Plum Galette with Blue Cheese and Cracked Pepper

 

Give a man a spectacular pie crust, and he will make a spectacular pie. But teach a man to make a spectacular pie crust, and he will make pie after pie after spectacular pie. And he will turn any and all conversations onto the subject of pie crust. And he will bore people with talk about the critical size of butter lumps and the importance of proper cold rests until he has no remaining friends. But that is okay. Because he will have pie.

So yeah, I've been a bit obsessed lately. But really! Pie crust! Delicious and flaky and like a buttery dream! A week or so ago, I mentioned that I was introduced to a new method of crust-making. And since then, I have made that crust three times. I have made dozens of hand pies, and I have made this plum galette. And I aim to make quiches, turnovers, and lord knows what else until I run out of butter. Yes, it takes some timing and planning and work. But it's oh so worth it.

But back to this plum galette. Yes, it had a spectacular, flaky crust. But its charms did not end there. It had a paving of the season's ripe plums, sliced thinly, fanned out beautifully, and brushed with a generous glaze of plum jam. It was so pretty, I almost just left it at that. But then, to gild the lily a bit — and to win the coveted "most interesting combination that still manages to be tasty" award at an annual pie party — I added a sprinkling of blue cheese, and a few cracks of coarse-ground black pepper. The end result is surprisingly delicious — still clearly in the sweet camp, but with surprising savory notes that add interest, and keep it from being a one-note summer fruit pie.

And if you're wondering the best accompaniment for such a complex combination of flavors, let me point you to a recent story about Cicerones — beer experts who specialize in finding the best beer to drink with your food (and many other fields of beery knowledge, like figuring out if your taps have gone all nasty, how best to store your brew, how to make it, and all that good stuff). You can hear more about it over at NPR. And if you're wondering how I fared in the pie competition — first place. It's all about the sweet and savory. And the crust.

Plum Galette with Blue Cheese and Cracked Pepper

adapted very loosely from the template on Cafe Fernando, as inspired by Chez Panisse, but they are not responsible for the crust obsession and topping "creativity."

Crust:
About 1 1/4 cups (150 grams) flour
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
1 scant teaspoon coarse salt
1 stick (1/4 pound) unsalted butter, cut in half-inch pieces
~1/4 - 1/3 cup ice water

Finishing:
3 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 tablespoon almond meal or flour
6 smallish red plums, sliced into slim 1/4-inch wedges (or fewer larger plums)
~1/2 cup plum jam (if your jam is particularly lumpy or has lots of skin and such, you may need to start with a larger amount)
1 egg, well beaten

1 handful crumbled blue cheese
1 teaspoon black peppercorns, very coarsely ground (I just bashed them with a mortar and pestle)

To make the dough: Place dry ingredients in a stand mixer or food processor. Add butter and pulse until broken down to sizes varying from peas to almonds to walnuts. Pour mixture into a large bowl, and add the smaller amount of water recommended. Toss together and squeeze the dough to determine if more water is needed. The dough should just hold together, with shaggy dry areas as well as areas that are moister. If the dough is too dry, add the remaining water and toss. Transfer dough to a shallow container or wrap into a rough square in plastic wrap. Chill at least a couple of hours, or overnight.

After the dough has chilled, unwrap it onto a floured surface. Pat the dough into a square, then use a rolling pin to roll it into a 1/2-inch thick rectangle. The dough will crumble and be rough around the edges, but don't add more flour or water — it will come together during rolling. For the first "turn," fold the dough into thirds, like a letter. The seam should be on the left side. Chill 30 minutes.

For the second turn, take the dough out, this time with the seam at the bottom. Again roll the dough into an 8 1/2 x 14 inch rectangle and repeat the previous step. Chill 30 minutes.

For the third turn, repeat the previous step, then wrap the dough in plastic and chill for at least 2 hours, or overnight.

After the dough has chilled for the final time, roll it to a 12-inch circle (or slightly larger, then trim to 12 inches). Transfer to a parchment-lined cookie sheet. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of sugar over the dough, leaving an inch of unsprinkled border. Sprinkle the almond meal or flour over the sugar. Starting from the outside, fan the plum slices, slightly overlapping, in three concentric circles, leaving an inch or so of border (the overhead picture of the tart shows how I did this). Sprinkle another tablespoon of sugar on top of the plums. Then fold the edge over, crimping it around the filling as needed. Brush the crust with the egg wash, and sprinkle it with the remaining tablespoon of sugar. Transfer the galette to the freezer while you preheat the oven (just 15 minutes or so).

