Celebrate Local Cranberries with This Cranberry Tart

Oregon cranberries are one of those somewhat under-the-radar crops though, in fact, cranberries are native to the Northwest. The berries have been harvested by indigenous people for millenia and were (and still are) used fresh and dried in many traditional foods. They were traded widely among First Nation people on traditional trade routes, along with salmon and other products.

Cranberry bog.

Cranberries were first grown commercially in Oregon by Charles McFarlin, who settled in Coos County after failing, like so many others, to make a fortune during the Gold Rush of the late 1800s. He planted vines he brought from Massachusetts, later developing a variety known as McFarlin that is still grown today.

Most of the state's cranberries are grown in Coos and Curry counties on the South Coast and, at nearly 3,000 acres and accounting for 95 percent of the state's production, it's just five percent of the nation's commercial harvest. Most cranberry growers are heavily reliant on pesticides and herbicides to control insects and weeds that can devastate crops, but there's a growing number of farmers who are transitioning to organic methods.

Cranberry harvest.

While small in number, organic cranberry farmers are joining forces and sharing successes and challenges, according to an article from Oregon Tilth, one of the region's largest organic certifying agencies. It says that state agricultural agencies, which normally provide support to farmers, are almost exclusively geared to conventional growers and aren't up to speed on the specific needs and challenges of organic farmers, so this homegrown network of organic growers has become critical to the success and availability of locally grown, organic cranberries.

Many family farms grow cranberries.

“It’s been a steep learning curve,” according to cranberry farmer Richard Schmidt, who is quoted in the article and, with his wife, Pam Schmidt, owns Schmidt Berries in Bandon. “We’ve really relied on our neighbor, Ty Vincent, and his dad, Bill Vincent [of Vincent Family Cranberries]. They were the ones that put the farm into transition [to organic] after 30-plus years of traditional practice. It’s their expertise and practical experience that have made our new inexperienced farmer reality much easier. They are the essence of succession in a community. We’d never really been farmers before, and had never lived or farmed on the Oregon coast…we mainly rely on our neighbors. We’ll help them harvest, and they help us harvest. They’re organic too, so we can share equipment, which is kind of nice.”

You can find local, organic cranberries at some stores and area farmers' markets, and I can't say enough about the flavor of these ruby-colored jewels in jams, chutneys, sauces and, of course, pastries. This recipe for a cranberry tart is one of those can't-miss, smash hits that has been the raved-about culmination of two dinners so far this season!

Cranberry Tart

For the pastry:
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1 stick plus 2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1/3 c. ice water

For the filling:
1 lb. cranberries, preferably locally grown
1 scant c. sugar
2 Tbsp. orange liqueur (triple sec, Cointreau, Grand Marnier, etc.)
2 Tbsp. cornstarch
Zest of 1/2 large orange
Egg white (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375°.

In a food processor, combine the flour with the sugar, salt and butter and process for about 5 seconds. With the processor running, drizzle in the ice water over the flour mixture until the pastry just begins to come together, about 10 seconds. Transfer the pastry to a work surface, gather it together and pat into a disk. Wrap the pastry in plastic or wax paper and refrigerate until chilled, about one hour.

Ready for the oven.

Just before the dough finishes chilling, place cranberries in a large bowl and add sugar, liqueur, cornstarch and orange zest. Remove dough from refrigerator and place on well-floured surface. Roll out into large round approximately 14-15" in diameter. Transfer to large, parchment-covered baking sheet (I usually fold the dough in half very carefully, transfer it to the sheet and unfold it). Brush the bottom of the dough with a very thin coating of egg white to within 4" of the edge. Place cranberry filling in the middle, keeping it within 3-4" of the edge of the dough. Lift the edges of the dough and fold over on top of filling, pleating it slightly to keep the tart's rounded shape. An option here is to brush the dough with egg white and sprinkle it with sugar to give it a shiny appearance.

Place in oven and bake at 375° for one hour or so until filling is bubbling and crust is golden.

Photo of cranberry bog from USDA. Photos of harvest from Vincent Family Cranberries.

Company's Coming: Gluten-Free Fruit Crisp, Anyone?

