forgot to bring my thermometer with me to Little Compton. But a thermometer is more reliable, and safer. I recently gave my incomparable Betty-G Cooker-Fryer away for the White Elephant table at the local church fair. The Betty-G, essentially a large pot with a big basket insert and a thermostat—was basic and functional. But it was bulky, and I was moving, and no longer had room for it. A pity, as I had it for 33 years and it had been a loyal workhorse, especially considering that I paid perhaps $15 for it. But the parting of me and my Betty-G allows me to drive home the point that you can fry in anything: a deep cast iron frying pan, a stainless steel or aluminum saucepan, or a Dutch oven on the stove are all fine, provided your pan is heavy, has high sides, is securely flat-bottomed, and well-balanced. Also serviceable is a deep chicken fryer, both the electric kind with a thermostat and the kind that sits on the stove. You don’t need a basket, just a nice sturdy long-handled slotted spoon or Chinese wire skimmer. Most fryers for the home these days are overpriced contraptions with small capacities, and I would not bother with them.

What type of oil? It depends on what you are making, how much you feel like splurging (spending more is often economical in its own way), and how you feel about animal fats. I happen to like them. So: Chinese food is usually fried in peanut oil, which is generally considered a good all-purpose frying oil, if an expensive one, because of its relatively high smoking point, but which I tend to use primarily for Chinese. For doughnuts and dessert fritters with fruit I like lard. For fries with freshly dug potatoes, olive oil or fat from a goose or duck or beef, often combined with some other vegetable oil. For other vegetables (e.g., squash blossoms or zucchini or onions), vegetable oil such as corn or canola, or olive oil or a combination. For fish, a clean-tasting light vegetable oil or corn oil. For Mexican things, corn oil or lard. We cooked the onion rings and scallops in corn oil and the cheese fritters in a combination of olive and corn oil.

Depending on what you are cooking, you will need 4-6” of oil; the volume of oil you will need will depend on the diameter of your frying vessel, but I recommend having a gallon or two on hand during frying season to accommodate all needs, and that you never fry with less than about 5 cups of oil. (Unless, of course, like me, you are doing small-batch appetizer frying for one in a little heavy 1-qt saucepan, which I do pretty often; don’t hesitate to fry yourself up two or three wonton.) For onion rings, small appetizers like the cheese puffs, most vegetables including fries, shrimp and small scallops, 4” is enough, sometimes 3” for little, lightweight things. More depth is needed for whole pieces of chicken or other heavier, dense items. Leave a minimum of 3” of head space for displacement, more for heavier items or large capacities. Do not overcrowd the pan, both for safety and for proper frying. Too much in the pan will lower the temperature dramatically, increasing absorption of fat and cooking time, which will make your food soggy. Turn the food with your skimmer or a long-handled fork or curved spatula to ensure an even, golden crust.

Another key to successful frying, besides temperature and the right amount of food in the right amount of oil, is organization. Prep the food to be cooked according to directions, paying particular attention to consistent size. Lay out the sequence in which you will do things in advance. For example, if the recipe calls for flouring, egg wash, then breading, have these three things set up in a row, the flour and breading on wax paper or in bags, the wash between them in a dish or bowl. On the far right, closest but not too close to the fryer, your layers of paper towels for draining. If you are putting things into a warm oven for holding, you can put the towels on a sheet pan; for delicate things, I put them on a rack in the pan. If you are serving a very casual meal, passing food as it comes out of the fryer, have your plate or platter at hand, covered with a napkin, to which it can be immediately transferred after the first quick draining and salting.

With frying as with lots of cooking, safety is a matter of preparedness and prudence. When frying on the stove, place the pan on a back burner and be sure the pan size fully covers the burner it sits on. When frying outside, place your fryer well away from a traffic area; always keep the kids and clueless adults out of the kitchen or away from where you are working. Keep a large lid handy (or a cookie sheet), and if you ever have a flare-up, put the lid on the fryer and carefully slide the pot to another area of the stove until it subsides. Never pour water on a grease fire. Smother it or, if it gets out of hand, use your kitchen fire extinguisher (you do have one, right?). But if you are careful and follow the safety rules, you will have no problem. I never cover a fryer while the food is cooking. Some say it helps control the temperature or is safer. I say it reduces crispness and that safety is as safety does. If you use a heavy, well-balanced pan; don’t overfill your pan; watch the temperature; lower food in gently to prevent splashing; have a lid nearby; use a sturdy long handled slotted spoon or skimmer; use a flexible small pot holder, like silicone, or small folded towel to handle the pot (don’t let anything drag), you will be fine.

