Memories Found in a Puckery Lemon Tart

This past Mother's Day brought forth a flood of memories of the women in my family, many of whom have passed on but who left indelible impressions. Some are as sharp as the high heels my mother loved to wear, others as soft as the pastel-colored housedresses my father's mother wore. Many, for me—as I'm sure will come as a surprise to no one—involved food: my maternal grandmother's rhubarb sauce that my grandfather heaped sugar on; the batches of cabbage rolls that my dad's family called "hoblich," an invariable feature at any gathering; my own mother's love of fruit desserts and pies.

My mother in party mode.

The one dessert that she adored but never felt that she mastered, at least according to her exacting standards—my Kentucky-raised friend Kathryn would interject "bless her heart" here—was lemon meringue pie. I recall many of these cloud-topped confections parading through my young life, but for my mom there was always a meringue that pulled away from the crust, even if only a little, or it bore too many overly browned curlicues on its tips, or the curd was too sweet or too tart.

No matter how many compliments were showered on her efforts, she'd turn them away by pointing out its shortcomings or by saying, "Oh, you should try my friend Eleanor's, she makes the best lemon meringue." In other words, it was a fraught topic for her.

A simple lemon tart to love.

I, on the other hand, was more than happy to gobble up any and all "mistakes," major or minor. If the smooth lemony curd made the back of my tongue tingle, all the better. If its sweetness cut the lemon's tang, I can't remember minding. Ditto with any meringue issues.

These recollections came rushing back recently when Dave was experimenting with a lemon tart recipe from Cook's Illustrated, following on the heels of his apple galette epiphany. The curd is smooth and has just the right tang of lemon, the crust is short and not-too-sweet, and a dollop of whipped cream obviates any potential meringue traumas.

I think my mother would approve.

Lemon Olive Oil Tart

Adapted from Cook's Illustrated

For the crust:

1 1/2 cups (7 1/2 oz.) flour

5 Tbsp. (2 1/4 oz.) sugar

1/2 tsp. kosher salt

1/2 c. olive oil

2 Tbsp. water

For the filling:

1 c. (7 oz.) sugar

2 Tbsp. flour

1/4 tsp. kosher salt

3 eggs plus 3 yolks

1 Tbsp. grated lemon zest plus 1/2 cup juice (approx. 3 lemons)

1/4 c. olive oil

Make sure that all your metal equipment—saucepan, strainer and whisk—is nonreactive, or the filling may have a metallic flavor.

For the crust: Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350°. Whisk flour, sugar and salt together in bowl. Add oil and water and stir until uniform dough forms. Using your hands, crumble three-quarters of dough over bottom of 9-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Press dough to even thickness in bottom of pan. Crumble remaining dough and scatter evenly around edge of pan, then press crumbled dough into fluted sides of pan. Press dough to even thickness. Place pan on rimmed baking sheet and bake until crust is deep golden brown and firm to touch, 30 to 35 minutes, rotating pan halfway through baking.

For the filling: About 5 minutes before crust is finished baking, whisk sugar, flour and salt in medium saucepan until combined. Whisk in eggs and yolks until no streaks of egg remain. Whisk in lemon zest and juice. Cook over medium-low heat, whisking constantly and scraping corners of saucepan, until mixture thickens slightly and registers 160°, 5 to 8 minutes.

Off the heat, whisk in oil until incorporated. Strain curd through fine-mesh strainer set over bowl. Pour curd into warm tart shell.

Bake until filling is set and barely jiggles when pan is shaken, 8 to 12 minutes. Let tart cool completely on wire rack, at least 2 hours. Remove outer metal ring of tart pan. Slide thin metal spatula between tart and pan bottom, then carefully slide tart onto serving platter. Cut tart into wedges, wiping knife clean between cuts if necessary, and serve. (Leftovers can be wrapped loosely in plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to 3 days.)

Touching Up My Roots: Spanish Rice

It was appropriate that, when going through my recipe box the other day, I ran across my mom's recipe for Spanish rice. Appropriate because it's been almost exactly ten years since she passed away suddenly, ten years during which I think of her almost every day, sometimes fleetingly, sometimes with a pang when I run across a spectacular rose on my walk through the neighborhood and think, "Oh, she'd love the blush on this one!" (She had a particular thing for roses, which she grew in abundance at my parents' home in The Dalles.)

My mother (r), me as a teenager (l).

