Mushroom Leek Quiche with Goat Cheese

Last week I made mushroom quiche for our weekly lunch club. And as one of my office-mates took a big, rich bite (accompanied by a big, richness-cutting arugula/squash salad), he sighed in contentment. "Who came up the idea that quiche is somehow not something men eat?" he wondered. "Quiche is good." He went back for a second piece.

It turns out that the branding of quiche as sissyfood comes from some stupid "humor" book of the 80s. And I don't know if it has something to do with that, or the general move away from rich dairyfat and carbohydrates, but quiche doesn't seem to be that popular anymore. Which is a shame. As last week affirmed, a warm quiche, paired with a healthy salad, makes for a fine, fine lunch.

I love a good quiche. And by good, I mean that it has a real flaky butter crust (even with some whole wheat flour added in); a tender, trembling custard; and is filled with both grated cheese and hefty helpings of fresh vegetables. It's good morning or night, and thus routinely makes my short list of food delivery items for friends in the first weeks of parenthood (when the two begin to blend together). Plus it's something that most people don't make for themselves, so it feels a bit special.

I'm a big fan of quiches filled with spinach or chard, complementing the cheesiness with some dark leafy greens. But since I was also bringing a big salad for this meal, I decided to take the quiche in a slightly different direction. I cooked down a whole pound of mushrooms until they were dark and flavorful (and, equally important, had shed the moisture that could sog things up), along with a tangle of softened leeks. And to keep things from feeling too brown, I tossed in a few chunks of tangy soft goat cheese. The resulting quiche is rich, satisfying, and well deserving of a popular resurgence. 

Mushroom Leek Quiche with Goat Cheese

1 pie crust, par-baked if you have the patience for it (I made this latest one with a half whole-wheat rough puff pastry)
2 tablespoons butter, plus a few thinly-sliced pats for dotting the top
1 large leek, or 2 small, washed and thinly sliced
1 tablespoon high-heat oil, such as grapeseed
1 pound mushrooms, cleaned and thinly sliced
1/4 pound Swiss cheese, grated (you can substitute gruyere or emmental)
4 ounces goat cheese, crumbled into big hunks
2 cups milk or half-and-half
2 egg yolks
3 whole eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
pinch white pepper
pinch grated nutmeg
handful chives, minced (optional)

Melt the butter in a large saute pan or cast-iron skillet over a medium flame. Saute the leeks until well softened, but not browned, ~10 minutes (adjust heat as needed). Transfer to a small bowl, and set aside.

Raise the heat in the pan to high, and add the oil. When hot, add the mushrooms — you don't want it to be more than a generous layer or so deep, so you made to do this in batches. Salt lightly, and cook without moving until the liquid comes out and then evaporates (a few minutes). Stir, and cook the other sides until done. Repeat with remaining mushrooms and additional oil, if needed. These steps can be done in advance.

When you're ready to assemble your quiche, preheat your oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Take your (possibly par-baked) crust, and scatter the grated cheese over it. Add the leeks and mushrooms, then top with the goat cheese. You can leave as is, or tumble it up a bit.

In a large bowl, mix together the milk or half and half, eggs and egg yolks, nutmeg, salt and pepper, and chives, if using. Whisk gently, so that the mixture is combined but not frothy. Pour this custard mixture into the quiche shell (depending on its depth, you may not need all of it). Scatter the butter over the top.

Carefully place the quiche in the oven, and bake until only the center inch or so wiggles when you nudge it (about an hour). Remove from the oven, and let set a bit before serving.

Apple Cardamom Cakelets

One of the things I loved best about working in a bakery growing up (beyond the buttery samples) was the opportunity to be part of someone's little treat. Going to the bakery isn't an errand. It's a sweet indulgence, a small moment that can light up your whole day. You can see it in the customers' eyes, and you get to be a part of that. It's not a bad way to make your way in the world.

Last week I attended one of the 0—3 concerts I annually make it to these days, a lovely folk-ish singer with some family ties to the bakery where I worked growing up. And so I came home, with those sweet bakery memories going through my head (along with those sweet songs). And the next day, I baked this cake.