We've all been there. A good friend or beloved relative is coming to dinner, someone who has a dietary restriction, whether chosen—vegan, wheat-free, vegetarian, religious—or unchosen, like an allergy to nuts, wheat, garlic, sugar, etc., or an intolerance to certain foods. And I don't know about you, but my initail reaction is to freeze up when it comes to planning the menu.

This happened recently when a couple we've known for years were coming over, one of whom has ascertained over the years that her system doesn't respond well to gluten. It's not celiac disease, just as my husband's intolerance to lactose isn't life-threatening; it's just something that makes for a "rumbly tumbly," as Winnie-the-Pooh would say.

Gluten-free crumble topping? Done!

The main dish was easy—they're meat-eaters, and I'd just bought a grass-fed sirloin tip roast from Carman Ranch that I was planning to slice open, slather with a sorrel-shallot-rosemary-fennel pollen mixture, then roll up and rotisserie. An Astiana tomato risotto using tomato stock from the 120 pounds I'd roasted this summer, and a castelfranco chicory salad with Caesar dressing were easy decisions.

But then…dessert.

Ready to pop in the oven!

Virtually every dessert we normally make has some flour in it. Tarts, pies, crisps, cakes, all flour-dependent. Sorbet was an option, made with the scads of berries I had squirreled away in the freezer, but we were short on time for it to freeze properly. A trip to the store to buy a commercial sorbet was my back-pocket solution, but could I come up with a gluten-free dessert that wouldn't require (another) trip to the store? (The short on time element, remember?)

A search for "gluten free crumble" led to a recipe on the Kitchn website for a gluten-free topping that merely required grinding up oats in the food processor until they were the consistency of flour. Score! Their recipe (in my humble opinion) resulted in a clumpy product that didn't appeal to me, so I ground the oats in the processor and used the "flour" as a substitute for the flour called for in my family's crisp recipe, along with the usual suspects: brown sugar, oats, cinnamon and butter or margarine.

Delicious! A crisp for the ages.

The result was a virtual identical twin of the original recipe, especially glorious because I used a combination of frozen marionberries from our neighbor's garden and equally incredible Chester blackberries from Ayers Creek Farm—and the splash of Cointreau in the berries didn't hurt, either. And for the full-gluten experience, you can feel free to substitute one cup of all-purpose flour for the oat flour below.

Gluten-Free Berry Crisp

For the topping:
1 c. oat flour (see instructions, below)
3/4 c. uncooked rolled oats
1 c. brown sugar
1 Tbsp. cinnamon
1/2 c. melted butter or margarine

For the filling:
4-6 c. berries
1 c. sugar
2 Tbsp. cornstarch
1/4 c. Cointreau, triple sec or eau de vie

Make the oat flour by processing 1 1/4 cups of uncooked rolled oats in the food processor until it has a flour-like consistency. Mix the oat flour together with the other dry ingredients in a medium-sized bowl. Pour in melted butter or margarine and stir with fork to combine. Set aside.

Place berries in large mixing bowl. Add sugar, liqueur and cornstarch and mix thoroughly. Put in 9” by 12” baking pan. Scatter topping mixture over the top and bake in 350 degree oven for 50 min. to 1 hr. until bubbling.

Breakfast? Dessert? Company? Try This Versatile Olive Oil Cake!

I've been posting contributor Jim Dixon's recipes for years, and his approach to cooking with whatever's in season with minimal fuss is right up my alley. Right now he's expanding Real Good Food's selection of imported and local goodness—olive oil, spices, vinegars, sauces, etc.—and moving to a new location in order to bring more tastiness to Portland's tables. More on his grand opening in a future post, but for now here's his latest twist on a classic olive oil cake!

Olive Oil Cake with Fennel Pollen

I adapted this recipe from Tenuta di Capezzana, the Tuscan winery and olive oil producer, and it uses more extra virgin olive oil than any other olive oil cake recipe I've seen.

3 eggs
1 1/2 c. sugar
1 1/2 c. extra-virgin olive oil
1 1/2 c. milk
2 c. whole wheat flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. sea salt
2 Tbsp. fennel pollen*

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

Cut a circle of parchment paper to fit a 12-inch cake pan (I usually make this in a 12-inch cast iron skillet); drizzle some olive oil into the pan, then place the parchment paper and slide it around so it’s well-oiled.