Preheat the oven to 375° Fahrenheit. When hot, remove the galette from the freezer, and transfer the galette and its parchment to a non-frozen baking sheet. Bake until the crust is deeply golden and the plums seem cooked, ~40-45 minutes.

When the galette is almost done, heat the jam in a small saucepan until runny and melty. Push through a strainer to remove lumps and skins and such. When the galette comes out of the oven, brush the glaze generously over the fruit (the baked plums will be soft, so use a gentle touch). You can leave as is, or else sprinkle with the blue cheese, and then return to the turned-off oven for a minute or two, until it just begins to soften and start to run. Remove, sprinkle with the black pepper, and serve.

Poached Salmon with Cucumber Sauce

Salmon and cucumber seems like a combination from a long time ago. I'm not sure if I come by this opinion from my own personal history, or obsessive reading of old cookbooks (it's hard to tease apart the two sometimes). Regardless, it pulls up thoughts of gelatin-set salmon molds, of cucumber slices made to look like fish scales, and other tropes that were the height of luncheon catering some twenty-five years past. But I clearly need to readjust my thinking. Because poached salmon with cucumber sauce is a timeless combination. It's what I had for dinner last night, and last week as well. And what I should be having once a week every summer.

The inspiration for this particular incarnation of the classic comes from the always-in-style Julia Child. And it couldn't be simpler. Salmon is slipped into a barely-simmering bath of water, where it manages to delicately set without overcooking (and, thanks to a generous helping of salt and vinegar, doesn't wash out but instead gains even more flavor). And then it is served with a cool, slippery sauce (if you could even call it that) of sour cream, Greek yogurt, cucumbers and dill. Pair it with a simple summer salad (I went with arugula, peaches and corn), maybe a chunk of leftover bread for sopping up the plate, and you've got a summer meal that's just about perfect. Timeless, even.

Poached Salmon with Cucumber Sauce

inspired by Julia Child's The Way to Cook
serves 4

Cucumber Sauce:
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup Greek yogurt (not nonfat)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/2 teaspoon vinegar (cider or sherry work well)
1 cucumber, chopped in a 1/4-inch dice
~2-3 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

1 pound salmon, cut into 4 slices
salt and white vinegar (see below)

To make the cucumber sauce: In a bowl, stir together the sour cream, Greek yogurt, sugar, salt and vinegar until well combined. Taste, and adjust as needed. Stir in the cucumber and dill, and set aside to chill while you prepare the salmon.

To prepare the salmon: Pour water into a very deep-walled saucepan, or wide-bottomed pot, to a depth of three inches. For every quart of water this requires, add 2 teaspoons coarse salt, and 3 tablespoons vinegar. Bring to a boil, then slip in the salmon, and adjust the heat so that it is just barely about to simmer. Cook at this level until done, meaning it has a bit of internal firmness, and is thinking about flaking but not quite there yet — the exact time will vary depending upon the thickness of your fish, but start checking before 5 minutes are up. Remove with a slotted spoon (no need to rinse off), let drain a moment, and serve with cucumber sauce.

Brown Butter Zucchini Cornbread

I am totally loving on zucchini this summer. I have been making versions of this summer stir-fry, shaving it into long thin ribbons, and (more often than not) stewing it with garlic and olive oil forever, until it just slumps into deliciousness. And I also made this cornbread.

I have long been a fan of the many uses of zucchini, and how its flaws are actually its assets, if you just look at them in the right light. Like you know how it has a fairly subtle flavor, and can be kinda watery? Well, that just means you can easily slip it into your cornbread, where it adds a gentle green note, and keeps things tender and moist. I know, right?

This recipe is a fairly standard quickbread, though it goes a step further and browns the butter for a nutty taste ( a step I always recommend taking). The end result is somewhere between cornbread and zucchini bread, and a nice welcome change from either of the two. While less desserty than zucchini bread, it definitely falls on the sweeter end of the cornbread spectrum — but after a childhood relationship with doughnut shop corn muffins, that's how I like it (I even play up the subtle sweetness a bit more with a sanding of sugar across the top). It's a delicious snack to go with your afternoon tea (or iced tea, depending on the weather), and paired with a handful of blackberries or slice of cheese it makes for a perfect summer breakfast.