The weather is lovely for this Fourth of July. Frying outdoors is the fat-lover’s version of grilling. How about some onion rings with those burgers and dogs?

Onion Rings Three Ways

These three methods build on each other to produce excellent versions, from very delicate to heavier coating, of crisp, shattery, battered onion rings. Try them all and see which you prefer. If you can decide. Method 3 is my all-purpose frying batter, sometimes with the addition of cornmeal, but I am marginally inclined toward one of the others for rings. Directions are general and will serve about 4 as a side dish or appetizer. Adjust according to the number of people you are serving.

2 very large Spanish onions, peeled and sliced into ½” slices. Slice thicker if you like, or a little thinner, but not too thin. Have extra onions on hand.

Vegetable oil of your choice, heated to about 365 F.

Method 1

1 quart buttermilk
¼ tea Tabasco, or to taste
¼ tea salt

1 cup bread or all-purpose flour
1/3 cup cornstarch
½ tea baking powder (optional)
½ tea salt

Mix the buttermilk, Tabasco, and salt; submerge the onions, cover, and marinate in the refrigerator for 2-3 hours. Mix the flour, cornstarch, and salt. Remove the rings from the buttermilk and dredge in the flour mixture. Fry until golden. Salt.

Method 2

The above flour mixture
12 oz lager or club soda, approximately
Freshly ground pepper (optional)

Stir the beer or club soda into the flour mixture until it is the consistency of a thin wallpaper paste (not real appetizing, but that’s how I would describe it). Set aside for 15 minutes or so. Dip the onions in the batter until well-coated. Fry until golden. Salt.

Method 3

The above simple beer batter (method 2)
1 egg, separated

Stir the egg yolk into the beer batter. In a small bowl, beat the egg white to soft, shiny peaks—stiff but not dry. Fold gently into the batter. Dip the onions in the batter until well-coated. Fry until golden. Salt.

 

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I’ve been considering a revision to Mark Twain’s oft-repeated words about New England weather—to paraphrase, if you don’t like it, just wait a minute. A little arrogant, I know, but surely anyone in New England would agree to a change, or at least an alternate version, of “If you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a year.” Last summer was an unmitigated disaster for everyone from farmers to merchants and restaurants and vacationers. It rained. It was cold. And it never stopped. We went from winter to winter with scarcely a break, with only the calendar to tell us what season it was. This year is its polar (ha) opposite: sunny, warm, already bursting with bounty. Everything is early.

My father, trained as an Air Force pilot in World War II, used to look up at the sky and say things like, “It’s going to clear in an hour” when it was deeply and threateningly gray, or “it’s going to rain at around 3:00” when it was sunny and pleasant. I have my own version of that predictive skill. I can tell, based on spring weather, what summer is going to be like, and based on early summer weather, what fall will be like, and by late summer, what winter will be like. Actually, it’s not skill; it’s the product of close observation, my more than 40 years of living in New England and being someone who is very sensitive to weather (simply put: thrive in summer, hibernate in winter).

Two scenarios present themselves at this moment in time. One, and currently what I consider to be most likely, is that “summer,” weather-wise, will come to a close by mid-August, when it will turn so-called unseasonably cool and rainy, a harbinger for a not-so-nice fall and a hard winter. Always hopeful, however, there is the possibility that our present glorious weather will persist through the summer, a good sign for a nice fall and mild winter—and extended agricultural bounty until the end of October. We’ll know soon enough.

