Still channeling Mary Berry

Sort of. A few weeks ago I spotted Almost Vegetarian, on the New Books shelf at the library. The book looked intriguing. It wasn't 100% vegetarian, just kind of targeting people who are leaning toward including more plant-based dishes in their diet. It includes recipes for chicken and fish but no red meat.

Flipped through it and discovered it included some intriguing options, like leek and fennel flan. I had a hard time wrapping my head around that one. Now I know intellectually that a flan can be savory but years and years of encountering flan only as the dessert version, the sweet custard with the caramel sauce that's a staple of Mexican restaurant menus, had me doing a double take at the idea of making a flan with leeks.

Not that I have much personal knowledge of leeks. I've never cooked one. I just know they look like green onions on steroids.

I'm also not super interested in turning into a vegetarian. I do, however, have a number of friends and relatives who won't eat anything that might be smarter than they are. I figure it's good to have a few vegetarian and/or vegan recipes in the repertoire as a just-in-case we ever invite any herbivores to dine with us.

So I checked the book out, took it home, skimmed it, found a fair number of recipes that looked like they might be edible. You know, stuff that could function as a main dish, variations on savory pies. I scanned a few pages, printed out the recipes, and then decided to try the Carrot Pie.

On one level the Carrot Pie didn't seem much different than the lanttulaatikko (Rutabaga Casserole) that's a favorite Finnish Christmas holiday meals dish. Smashed carrots, nutmeg as a spice, On another, it did include cheese and was supposed to be wrapped in a crust. A free form crust, a crust that would be rolled out but not placed in a pan. I'd have to shape it up and over the carrot filling without anything to support it. Having seen some of shaped crust disasters on the Great British Bake Off (which has mutated into the Great British Baking Show, lost Mary Berry, and acquired two rather odd hosts in the process, but that's a topic for a different post) I was not particularly optimistic about dealing with the crust.

Turned out I worried for nothing. The crust is a yeast dough and easy to work with. It's actually a rather good crust. I could see using it for homemade pizza or calzones. I'm not sure I'll ever make it again to enclose a carrot pie, but you never know. Maybe I'll freak out the family the next time there's a holiday meal. You know, tell the daughter and grandkids that, yes, I'll bring a pie. Oh, and by the way, it'll contain carrots.

Making the pie wasn't especially difficult. It did end up looking a little odd, but going by the description in the cookbook it wasn't destined to look like something in a case in a French patisserie. Free-form crusts are always a bit rough looking, kind of like a preschooler's first attempts at working with modeling clay.

As for the taste? Also a bit odd. Not bad, just different. I don't think I'd actually want to have it as a main dish, but for a side? Sure. And the crust is good.

The recipe(s):

Dough for Savory Pie

1 teaspoon dry active yeast

1/2 cup tepid water

1/2 teaspoon dry malt or sugar

3/4 cup all purpose flour

3/4 cup whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon salt (I only used 1/2 teaspoon; I do reduced salt in everything I cook)

1 large egg, slightly beaten

3 tablespoons nonfat sour cream (screw the nonfat; I used the real thing)

In a small mixing bowl, stir together yeast and water. Let sit until frothy, about 10 minutes.

In a large bowl, combine the dry ingredients. Make a well in the center and add the egg, sour cream, and yeast mixture. Stir to make a soft dough. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead briefly until smooth. 

Clean the large mixing bowl and return the dough to it. Cover with plastic wrap or a light towel and place in a warm spot until doubled, about 45 minutes. Use the dough for Savory Carrot Pie. 

Savory Carrot Pie

1 recipe Dough for Savory Pie

3/4 pound (6 to 7 medium) carrots, peeled and sliced

2 bay leaves

2 teaspoons grated fresh ginger

1 cup fresh orange juice

2 cups water (or to cover)

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pinch ground nutmeg

Pinch dry marjoram, crumbled

1 large egg, lightly beaten

1 cup part skim ricotta cheese (screw the skim, use the real thing)

1/2 cup grated imported Parmesan cheese (don't be a snob; no one's going to notice you used the cheap pre-grated store brand when it's mixed in with everything else) 

Prepare the Dough for Savory Pie. 