And if you'd like to hear me say more kind words about zucchini, you can check out this intervew I did with No Chefs Allowed, over on Heritage Radio. Complete with ummms and upspeak and awkward oh-do-I-talk-now? pauses. It turns out being interviewed on the radio is totally nervous-making. Who knew?

Brown Butter Zucchini Cornbread

from Bon Appetit, via Epicurious
yields 1 loaf

1 good-sized zucchini (about 12 ounces)

1 cup flour

1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour (or just use additional flour)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon coarse salt

3/4 cup medium-grind cornmeal (this type of cornmeal is somewhere between finely-ground standard cornmeal and coarse-ground polenta — I happened to have some on hand (thanks, Ken & Heidi's pantry!), and it made for a nicely nubby texture, but standard cornmeal would work fine)

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus additional for greasing pan
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 large eggs

1/3 cup sugar, plus additional coarse sugar for sanding the top

Preheat your to 350° Fahrenheit. Butter and flour a loaf pan, and set aside.

Trim the ends off the zucchini, and slice a half-dozen whisper-thin slices off to reserve as garnish. Grate the remaining zucchini on the coarse holes of a grater, then set aside in a colander to drain while you prepare the rest of the recipe.

In a large bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cornmeal. Set aside.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Continue cooking until butter solids at bottom of pan turn golden brown, about 3 minutes, then pour out into a medium bowl. Let cool slightly, then pour in the buttermilk, whisking to help cool the butter and take the chill off the buttermilk. Add the eggs and sugar, and whisk well to combine. Give the zucchini a quick press in the colander to release any liquid, and stir into the bowl as well.

Gently fold the dry mixture into the zucchini mixture, stirring until *just* combined (the mixture will be quite thick). Pour into your prepared pan, and smooth the top. Gently lay the reserved zucchini slices in a row down the top, then sprinkle generously with coarse sugar. Bake until golden and a tester comes out clean, ~45 minutes to an hour. Let cool in pan for 15 minutes, then turn out onto a rack and cool fully before slicing.

More Hand Pies!

A few weeks ago, I shared a recipe for my delicate little pillow-shaped strawberry hand pies. And I am still a fan of those hand pies. But recently I met another hand pie. A slightly different hand pie. A larger, flakier, hand pie, with its fruit peeking through. It's not quite the two-bite delicacy of my strawberry version, but it's kind of amazing in its own right. And it also totally changed how I make my pie crust. I mean seriously — look at those flakes! You can learn more about this crust (aka rough puff pastry), and the beauty of hand pies in general, over at NPR.

Summer Salad with Peaches, Haricot Vert and Feta

There are some combinations of flavors that just seem meant to be. Almost unavoidable, even. Tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Peanut butter, bread and jam. Peaches, green beans and feta. And yes, I realize the latter triumvirate may not quote have the renown of the first two. It was something of a surprise to me, too. But such a delicious one.

I had the good fortune to climb over the fence earlier in the week and crash a ridiculously early dinner my neighbors were throwing in honor of some visiting friends. Tasked with bringing bread and salad, I swung by the market with some vague ideas. I considered several different ingredients (Baby zucchini? Pickling cucumbers?), trying to remember recipes I'd browsed and pinned. But finally, I just settled on grabbing handfuls of the things that look most delicious on these warm summer days. The drippy-sweet and oh-so-fragrant peaches that have just appeared, a few handfuls of baby arugula, and the teensy haricot vert green beans. I picked up some creamy French feta, and a handful of the starting-to-wilt-but-still-totally-usable basil in the back of my own refrigerator. And something great happened.

The green-green-green crunch of tender haricot vert somehow works perfectly with the sweet and juicy peaches (although I bet regular green beans would work in a pinch). Arugula and basil give a spunky herbal edge against the sweetness, and creamy, briny feta ties it all together. I added a simple vinaigrette, with an extra dollop of honey and not too much sour. Since this happy discovery, the salad has already made an encore performance (you're welcome, book club!), and I aim to recreate it at least once more before the season ends. Because really, you can't argue with a meant-to-be combination like this one.