Either way, I kind of win, weather-wise, because I will be departing in August. Meanwhile, the raspberries are in. (The strawberries, which improved over the weeks as the weather became dry and sunny, are in their final picking.) The currants are here, and the gooseberries, and, amazingly, the first sour cherries. The Harts of fruit lady fame say that even the blueberries are ripening way ahead of schedule.

One might well fear that this sudden and rapid abundance will be followed by a long stretch of nothing before the peaches and apples come in. But compared to last year, when all we had was nothing, I’ll take that. And doesn’t that mean the peaches and apples could be early too? This could be my best summer yet.

Just a prediction.

Raspberries with Pourable Tapioca Cream

It is hard to do anything else with the first raspberries than eat them out of hand. But this old-fashioned dessert treats them lightly and maintains their fresh state. Good for breakfast, too. Serves 4.

Tapioca Cream

2 cups milk (2% is OK)
1 generous T instant tapioca
Pinch salt
1 egg, separated
¼ cup, scant, pure cane sugar
¼ tea vanilla

Fresh raspberries or other juicy fresh fruit such as strawberries or peaches

Scald the milk; add the tapioca and salt and cook, stirring, over medium heat for 15 minutes. In a small bowl, beat the egg yolk with the sugar. Stir a few tablespoons of the milk- tapioca mixture into the egg and sugar, then stir the entire egg-sugar mixture back into the pan of milk-tapioca. Bring to a low boil and cook, stirring, for a minute or so, until it begins to thicken. Remove from the heat, pour into a bowl, and add the vanilla. Beat the egg white stiff and fold into the tapioca until completely incorporated but still airy. Chill. Pour the cream over raspberries or other juicy summer fruit, or layer in a coupe or wine glass. Leftovers may be refrigerated; just stir lightly to reincorporate any liquid that has settled.

P.S. Anne just brought me a piece of sour cherry pie for my breakfast. Life is good.

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Did I mention that strawberries, indeed berries of all kinds, cry out to be matched with corn? Strawberries are very nice as an accompaniment to this little cake, a plain, slightly sweet, eminently sliceable little summer dessert. This has the added benefit of being gluten-free and has no leavening aside from beaten egg whites. Made with stoneground Rhode Island jonnycake cornmeal, it has a satisfying bite and could not be more local. For a finer texture, use regular  yellow cornmeal.

 

Little Corn Cake

1 cup RI jonnycake cornmeal or yellow cornmeal
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 tea salt
3 eggs, separated
1 stick unsalted butter, melted

 

Preheat the oven to 375 F. Butter a 6” cake pan, preferably aluminum. Line with wax paper and butter or spray with Pam.

Combine half the cornmeal with the sugar and salt; make a little well in the center and drop in the egg yolks. Slowly add the melted butter, stirring to incorporate until all is absorbed. Add the rest of the cornmeal.  Beat the egg whites until stiff and shiny, and fold into the batter. Pour into the buttered pan.

Bake for 40-45 minutes, until brown and a skewer comes out clean. It should be very brown, and will look sort of like a big Thomas’s corn toastie (don’t let it get as dark around the edge as in the photo; I don’t have the right pan with me).  Turn out onto a rack to cool, and cut into thin slices, and serve with strawberries or other fresh fruit, and a little Vin Santo or other light dessert wine.

 

 

  

 

 

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Nothing lasts forever. For example, I am back in Little Compton (hurrah!) and you can bet that the time will fly and I will be headed back to dreaded Nashville well before the tomatoes hit their glorious peak in September. And the local Little Compton strawberries are here—it is June, after all—and those will soon be gone.

But fleeting pleasures are to be savored, so I am already deep into rural, coastal life and into the strawberries. I’ve made a small batch of strawberry jam, eaten a bunch of berries out of hand, used them to make the really nice Welcome to LC cocktail below, and garnished lots of stuff—cereal, salad, cake. And I’ve only been here four days. Maybe it’s just as well that strawberry fields are not forever. On to the blueberries!—next month.

 

Welcome to LC Cocktail

I adore Campari in the summer; it is remarkably refreshing on a hot day (we are in the 90’s this weekend) garnished with soda and lime, and it is a fabulous match with orange. This cocktail combines all. Serves 1.