This isn't a recipe from my bakery. But it's a lovely little seasonal treat, a way to create that happy bakery moment in your own oven. A cardamom scented cake is topped with thin slices of apple, and a deliciously high ratio of crisp, sugar-crusted topping to tender, buttery crumb. It's got a lot going on in a delicate little package, and served warm from the oven it's just about perfect. Sadly I don't get to bring this sort of day-changing taste of happiness to everyone walking down the street anymore. But for myself and a friend, paired with an afternoon cup of tea, it made for a moment as sweet as those memories.

Apple Cardamom Cakelets

adapted from Simone's Kitchen

Yields 1 10-inch cake, or 6 4-inch cakelets (you can also easily cut it in thirds, if you just want two cakelets for a smaller treat). Also most people probably realize this as a matter of common, but somehow it seemed like an insider revelation to discover that if you're baking in several small dishes, it's much, much easier to place them all on a single cookie sheet, which you can remove from the oven in one swoop.

~18 cardamom pods
150 grams (1 1/4 cups) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt, plus an additional pinch for the topping
150 grams (1 1/3 sticks) butter, softened to room temperature
150 grams (2/3 cup) granulated sugar, plus an additional 3 tablespoons for sanding the tops
3 eggs
3 crisp apples, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced

To prepare,  preheat your oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Grease and flour your baking dish(es), and set aside. Bash the cardamom pods and pick out the seeds, then grind to bits with a mortar and pestle. Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt, and set aside.

In a stand mixer or large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. One by one, beat in the eggs. Add the sifted flour mixture and half the cardamom, folding gently until combined (don't overmix).

Spread the batter into your prepared pan(s) — it's thick, so an offset spatula or finger is helpful. Take the apple slices, and place on top — you can fan them artfully, or just sort of place them upright like stegosaurus plates and let them slump as they will. Mix the reserved 3 tablespoons sugar with the reserved cardamom, along with a pinch of salt, and generously sprinkle this mixture over the top.

Transfer to the oven immediately, and bake until the exposed cake is starting to turn golden, ~25-35 minutes, depending on cake size and various variables. Serve warm, with tea and friends and music.

Greek Braised Cauliflower in Cinnamon-Scented Tomato Sauce

When I was young, my mother would often end up making something that we've jokingly come to think of as "the white meal" — mashed potatoes, some sort of baked flounder or sole fillet, and steamed cauliflower. Despite its ghostly nature, the meal was both healthy and tasty. In fact, I still get cravings for steamed-unto-softness cauliflower. But while I do love the subtlety of cauliflower's quiet background brassica notes (more on that sometime soon), I also find that it's perfect for pairing with other flavors. Like a cinnamon-scented tomato sauce.

Although this meal has a bit more color going on, it also has a similarly beautiful simplicity. The nearly melted grated onions and double hit of cinnamon (both stick and ground) in the tomato sauce manage to add both warm sweetness and savory depth, which the cauliflower gladly sops up. In some ways it's not all that different from a standard tomato sauce, but it's subtly so much more. I paired the flavorful braise with some garlicky lemony spinach and a briny wedge of feta, and scooped it all up with some crusty chunks of bread. Because if the world around you is cold and white (sorry, Midwest!), it's nice to have a warm bit of color on your plate.

Greek Braised Cauliflower in Cinnamon-Scented Tomato Sauce

adapted from the kounoupidi kapama on Souvlaki for the Soul
serves 2-4, as part of a larger meal

¼ cup olive oil (you can use less, but c'mon, it's Greek food)
1 onion, grated
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 cauliflower head, broken into florets
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup tomato puree
¼ cup water
1 small stick cinnamon
salt and pepper to taste

feta (optional)
crusty bread

Heat the olive oil in a pot over a medium-high heat. Add the onions and garlic, and saute, stirring occasionally, until translucent but not colored, ~5 minutes (adjust the heat as needed).