Summer Salad with Peaches, Haricot Vert and Feta

serves ~10 (this was for a potluck — can easily be halved)

~ 2 cups haricot vert (aka small & skinny green beans), any hard stem ends snapped off
1 produce bag of baby arugula
a few handfuls basil leaves (torn if large)
3-4 ripe peaches, sliced into slim wedges
~1/3 pound creamy feta, such as French or Israeli, cut into thin slabs (they'll crumble, but that's fine)

Dressing:
juice of 1 lime
1/2 cup olive oil
1 tablespoon honey
2-3 teaspoons mild vinegar, such as sherry
salt to taste

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. and have a strainer in the sink, and large bowl of ice water at the ready. When boiling, add the green beans, and cook until they turn a brighter green and just begin to become tender (this will only take a minute or two). When they're done, dump them out into a strainer, then plunge into the ice water to stop the cooking. Let them sit there a few minutes until cool, and then drain.

To assemble the salad, place the arugula onto a super-large bowl or platter (or two reasonably large ones). Top with the basil, beans, peaches and feta.

Place the dressing ingredients in a jar with a tight-fitting lid (like a canning jar), and shake until emulsified. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed. Pour over the salad, and serve.

Chermoula Eggplant with Herbed Pilaf

There's a farmstand market near my house that sells great local produce. Yellow-flowered sprouting kale, purple carrots, and half-priced day-old "jam flats" of raspberries that I cannot resist buying (despite having sworn off canning after a recent sticky morning of apricots). But my biggest downfall is the dollar bag. They gather up about-to-go-bad produce, put it in a bag with a red twist-tie, and my thrifty self cannot resist. It's why I now have a dozen and a half slightly-yellowing-but-still-cocktail-worthy limes in my fruit basket. And it's why, a few days ago, I ended up with a couple of pounds of slightly wrinkled Asian eggplants.

Like many people, I don't always have the best relationship with eggplant (namely owing to its bitter, squeaky, over-use in clueless vegetarian options of the 1990s). But it's got a lovely side. A butter-soft, taking-to-a-blanket-of-North-African-spices, serving-as-a-counterpoint-to-an-herb-spiked-pilaf side. With a little inspiration from the amazing Ottolenghi, and a glance at what I already had on hand (Iron Pantry Chef rides again!), I turned out a lovely summer meal that I will happily recreate many more times. Even if it costs more than a dollar.

Chermoula Eggplant with Herbed Pilaf

inspired by Yotam Ottolenghi's Jerusalem, albeit significantly tweaked nearly beyond recognition
serves 2

Eggplant:
2 good-sized Asian eggplants
1/4 cup olive oil
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon coriander
1 teaspoon paprika
1/2 preserved lemon, finely chopped (if not available, swap zest of 1 lemon)
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1 teaspoon harissa (North African spice paste — you can substitute another chili paste of your choosing)

Pilaf:
1 1/2 cups cooked rice (I used basmati rice, cooked up with a pinch of turmeric, which for reasons too ridiculous to go into I'd just cooked up for the dog)
3 scallions, sliced into rounds
1 bunch parsley, washed and coarsely chopped
1 handful cilantro, washed and coarsely chopped
1 small handful mint, washed and coarsely chopped
juice of 1/2 lemon
glug of olive oil
sumac (optional — available in Middle Eastern stores)
salt

To Serve:
2 handfuls arugula
tahini sauce or yogurt beaten with a bit of salt and crushed garlic

Preheat your oven to 400°. Cut the eggplants in half the long way, then score them in a 1-inch crosshatch (cutting through the flesh, but not the skin). Place on a rimmed baking sheet.

In a small bowl, mix together the olive oil, garlic, spices, lemon, salt and harissa. Spread this mixture evenly on the eggplant halves — eggplant wants to sop up oil like a sponge, so spread the mixture quickly so it doesn't all get sucked into one area. Place in the oven and roast until butter-soft (~45 minutes).

While the eggplant is cooking, prepare your rice (if you don't have some pre-cooked). Place the scallions, fresh herbs, lemon juice, and olive oil. If your rice is warm, allow to cool slightly (if it's cool, rewarm it back to a bit warmer than room temperature). Tip the rice into the bowl, and toss with the herbs. Sprinkle with sumac and salt to taste.

When the eggplant is done, remove from the oven, and allow to cool slightly. Place a handful of arugula and half the pilaf on each of two plates. Add two eggplant halves, and serve with tahini or yogurt sauce.