Strawberry Syrup

1 ½ cups sliced strawberries
½ cup pure cane sugar or regular sugar
½ cup water
¼ cup Campari (optional)

Put everything together into a saucepan, bring to a boil, and boil for two or three minutes, chopping the strawberries with the edge of a wooden spoon. Remove from the heat and let sit until it is clear and settled, about 5 minutes. Strain, pressing down with the back of the spoon but not so hard that you force the seeds through. Makes about 1 cup.

The Cocktail

1 ½ oz Campari
¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice
3 T strawberry syrup
3 oz, approx., brut rosé champagne or club soda
1 small sliced strawberry

Stir the first three ingredients in a cocktail shaker or jar with ice until cold. Strain into an 8-oz capacity glass. Top with champagne or club soda and garnish with strawberries and a slice of lime.

                           

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I am astonished to be posting for the first time without photos and a recipe, but also in a small way consider it a personal breakthrough for having transcended guilt over not doing everything, and also determined to be as reliably posting every week as I was for years. So. A post with no photos, but still, something. And it is, at least, about food.

At the end of every semester, I make a meal for whichever of my graduate classes falls on the last day of term. I of course did something different every time, until enough students who had taken classes with me previously started asking for the same thing again. That thing was: pulled pork with the fixins’: homemade barbecue sauce, my inimitable cole slaw (nothing, really, but for some reason the people who don’t like cole slaw love it), homemade rolls, pound cake­—sometimes pimiento cheese to start. I am, after all, in Nashville during the academic year.

I teach my last class before leaving for Little Compton on Thursday, and I am way too busy to cook tonight (OK, I made a piece of grilled chicken and some lemon-parmesan rice, but that’s not blog-worthy). But nevertheless, I am thinking about what I can make for the students for lunch on the last day of class. Something simple, that will not take too long. I am determined not to do the pulled pork again, despite the pleas. But most of all—and those of you who know me will know the horror with which I say this—I am trying to think of something that can be refrigerated. Without being ruined, that is.

This rules out chicken salad--completely. Quiche. Potato salad. Grilled lamb or flank steak. Enchiladas. Shrimp. OK, pretty much everything worth eating. What does one make when it must be done the night before and not served until Noon the next day, after teaching since 9:30 in the morning?

I am going to go for the notion that the last thing eaten will be the most remembered, and make my friend Trina’s Greek Lemon Nut Cake. Deceptively simple and delicious. But for the main event? Still struggling. Leaning toward a pasta salad of some sort, even though they are plebeian and I never really enjoy them (because they are, well, refrigerated). Some grilled red peppers, onion, and radicchio, maybe some asparagus, some grilled chicken, lots of olive oil and lemon and parsley and parm, perhaps a little smoked country ham and some nuts. At least it’s do-able under the circumstances. I content myself with the knowledge that the students will, for the most part, not know the difference from refrigerated chicken or not.

Or maybe I should just do the pulled pork?

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It’s hot, hot, hot here—still 82 degrees at 10:00 at night, after a blistering 90s earlier today. Not complaining: I love the heat. But when it came time to turn on the grill to cook my pork tenderloin, I decided I just wasn’t that hungry. I was planning to make a salad anyway, but decided to make it my meal. One of the very best stand-alone salads, in my opinion, is a Caesar salad. It’s got protein. It’s filling. It’s got lemon and garlic. It’s tangy and delicious. And it’s finger food. My favorite way to eat.

OK, I may have just lost you at the finger food part. Yes, Caesar salad can, in fact was meant to be, eaten without utensils. You can dunk the whole leaves into the dressing, like giant crudités. Or you can do what I do—at least when I’m alone—and dress the leaves, then pick them up and eat them. It’s a bit messy, like eating ribs or something, but only a bit. And it’s very satisfying.

There is very, very nice red romaine lettuce from California available now. We’ll have our own within the month, but for now, imported will do.

 

Bloody Caesar Salad

I mix this is in a lasagna plan so the leaves don’t get bruised. Serve it in individual flat bowls or small oval platters. Use only good quality bread for the croutons, or skip them. Serves 2.