In a large saucepan, combine the carrots, bay leaves, ginger, orange juice, and water to cover. Bring to a boil, turn the heat down, simmer until the carrots are mushy, about 20 minutes (it'll probably take longer). 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Pick out the bay leaves. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the carrots to the work bowl of your food processor. Puree in pulses so the carrots don't become watery. Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, and marjoram, and process briefly to blend. Transfer to a mixing bowl and stir in the egg, ricotta cheese, and Parmesan cheese until thoroughly combined. 

Roll our the dough on a 12-inch square piece of parchment paper into a round 10 inches in diameter. (Parchment paper is amazing. Why wasn't this stuff around 50 years ago when I was first learning to bake? It makes clean-up so much easier.)  Pile the filling in the middle and spread it out leaving a 2-inch margin all around. Bring the dough up around the sides as though you were going to encase the filling but leaving a window 6 inches in diameter at the top. Crimp the dough around the sides to hold it in place. Transfer to a baking sheet or preheated baking stone and bake until the crust is deep golden and the filling is set, about 40 minutes. If the crust browns before the filling has set, cover with foil, lower the heat to 300, and bake about 10 minutes more. 

Theoretically Carrot Pie has 388 calories per serving. The recipe as prepared supposedly serves 4. Based on just how filling it is, I'm thinking it serves 4 only if this dish is served at Eid al-Fitr or you're cooking for lumberjacks. I'd guesstimate 8 servings would be more accurate. 

If I make it again I'll cut back on the ginger for cooking the carrots as it was kind of overwhelming and eliminate the marjoram entirely. And, as noted above, the crust is quite good. Maybe I will work up the ambition to make some calzones one of these days. 

The last of the Missouri Mule Piss bites the dust

One of the times we campground hosted in Missouri we purchased a 6-pack of a locally brewed beer. I wasn't real thrilled with the purchase -- the beverage was an India Pale Ale and I've never cared much for IPAs -- but I'm not real keen on beer in general. I figured the S.O. was the person most likely to drink it, ergo, it was his problem if it turned out to be swill. At the time I made a joke or two about maybe the mule on the can was a warning, you know, truth in advertising as to where the liquid originated. The S.O. laughed.

He wasn't laughing long. Holy wah. The Missouri Mule Piss may win some sort of award for the bitterest beer we've tasted in a long, long time. He and the Kid managed to choke down most of it, but one lonely can migrated to the back of the fridge and sat there. And sat there. It became a well-traveled beer: north to the U.P.,  possibly back down to Missouri in the Guppy (we bought it in Licking so got it over a year ago), then back up to the U.P., into the cabin for the second time, and then finally down here to Missouri. We're just too damn cheap frugal to throw an unopened can of beer away. I guess in the back of our minds we were thinking sooner or later someone we weren't overly fond of would visit and we'd inflict the Mule Piss on that person.

I was also kind of thinking that maybe I'd try a Belgian beef stew recipe out of the cookbook I've been working my way through for the past almost 50 years. I got The American Home All-Purpose Cookbook back in 1969 with the goal of eventually trying every recipe in it. Never happened, of course. Never even came close. Still, every so often I open it and decide to try something we haven't had before, like the stew that includes a can of beer as an ingredient.

Today was that day. The Mule Piss is now simmering on the stove and I'm busy hoping that the various other ingredients mellow it enough that the end result is edible. Cookbooks always warn you not to use bad wine for cooking; the same is no doubt true of beer. I decided to live dangerously -- how bad can it be? After all, the cookbook just says "beer" as an ingredient, possibly because back when it was printed in the 1960s you didn't have much choice in what was on the shelves at the local Piggly Wiggly. They don't tell you to go search for an imported beer crafted by monks; apparently ordinary Pabst Blue Ribbon would do. Just for the heck of it, I Googled Belgian beef stew and discovered, of course, that the preferred variety would be a dark ale, not a pale one. Well, at least the Mule Piss is an ale, albeit one without much color.