Blend the eggs and sugar together in a medium-sized bowl, then stir in the olive oil and milk. In another large bowl combine the flour, baking powder, salt and fennel pollen. Make a well in the dry ingredients, and slowly add the egg mixture, stirring just until blended.

Do not over mix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan on top of the parchment paper.

Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, 50 to 55 minutes. Let the cake cool completely, then loosen the sides with a knife, and invert onto a serving plate (hold the plate against cake pan and flip…hopefully it will come out in one piece). Remove the parchment paper, slice, and eat.

* In response to a question posed on Facebook about the taste of fennel pollen, Jim had this to say: "Fennel pollen, more accurately called fiore di finocchio in Italian since it contains bits of flower and pollen, has the same flavor as fennel seed but a bit more delicate. It's a key ingredient in porchetta, and the stuff we sell at Real Good Food comes from Monte San Savino in Tuscany, where a lot of the roadside porchetta trucks get their stuffed suckling pig roasts. I like it on salmon, too."

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.)

Citrus Sorbet: Tangerine Dream

I've said before that we don't go out to eat very much, preferring instead to cook here at home. For one thing, since Dave developed a lactose intolerance, eating out means barraging our poor server with a constant stream of "Is there butter or fresh cheese in that?" with inevitable trips to the kitchen for said server to inquire whether, for instance, the bagels have milk in them. (Lots do.)

We're also asked well-meaning questions, such as "Is mayo okay?" I've been puzzling about this one, since mayonnaise is just eggs, oil, vinegar (or lemon) and salt, but maybe people remember the old food pyramid where eggs and dairy were lumped in together.

But I digress.

When we do manage a meal away from home and get past the quiz show portion of the evening—"Bob, tell our contestants what they've won!"—there are often discoveries of new ingredients and nuances of preparation we can take home to experiment with. The other evening at Xico, for instance, the meal ended with a spectacular tangerine sorbet that was so fresh and bright it was like biting into a just-peeled wedge of citrus.

It was the perfect thing to bring home since, not only was it dairy-free, it was stunningly simple and delicious. With ice cream an obvious no-go in our dessert repertoire, Dave has become somewhat of a sorbet savant with his trusty Cuisinart ice cream maker, concocting variations on sorbets from berries, peaches and other seasonal delights. (Recipes here.)

A bit of paging through my collection of Mexican cookbooks and a scan through online recipes gave us a good base to start from, particularly David Lebovitz' version, though we eschewed his suggested addition of corn syrup sweetener.

Result? A fresh, bright sorbet we can make here at home that doesn't beg any questions!

Tangerine Sorbet

4 c. freshly squeezed tangerine juice
1 c. (200g) sugar
Zest of two tangerines
2 tsp. orange liqueur, such as triple sec, Cointreau or Grand Marnier

Mix 1 cup of the juice with the sugar and heat, stirring occasionally until the sugar is completely dissolved. Remove from heat and pour the mixture back into the reserved tangerine juice. Add the zest and the orange liqueur.

Chill the mixture thoroughly (Lebovitz says at least 8 hours or overnight but I put it in the freezer for 45 minutes, then the refrigerator for 4 hours or so). Churn the tangerine sorbet mixture in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Simply Spectacular: Jacques' Apple Galette

We're not picky eaters or fussy cooks around here. Simple recipes using good—preferably organic and locally grown—ingredients that don't take a lot of time to prepare are the ones we go back to again and again. Recipes by celebrity chefs are usually avoided, since they tend to be far too complicated and ego-driven ("Hey, watch me do a back-flip while I sauté these onions!") to make it onto our roster, plus we've found they are often not carefully tested for home cooks who may not have the equipment found in professional kitchens.

Into the oven it goes!

There are a few old-time chefs whose recipes I know I can depend on to be a success, like those from Julia Child, James Beard and Jacques Pépin. Pépin has been making a regular appearance in our kitchen lately, since Dave has been volunteering to make dessert when company comes or there's a gathering that warrants a little something post-feast.

Pépin's apple galette, from his book Heart and Soul in the Kitchen, is a stunningly simple feat, with a processor pastry crust that comes out of the oven a masterpiece of flaky crispness, and a filling that's just chopped and sliced apples sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and drizzled with honey.

Light and lovely, with a charmingly rustic look—what can I say but, "Parfait! Et merci, Jacques!'