8-10 perfect leaves of red romaine or romaine, washed, dried, and chilled
1 clove garlic, peeled and lightly smashed
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil, placed in a glass measure
Enough lemon or lime juice to reach the ½ cup mark when added to the oil
1 large egg, beaten
½ tea salt
8 or more twists of the pepper mill
½ cup freshly grated parmesan

Homemade croutons—sliced French bread, salted, peppered, and toasted

Add the garlic, salt, and pepper to the oil and stir; set aside for about an hour.

Just before serving, toss the lettuce leaves with the egg in a lasagna pan or other large shallow dish. Add the lemon/line juice to the oil/garlic mixture and whisk to emulsify; remove the garlic and pour the dressing over the coated lettuce and toss well; taste for seasoning. Lift the leaves out, shaking them a bit, and place them in the serving bowls. Garnish with a toasted crouton or two; you can toss them briefly in any dressing remaining in the lasagna pan if you like. Generously sprinkle the salad with the parmesan, about ¼ cup for each serving. Theoretically, of course, you could mix the egg, the vinaigrette, and the cheese all together and toss it with the leaves. I just like it this way.

                                                         

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May is asparagus month. Get it while you can.

But dare I say it? Asparagus is not one of my favorites. I do like the looks of asparagus, though. I like its pointy little crowns, its combination of green and purple, set off by a purple rubber band holding the spears into a bouquet of not-too-thin, not-too-fat, spears. I like the little thorns that are not thorns, more like triangular petals. I like their presence on a platter, garnished with egg or red peppers, or fencing a big steak; they are a good accent, like a nice bag or pair of shoes. Food cuteness, or sexiness, or color, or luster, is always important to me, and can compensate enough for the meh taste that I will eat it. At least, occasionally and when, like now, it is at its peak.

 

Looks, of course, will only take you so far. Asparagus has a dull personality—always the same, not very versatile. I’ve learned not to expect too much from it. If I am going to eat asparagus—not too often—it needs to be quickly and simply cooked; it’s just grass, isn’t? OK, that’s unfair. But just as well that the season is short. I’ll cook it now, in honor of the novelty and its looks. By the time boredom sets in, it will be gone.

 

Browned Buttered Breadcrumb Asparagus Omelet

Buttered breadcrumbs improve everything. Serves 1.

7 or 8 small asparagus spears, broken off so that they are about 5-6” long  
½ cup fresh breadcrumbs
1 very small clove garlic (from the inner bulb), crushed
2 tea unsalted butter plus 1 tea more
1 tea olive oil
1 T, generous, freshly grated parmesan
2 large eggs, beaten with 1 T milk or cream
Salt and pepper

Melt the 2 tea butter and the olive oil in a small (9”) pan until hot. Add the asparagus and cook over high heat, tossing around with tongs, for a minute or two. Add the bread crumbs and the crushed garlic and cook, stirring with a wooden spoon, until the crumbs are brown and have dried out a bit but are still moist. Salt and pepper to taste near the end of cooking, and remove to a plate. Add the parmesan and toss.

Wipe out the pan, and melt the other teaspoon of butter over medium heat until sizzling. Pour in the eggs, lightly salt and pepper, and cook, without stirring, until mostly set, lifting the edges and tilting the pan as needed to cook all the egg evenly. Place the asparagus and about half the crumbs into the center of the omelet and fold the edges over. Remove and scatter the remaining crumbs on top.

                                                                                 

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It is Mother’s Day, and as typical since I began spending the academic year in Nashville, I am alone in my kitchen, without my son, who is a thousand miles away in New York, to cook for. Now, I know that most people don’t want to cook on Mother’s Day, but being in the kitchen is my idea of relaxing. And cooking for my son…well, that’s the best.

It is also the third anniversary of Little Compton Mornings this weekend. Looking back on my first anniversary post, I feel the way I suppose most mothers do from time to time: that they have, in some way, failed their offspring. Since moving to Nashville during the academic year, I have been less attentive to my blog-child than I would have liked, and feel guilty and neglectful. Or perhaps it is just that my blog has been going through the terrible two’s.  Fortunately, many of you seem to understand that, like all mothers, I do the best I can. Thankfully, it’s not children who expect you to be perfect.