The American Home recipe:

Carbonnades a la Flamande

2 tbs fat or pure vegetable oil
2 cups sliced onions
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
2 tbs fat or pure vegetable oil
3 lbs chuck or round, cut in 2-inch cubes
2 bay leaves
1/4 tsp leaf thyme, crumbled
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
1 bottle or can (12 oz.) beer
1 envelope granulated beef bouillon
1 cup water
Chopped parsley

Heat 2 tablespoons fat or oil in large kettle or Dutch oven. Saute onion and garlic until soft and lightly browned; remove; reserve. Heat 2 additional tablespoons fat or oil in kettle; brown meat very well on all sides. This will take 10 to 15 minutes. Add onions, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, salt, pepper, beer, beef bouillon, and water. Bring to boiling; lower heat; simmer 1-1/2 to 2 hours or until meat is tender. Remove bay leaves. Thicken gravy, if desired, with 1 tablespoon flour blended with 1/4 cup water and 1 teaspoon vinegar; add to stew; stir until thickened and bubbly. Sprinkle stew with chopped parsley. Traditionally served with boiled potatoes. Makes 6 to 8 servings.

The rhubarb experiments continue

I tried another rhubarb pie variation yesterday: rhubarb and pineapple. This time I will actually provide the recipe, which is from a sometime-in-the-1970's issue of a women's magazine. I clipped a whole bunch of rhubarb recipes back then -- Rhubarb Crunch, Rhubarb Betty, Rhubarb Flummery, Rhubarb-Apricot Soup, and many, many others -- and until now don't think I'd ever tried making any of them. Anyway, The Recipe:

Rhubarb-Pineapple Pie

Ingredients: 

All-purpose flour

Sugar

Grated rind of 1/2 lemon

Butter of margarineCo

1 egg yolk, slightly beaten

1 20 ounce can unsweetened sliced pineapple

1 pound rhubarb, cut in 1/2" pieces (3 cups)

To make pastry: Put 1-1/2 cups flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, and the lemon rind in a bowl. cut in 3/4 cup butter. Mix in egg yolk and work pastry together quickly using hands. Chill.

To make filling: Drain pineapple, reserving liquid, and cut pineapple into 1/2-inch pieces. In large saucepan, mix 1/3 cup flour and 1 cup sugar. Add 1/3 cup pineapple liquid. Cook over low heat, stirring, 3 to 4 minutes. Add rhubarb and cook gently 2 to 3 minutes, or until rhubarb is soft but still holds its shape. (Do not overcook.) Add pineapple and mix lightly; cool. Roll about two-thirds of pastry dough on lightly floured board. Fit in 9-inch pie pan, trim edges and press to edge of pan with thumb. Prick with fork dipped in flour. Bake in moderate over (375) about 12 minutes; cool. Pour in filling and dot with two tablespoons butter. Roll remaining pastry and cut in 3/4-inch strips. Adjust on pie to form a lattice. Press a strip of pastry around the edge. Back 15 to 20 minutes, or until lattice is golden brown. Serve slightly warm.  

Confession time: I did not make the crust as directed. There was no way I was going to make a crust that rich when the verdict was still out on the filling. What if the rhubarb-pineapple combination tasted like crap? I'd have wasted a stick and a half of perfectly good butter and an egg on a pie neither of us wanted to eat. So the pastry crust was a perfectly ordinary pastry crust (flour, shortening, and enough water to hold it all together), sort of. I did substitute lemon juice for some of the water I mixed it with. I didn't actually think the rhubarb-pineapple mixture would be inedible (we do have rhubarb-pineapple jam sitting in the pantry; we like it), but you never know.

So what was the verdict? Maybe it's because it had never occurred to us that rhubarb and pineapple could be combined in a pie, but the conclusion was, "This is odd." It tasted okay, it's definitely edible, and we will finish the pie -- but I'm never going to make it again.