For me, food has always been a connection to her, though not in the way that most food writers speak about their Jewish or Greek or African American grandmothers passing on generations of food culture to their offspring. My mother was a practical cook who came of age in the post-World War II switch to convenience food, when if you had a family of five to feed you bought ground hamburger, cans of vegetables, boxes of cake mix and Bisquick. Not that she couldn't "put up" multitudes of jars of fruit with her dark blue graniteware canner or use two dinner knives to cut up butter and Crisco, producing what I still remember as pie crusts that any pastry chef would envy.

But her milieu was the middle American cooking of Betty Crocker and Ladies Home Journal, the advice of practical how-to guides of the time like Joy of Cooking. So we grew up on dinners like tuna casserole and Swiss steak, with the occasional exotic soupçon of tacos made with hamburger browned in packaged taco seasoning or a "goulash"—more hamburger spiced with chili powder and tossed with frozen corn and noodles.

My recipe box, broken lid and all.

I still have—and make—my mom's recipes for pineapple carrot cake and potato salad. Though I've switched to James Beard as inspiration for my macaroni and cheese, and I've updated her tuna casserole with Oregon albacore and chanterelles rather than Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. So when I found that recipe card for her Spanish rice, it begged for some zhuzhing, too. It occurred to me, when browning the hamburger and pondering the origin of the name, that it bears a certain distant, Americanized resemblance to paella. Adding a handful of chopped Spanish olives (we keep them around for martinis on Friday evenings), switching the green bell pepper for a poblano pepper and adding a good dose of smoked paprika made a passable, and quick, version I think she'd approve of.

Spanish Rice

2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 lb. hamburger
1 yellow onion, cut in 1/4" dice
1 poblano pepper, seeded and chopped in 1/4" dice
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp. smoked paprika (Spanish pimenton)
1 c. rice
1/2 c. Spanish green olives, chopped (optional)
2 c. roasted tomatoes, puréed (or tomato sauce)

1 3/4 c. water

2 tsp. salt (or to taste)

Heat the oil in a deep skillet over medium-high heat. Brown the hamburger, breaking it up into a fine crumble as it browns. Add the onion and sauté until tender, then add the poblano pepper and garlic and sauté until tender. Add the paprika, rice and olives and stir to combine, then add the puréed tomatoes, water and salt. Bring to a simmer, reduce heat to low, cover tightly and cook until rice is done, 20 to 30 minutes.

Homemade Granola: You'll Love It, Guaranteed

It's Thanksgiving week, and all the foodie media outlets are trying to sell you their take on the holiday meal. "37 side dishes your family will love!" "Vegans coming for Thanksgiving? You don't have to kick 'em outside to enjoy your meal in peace." "Pumpkin pie like you've never seen it before!"

And on and on and on.

But what about all the other meals you have to make over the very long weekend for all those visiting relatives and friends? No one talks about that, do they?

Well, I'm jumping in with the easiest of easy things to make to get all those people off to a hearty start on their day, and they'll even be able to serve themselves so you don't have to get up and commence rattling pans and cracking eggs. Plus even after all those people are gone and the house is quiet again you can make it for yourself and your family and freeze it for enjoying whenever you like.

This recipe was created by my mom for the now-legendary Shakers Café, my brother's restaurant in the nascent Pearl District that boasted long lines and bellies full of classic American food. You can make it as is, or add your own mix of nuts and dried fruits or serve it plain with a smorgasbord of condiments to customize the mix. It's great with milk or yogurt or all by itself, but the best part is that the work will be done ahead and you can sit back and accept the flood of compliments.

Janet Bauer's Shakers Café Granola

1/2 c. butter or margarine
1 1/2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. vanilla
3 oz. orange juice
2/3 c. honey
8 c. rolled oats
3/4 c. brown sugar
1 1/4 c. sunflower seeds
1/2 c. wheat germ (optional)
1 1/4 c. coconut
1 c. walnuts
2/3 c. slivered almonds
2 c. raisins, currants or other dried fruit

Preheat oven to 325°.

Melt butter in small saucepan. When melted, remove from heat and stir in cinnamon, vanilla, orange juice and honey.

In large mixing bowl, combine remaining ingredients except raisins. Add honey mixture and stir till moistened. Spread on cookie sheet and bake for 30 min. Remove from oven, reducing heat to 300°, and turn with spatula. Return to oven and bake for 25 min., checking every few minutes to make sure granola does not burn. Cool thoroughly and store in quart zip-lock bags. [I keep them in the freezer until needed. - KAB]

Crunchy Granola. Sweet!