Add the cauliflower, and saute for a few minutes, until it takes on a bit of color. Add the cinnamon, tomato puree, water, cinnamon stick, and salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and cook, covered, until the cauliflower becomes tender, ~15 minutes. Stir occasionally (and gently).

Serve with feta, if desired, and crusty bread (and garlickly lemony spinach isn't too bad either).

Citrus and Ginger Hot Toddy

I often go all-out when it comes to potluck contributions — especially smaller potlucks. Partly to have an excuse to play around in the kitchen, and partly to ensure that there's a substantial veg-friendly option that I can actually make a meal of. But for my recent book club potluck, I decided to just contribute a beverage. The host had said that there'd be a vegetarian main dish, so I didn't need to worry. And also, I was sick. So I brought hot toddies.

In retrospect, I probably should have stayed home (as I was much, much more gross and snuffly than I'd thought I would be). But oh, those toddies. Everyone loved them. Perhaps because folks were still basking in a post-holiday glow, and perhaps because they wanted something seemingly healthy to keep them from getting what I was clearly dying of. And perhaps because this toddy was just really delicious.

When I've made toddies in the past, they've usually just been versions of lemony, honey-spiked tea, sometimes with a shot of booze. But this time I upped the citrus component (thanks to the last of my California backyard Meyer lemons), threw in some fragrant mandarins, and some sharp-hot ginger. I added a few optional touches that I happened to have on hand (a few shakes of bitters and a dozen piney-clean juniper berries), and stirred in some honey. With all that going on, I left out the tea bags, to let the flavors better come through. And yes, I also brought a bottle of bourbon on the side.

If you've got a winter potluck, this makes a phenomenal contribution (even if you don't have a cold). And if you've got an insulated airpot or similar thermos, it's even easier — instead of simmering and infusing on the stove, you can just toss everything in the canister, pour the boiling water over it, and let it infuse for an hour or so. It's great for toasting in whatever the new year may bring, or for just getting you through a snuffly night.

Citrus and Ginger Hot Toddy

yields ~8 servings

3 meyer lemons (2 juiced, 1 sliced)
2 mandarins (1 juiced, 1 sliced)
~2-3 inches fresh ginger (depending upon the thickness), thinly sliced
~a dozen juniper berries, thwacked with a knife to bruise them (optional)
a few shakes bitters
1/4 cup honey
scant 8 cups boiling water
bourbon

If you have an airpot/thermos, place the citrus (slices and juice), ginger, juniper berries, and bitters in the pot. Place the honey in a heat-proof dish, and pour about a half-cup of the boiling water in to dissolve, then pour that in as well. Add the remaining boiling water to top it off, then cover and let infuse for about an hour (if you don't have an airpot, you can just simmer things on the stove). Serve with an optional slug of bourbon on the side.

Rosemary Hazelnut Cheese Shortbread Crackers

As I've made quite clear, I've got nothing against a sweet, buttery cookie. But this time of year, the sweets, they stack up. Sometimes when you head to a party, you want to bring a nibble that's a bit more savory. Like these cheese crackers.

For some reason, people seem to think it's hard to make crackers. But these are really just a riff on shortbread — a whole lot of butter and cheese, bound with flour and whatever additions or flavorings you want. I went with some front-yard rosemary and leftover Oregon hazelnuts, but the options are endless (walnuts, paprika, blue cheese, etc.). I brought them to a past-my-bedtime party (on a schoolnight!) last night, nicely packaged in a repurposed sauerkraut jar, where they were promptly demolished. Because clearly, it is cracker season.

Rosemary Hazelnut Cheese Shortbread Crackers

adapted, roughly, from Garde Manger: The Art and Craft of the Cold Kitchen
yields ~4 dozen small crackers, though yield will vary depending upon size

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
8 ounces grated cheese (I used a mix of sharp cheddar, aged gouda, and a wee bit of Romano)
1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary leaves
1 teaspoon coarse salt (or less, if your cheese is particularly salty)
1 cup all-purpose flour
scant 1/2 cup chopped hazelnuts

In a large bowl or a stand mixer, beat together the butter, cheese and rosemary until well combined (using a paddle attachment or a wooden spoon). Add the salt and flour, mix well, then add the nuts. Mix until it comes together into a smooth dough (you can sprinkle in a bit of water if needed — mine didn't).