Strawberry Hand Pies

I spent this past weekend at a family wedding in New York, meeting new cousins and slathering on sunblock an eating far, far more lox than one would think possible (or advisable). And as I watched nieces and nephews squabble over dessert portions, and seating arrangements, and, really, just about anything there was to fight about, it dawned on me just how hard it can be to share. While there are truly heartwarming bursts of altruism, often young kids can be sociopathic little resource hoarders. I suppose it's how they survive.

And while growing up does bring a sort of higher-needs appreciation of the joys of interconnectedness, there's still a certain greedy childlike pleasure that comes when we have something all to ourselves. Especially when it's something delicious that's usually shared. Like pie.

These hand pies are your own little summer bundle, with smart square packaging (requiring none of the re-rolling of scraps of their round brethren), and a little vent that lets some of the goodness within peek out. I made mine with the very last of our strawberries (well, until the fall crop rolls around), but you can easily make them with whatever seasonal fruit strikes your fancy. Some recipes recommend cooking down the fruit, but I find that a bit of binder (tapioca is my favorite) easily does the job while maintaining that fresh fruit feel — and there's really only a spoonful or so of filling anyways, which is thankfully not enough to get you into much trouble either way.

Of course, these individual pies take a bit of fussing and shaping. And hand pies have a much higher crust-to-filling ratio than their standard-sized sharing-required versions, so you've got to make sure you use a light touch to fold in flaky layers. But in the end? An adorable, perfect hand-held bite of summer. All to yourself.

Strawberry Hand Pies

yields ~18 small square pies

Crust:
3 1/2 cups (375 grams) flour (you can swap out a a quarter of the amount for whole wheat if you like)
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
3 sticks (1 1/2 cups) unsalted butter, cold, cut into pats
~1/3 cup ice cold water, as needed

Filling:
1 1/2 pints strawberries (I started with two, but snacked heavily, and the amount worked well)
1/4 cup sugar (mine were crazy sweet, so I used less)
1 generous tablespoon tapioca starch

Finishing:
1 egg, beaten lightly with a splash of water (aka the egg wash)
coarse sugar and a few pinches salt for sanding

To make the crust (this can be done the day or so before): Stir together the flour and salt in a large bowl. Add the butter, and the press with the heel of your hand to flatten the pats of butter into flour-coated flakes. Stir the mixture, turning it from the bottom, then press again. Repeat the process until the pats gradually all turn into fat flakes (and some crumbs, as the flakes break apart). You'll be rolling this out a few times, so better to under-mix than over-mix now. Form a well in the middle and sprinkle in the water, using your fingertips to mix it into the flour and butter, until it all comes together into a cohesive ball. Again, you'll be rolling this out a few times, so it needn't be smooth, but it should come together. Add more water is needed. Once you can form a ball, place it in plastic wrap or a plastic bag, and refrigerate for at least half an hour.

When the dough has chilled and relaxed, lightly flour a counter top. Roll out the dough into a long rectangle, then fold up in thirds, like a letter. Rotate the dough 90°, so the seam is on the other side, and repeat the process three more times. This builds in nice flaky layers, almost like a rough puff pastry. When you've finished the final roll and fold, divide the dough in half, and again cover and chill for half an hour.

When you're ready to make your handpies: Preheat your oven to 400° Fahrenheit. Wash and chop your berries (somewhat small — your hand pies are only a few inches), and toss with the sugar and tapioca starch in a large bowl. Set aside. Have some baking sheets at the ready (lining with parchment makes things easier), and take half the dough out of the fridge for a few minutes to take the chill off.

Lightly flour a countertop, and roll out one of the dough halves into a 9-inch x 18-inch rectangle. Trim off the edges to square the dough, and then cut the dough into three-inch squares. Brush half of the squares lightly with the egg wash (for the bottoms), and cut small little vents in the other half (I favored a simple plus sign, but if you have little cutters or are feeling fancy, go nuts). Stir the filling and place about a tablespoon of it (leaving any excess juices behind) on one of the bottoms. Place one of the tops over it, and crimp with a fork to seal the edges. Place on cookie sheet. Got a sense of how it works and how much filling you can accommodate? Good. Repeat with the remaining dough and filling. Brush the finished hand pies with egg wash again, then give a generous paving of coarse sugar (and just a wee sprinkling of salt) over the top. Bake until the pastry begins to brown and thick juices bubble up, ~20 minutes. Let cool slightly, then enjoy. Without sharing.