Bittman's all over it on Bitten. Bloggers are going nuts (pun intended) trying to one-up each other with wacky additions like marshmallows and exotic spices. (Star anise? Please!)

Not to get all editorial, but granola is the perfect food for hard times, whether those are economic, emotional or otherwise. It's hearty in a stick-to-your-ribs, carry-you-through kind of way. It's less expensive to make than to buy at the store. It tastes way better than anything you'll find in a box. And it's sweet, always a boon in tough situations.

You can eat it for breakfast, grab a handful between meals or sprinkle it on any number of food items like fruit or ice cream. Though I'd avoid eating it in bed, since those hard bits would be unpleasant to roll onto. Not to mention finding them embedded in your armpit in the morning. But I digress.

So here's my recipe for the best granola in the universe, courtesy of my mom, who developed this recipe for Shakers Café. Thanks, Mom!

Janet Bauer's Shakers Café Granola

1/2 c. butter or margarine
1 1/2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. vanilla
3 oz. orange juice
2/3 c. honey
8 c. rolled oats
3/4 c. brown sugar
1 1/4 c. sunflower seeds
1/2 c. wheat germ
1 1/4 c. coconut
1 c. walnuts
2/3 c. slivered almonds
2 c. raisins

Preheat oven to 325°.

Melt butter in small saucepan. When melted, remove from heat and stir in cinnamon, vanilla, orange juice and honey.

In large mixing bowl, combine remaining ingredients except raisins. Add honey mixture and stir till moistened. Spread on cookie sheet and bake for 30 min. Remove from oven, reducing heat to 300°, and turn oats with spatula. Place in oven and bake for 25 min., checking every few minutes to make sure granola does not burn. Cool thoroughly and store in quart zip-lock bags. [I keep them in the freezer until needed. - KAB]

My Mom Won't Be Reading My Blog

My mom has been a big fan and a regular reader of GSNW since it began more than two years ago. As soon as she heard I was writing online, she insisted that we set up her computer so she could just click in her browser bar and access both my and my brother's blogs.

While some of my "funny" comments about growing up eating tuna casserole and Spanish rice weren't always well-received, she consistently encouraged me to pursue my passions. And when I started getting regular writing gigs, there was always a call of congratulations when a column or an article appeared, and she had a file folder full of my stories that she culled from her paper.

So it was a huge shock when Wednesday morning we got a call that she had passed away suddenly during the night, and our world has been rocked ever since. We're working our way through the things you have to do when a family member passes away, like obituaries, canceling subscriptions and endless paperwork.

I still can't make my brain realize that this vivacious, ferocious, funny and intelligent person is gone. That I can't just pick up the phone and tell her how weird it feels because the line has somehow been cut. With time I know the sadness may ebb and the memories will grow stronger. But I'll still miss my biggest fan.

Photo by Steve Bloch, May '08.

Committing Hummus-cide

Hummus, in my view, is a much-maligned quantity. It was the barely edible, dry stuff you brought to parties in college because it was "ethnic" but in reality was a cheap way to feed your friends. And there are still very few who make a decent version, outside of Middle-Eastern restaurants like Ya Hala or Hoda's who also make their own pita bread.

I'd give my own efforts an "OK" rating back then and, even at that, it was way better than most of the stuff sold at even our most effete grocery stores, which range from chemical-tasting to having that certain je-ne-sais-quoi cardboard flavor.

Then all was made better by a recipe that my parents brought back from their pre-retirement sojourn in Liberia (yes, in Africa) where they met several Lebanese couples, teachers at the college they were working for. My mother, being a resourceful sort and knowing a good thing when she tasted it, begged a couple of recipes from them that she shared when she eventually returned home.

Ever since, our lives and the success of many a gathering have been aided and abetted by her ingenuity. I hope you agree her efforts weren't in vain.

Hummus

Taratoor sauce:
2 small garlic cloves
1/2 c. tahini paste (sesame butter)
1/4 c. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. salt

Hummus:
1 15-oz can garbanzo beans or 2 c. cooked beans
2 tsp. salt
3 garlic cloves
1/4 c. lemon juice

You can make this in one step by placing all the ingredients in the food processor and processing till it all turns to a smooth consistency. Add water if necessary to keep it blending (I don't). Garnish with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of paprika (or better yet, Spanish pimenton) or the traditional sumac.

The taratoor by itself makes a terrific sauce for pork or meats, or drizzle it over rice, vegetables or appetizers like stuffed grape leaves.