Roll the dough into two logs (of the diameter you favor for crackers — I went with ~ 1 1/2-inch), and wrap in parchment or plastic. Chill in the refrigerator until firm, at least one hour (and overnight is fine too, if it works better).

When you're ready to bake, preheat your oven to 325° Fahrenheit. Line two baking sheets with parchment, or grease them well. With a sharp knife, slice into thin rounds (~1/4-inch), and place on the cookie sheet with a bit of space between (they shouldn't spread that much). Bake until lightly golden on the edges, ~15-20 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool fully, then store in an airtight container until party time.

Berber Omelet

The good thing about having friends who travel (other than the fetching little terra cotta cazuelas they send back) is getting a source of new culinary inspiration. Earlier in the year, my friends posted a picture of a Berber omelet they enjoyed in Morocco, right on the edge of the Sahara. Seeing the combination of some of my favorite things (namely eggs and olives), I decided to recreate. So I did a little online culinary research (which is sort of like travel, except, you know, not quite as much fun), and came up with a version of my own. And it was fantastic. You can find the recipe, along with my general treatise on the redemption of breakfast-for-dinner, over at NPR's Kitchen Window.

Almond-Covered Thumbprint Cookies

I once heard about a book that espoused a particularly appealing version of the "balanced diet" approach to weight loss. Say you want to have a milkshake? Well, it advised, have a milkshake! Just have a small one. And not every day. And accompany it with a big pile of steamed broccoli, and call it dinner.

At the time, I remember thinking that sounded great. Not as some sort of balanced system of penance and reward — simply because I like both of those items a whole lot, and a meal composed of the two would be across-the-board wonderful. It's often what I default to, especially when nobody else is around to mitigate. To whit: for a recent solo dinner, I ended up roasting and eating a pound of Brussels sprouts, followed by a few fresh-from-the-oven buttery, jammy cookies. And it was great.

I recommend these cookies as part of anyone's balanced brassica-filled meal. I've made thumbprint cookies before of a more hippie, oat-and-whole-grain-filled sort. I like that variation, but these have a buttery simplicity that's hard to beat. A rich, plain short dough, rolled in almonds that toast up in the oven, then filled with jam (in this case, a runny undercooked raspberry version I'd made, which was perfect for the task). Even without the Brussels sprouts, they more than hold their own.

Almond-Covered Thumbprint Cookies

adapted from Nikole Herriott, via Lottie and Doof
yields ~20 cookies

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1/2 cup white sugar
1 egg, separated (I used two smallish eggs, which worked great)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
scant 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
3/4 cups raw almonds, chopped (you want them small enough to adhere to cookies, but big enough to provide a nice bite)
~ 1/4 cup jam of your choosing (raspberry is especially nice)

Preheat your oven to 325° Fahrenheit. Line two baking sheets with parchment, or grease them well.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar together until well-mixed and fluffy. Add the egg yolk and vanilla, and beat until well mixed. Stir in the flour and salt, and mix until the dough just comes together (you can add a spoonful of water if needed).

Scoop your dough out into generous tablespoons and roll into balls (you should have about 20).  Lightly whisk the egg whites, and places the almonds in a shallow bowl. Roll each dough ball in the egg whites to coat, then in the chopped almonds (you can use a little pressure if needed to make them adhere). Place the cookies on sheet, with a bit of space between them (they shouldn't spread all that much).

Press on each cookie, to flatten into a chubby disk. Using your thumb, or the handle of a wooden spoon, make a nice wide intent in the center of each cookie. Spoon a bit of jam into each indent (you may not be able to fit much more than a generous 1/4 teaspoon). Bake in the preheated oven until just beginning to turn lightly golden, ~15 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool. Best eaten in the first day or two.