Next up in Adventures with Rhubarb? I'm thinking about trying the Rhubarb Flummery, if only because "flummery" is kind of a nifty name for a food. You never hear anyone talk about making a flummery; it sounds like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Which may be why it sounds slightly more edible than the rhubarb-apricot soup even though going by the ingredients and instructions, they're the same type of food: a type of pudding that uses cornstarch as a thickener.

It's that time of year again

Before canning

It's September, and once again I've been busily channeling my pioneer ancestors. The days get shorter, migratory birds start flocking up to prepare for the trek south, and I feel the urge to get out the canning kettle. Twenty-two pints of pressure-canned purple-hull beans that turned green when cooked, several batches of cucumber pickles, pickled cauliflower, Frog Balls (pickled brussels sprouts),  a batch of hot pepper slices, plum jam, 12 quarts of peaches, and I'm feeling compelled to can more.

After canning. Maybe next year I'll invest in a Frencher.

My You Can Can book has multiple recipes I'd like to try. Tomatillo salsa -- the tomatillo plant in the garden is loaded with fruit; there must be enough to make 6 or 7 pints of salsa verde. I've never canned salsa. Homemade fruit cocktail -- that's something that it never occurred to me to try making myself. Watermelon relish. Yellow squash pickles.

But even without the cookbook, I can think of things to make this fall. Awesome Relish -- a person can never have too much Awesome Relish on hand. Apple juice -- granted, there aren't very many apples in the orchard this year, but there are some feral trees near by that are loaded. Apple pie filling -- some of those feral trees must have good pie apples. Last year I put up about a dozen jars of apple pie filling -- they all got used. Ditto apple sauce. Green tomato pickles -- the tomato plants in the garden are loaded with tomatoes, and there's no way they're going to ripen before we have a hard frost. I'd rather turn some into pickles than deal with having multiple boxes of green tomatoes slowly ripening in the house. At this point, the big question is which I'm going to run out of first: ideas or jars. And once the jars run out, I can always buy more.

Yard sale score

I am not normally a cookbook collector, but when I spotted this gem on a yard sale table this morning I could not resist. After all, how often do you find recipes for coconut blancmange with dark cocoa sauce,

blueberry kissel, and Scandinavian fruit soup?

Braised possum and other delicacies

Yesterday Shapely Prose had a long, really funny discussion about food, recipes, Joy of Cooking, and a recent piece of what looks like bad science* blaming obesity on the fact Americans are using more grease and sugar in home cooking -- so much for it's being McDonald's fault -- and then this morning while ambling to work I overheard this intriguing bit of conversation between two fellows on their way to the bus stop: "when she popped the lid off that 5-quart slow cooker and there was that possum curled up looking just like a cooked chihuahua I liked to have died . . . ."

So now I'm wondering. . . do any of the editions of Joy of Cooking cover possum? I've got the 1951 edition -- it does come complete with the squirrel skinning illustration, but no actual recipes for squirrel although there are recipes for rabbit, venison, and some hints on wild game in general. We do have a possum or two ambling around the neighborhood; one shows up on the patio every so often. Would using a slow cooker make possum more edible? And what kind of wine do you serve with possum? I'd assume something made from muscadine grapes, in keeping with Southern traditional food groups, but who knows?

I'm also wondering, of course, just how many cooked chihuahuas that good ol' boy with the really thick hillbilly accent has seen in his time.

[*I'm not sure it's so much bad science as lame science, i.e., a didn't you guys have something better to do with your time? The study, published as a letter in the current issue of Annals of Internal Medicine, compares recipes from different editions of Joy of Cooking and notes that we're using different ingredients now than we did 80 years ago, serving sizes tend to be bigger, and calorie counts are higher. They also note there are cultural reasons for the shifts: more meat going into that hideous hamburger/tomato/macaroni goulash that school lunchrooms have served for millennia, for example, because, adjusting for inflation, beef is cheaper now than it was in 1931. And meat has a higher calorie count than pasta, hence more calories per serving of goulash now than back when my grandmother was cooking it. Bottom line, which tends to fall into the "no shit, Sherlock," category of scientific conclusions, is that Americans are eating better now than they did during the Great Depression.]