Today, I cook what I like, and for no particular reason other than the fact that there are local strawberries, and very good ones I might add. One compensation for spending September to May in Nashville is that I enjoy two growing seasons, one here and one in Rhode Island. I get “the first strawberries” twice. I bought enough to make some preserves, to eat some out of hand, and to make this classic strawberry tart.

To all of you mothers among my readers, Happy Mother’s Day. Now that I’ve made this tart, shown next to the beautiful flowers my son sent me, I think I will go to the movies.

 

Chocolate, Vanilla, and Strawberry Tart

This tart involves a few steps, but is very easy; you can even make some jam while the pastry is chilling. It is a celebration in itself.

Chocolate Pâte Sucrée

1 cup less 2 T a-p flour
2 ½ T cocoa
8 oz unsalted butter, cool room temperature
½ cup + 2 T confectioners’ sugar (10x)
1 egg yolk (freeze the white)

Sift the flour and cocoa and set aside.

In the bowl of a standing mixer, place the butter, cut into 4 or more pieces, and sift the 10x over it. Cream together on medium speed until the sugar is blended. Add the yolk and mix again until completely incorporated. Gradually add the flour/cocoa mixture, stopping after you have added about half it to scrape down the bowl with a spatula, then continuing until the dough comes completely together. Remove, pat it into a disk, and wrap in wax paper and chill for at least 2 hours.

Remove the dough and soften enough to roll by cutting it into several pieces and kneading them with your hand, then forming them back together into a disk. Tap the disk with your rolling pin, then roll it out quickly on a floured surface; once soft, it gets really soft. Lift the dough carefully into your tart pan, trimming the overhang to about ½”, and turn this overhand to the inside against the edge. Chill again for 30 minutes or so, preferably in the freezer. Preheat the oven to 375 F while it chills.

Remove the pan and flute the edge or press it with a fork. Prick the bottom with fork, and line the pan with foil and some weight (beans, rice, etc.) or a smaller-size pan, lightly greased. Bake 10-12 minutes; gently remove the foil/weight or pan, and bake another 3 minutes or so, until you can smell the chocolate and it the interior is mostly dry. It will look a bit like a large brownie. Cool on a rack.

Vanilla Pastry Cream

I use a standing mixer for this, but it can be done entirely with a whisk. I don’t strain it; you can if you want. Makes a generous 2 cups.

2 cups whole milk
½ vanilla bean, split and scraped into the milk
6 large egg yolks (freeze the whites)
2/3 cup sugar
2 T flour
2 T cornstarch

Bring the milk and vanilla bean to a boil in a 3-4 qt saucepan. Remove, cover, and keep hot.

Ribbon the egg yolks and sugar on medium-high speed; it will become pale yellow. Sprinkle the flour and cornstarch over it and beat at low speed until incorporated.

Fish out the vanilla bean pod from the milk and discard. With the mixer running on low, pour the hot milk into the egg and sugar mixture until combined, then pour the entire mixture back into the saucepan; you may need to wash the pan first if it has milk residue. Bring to a boil, whisking constantly and vigorously so it does not burn or stick, and boil for about one minute until it is thick and creamy and any foaminess is gone. Pour into a bowl and rub the surface with butter. Cool completely in the refrigerator.

Assembling the tart

While your pastry shell is cooling, core the most perfectly ripe, heart-shaped, medium-small strawberries in your batch; you will need about 40-50 for a 9” tart. Set them, peaks up and with space between them, on a towel.

When the pastry is completely cool, fill it with the pastry cream, smoothing with spoon or spatula, and set the strawberries, peaks up, into the cream, pressing down a bit. Begin at the center with one or three larger strawberries, then work out toward the rim in concentric circles, trying to match the berries by size.

Optional (recommended if your strawberries are not real red, or if you just like the shine): Melt a little strained strawberry jam; I make very fluid strawberry preserves, so just pour off a little and heat it. Brush the tops of the berries with a thin jewel-like layer. Chill for an hour or so before serving.

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