Rustic Apple Galette
Adapted from Heart and Soul in the Kitchen by Jacques Pépin

For the pastry:
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1 stick plus 2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1/3 c. ice water

For the filling:
4 apples (tart and flavorful heritage apples work well)
2 Tbsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 Tbsp. honey, preferably wildflower
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Preheat the oven to 400°.

In a food processor, combine the flour with the sugar, salt and butter and process for about 5 seconds. Sprinkle the ice water over the flour mixture and process until the pastry just begins to come together, about 10 seconds; you should still be able to see small pieces of butter in it. Transfer the pastry to a work surface, gather it together and pat into a disk. Wrap the pastry in plastic or wax paper and refrigerate until chilled, about one hour. (You can also roll out the pastry and use it right away or make it ahead and refrigerate overnight.)

Peel, halve and core the apples and slice them crosswise 1/4" thick. Set aside the larger center slices and coarsely chop the end slices and any broken ones; about half of the slices should be chopped. In a small bowl, combine the sugar and cinnamon.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the pastry to a 12" by 14" rectangle and transfer to a large rimmed baking sheet. Spread the chopped apples over the pastry to within 1" of the edge. Drizzle the honey over the chopped apples. Decoratively arrange the apple slices on top in concentric circles or in slightly overlapping rows. Sprinkle the cinnamon sugar evenly over the apples and dot with the pieces of butter. Fold the pastry edge up and over the apples to create a 1-inch border.

Bake the galette for about 1 hour, until the pastry is nicely browned and crisp and all of the apples are tender. Transfer the pan to a rack and let the galette cool. Serve warm or at room temperature.

In a Slump? Just Add Peaches!

On our first camping trip of the summer, Dave baked perfect blueberry scones in his giant, footed cast iron Dutch oven—I found out it's named "Ol' Dutch" from the masking tape stuck to its carrier—and hash browns and eggs over the open fire on his as-yet-unnamed Lodge griddle.

He also had plans to make a peach slump in yet another, smaller Dutch oven ("Li'l Dutch"?), for which we'd lugged it and the four-and-a-half pounds of Baird Family Orchards fruit on our second trip of the summer. Unfortunately fate intervened when I threw out my back, forcing us to return home a day early.

Adding the dumpling topping.

Undaunted, with peaches ripening rapidly and temperatures soaring into the high nineties, it was untenable to turn on the oven, so he fired up the campstove in the back yard. It was both a great dry run for the recipe, which he borrowed from Corey Schreiber and Julie Richardson's classic Rustic Fruit Desserts, and a chance to find out exactly what a "slump" is. (Though originally we had been perfectly willing to try it out on our camp-mates, since we never shy away from experimenting on our friends.)

With peaches oozing out when served, it's divine.

A slump is defined by the authors as a "simple steamed pudding" similar to a cobbler but made on the stovetop rather than in the oven. In the case of this recipe, the fruit is mixed with sugar and cornstarch then cooked briefly to activate the cornstarch and thicken the mixture, then a very wet biscuit dough (resembling a batter) is spooned on top, covered and simmered. The result is a soft, dumpling-like top rather than the drier, browned biscuit-y topping on a cobbler, but this version has a lovely lightness to it that would pair well with cream or crème fraiche.

And yes, you can expect it to appear on some future outdoor excursion. Stay tuned!

Peach Slump
Adapted from Rustic Fruit Desserts

For the fruit:
4 1/2 lbs. peaches
3/4 c. sugar
3 Tbsp. cornstarch
1/2 tsp. salt
2 Tbsp. lemon juice

For the topping:
1 c. all-purpose (AP) flour
1/2 c. unsifted cake flour
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. cardamom
1/2 c. (1 cube) cold unsalted butter, cut in 1/2" cubes
1 c. buttermilk or milk

Peel, pit and slice the peaches, making sure to do this over a large mixing bowl so you can collect all the juices. Separately, in a small bowl, mix the sugar, cornstarch and salt, then add to the peaches with the lemon juice. Scrape peach mixture into a 10-12" non-reactive skillet or Dutch oven with a tight-fitting lid. Let stand for 15 min.

Over medium-low heat, bring the mixture to a low simmer, gently stirring it occasionally to prevent sticking. Simmer for 2 minutes until slightly thickened. Remove from heat.

Mix the flours, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and cardamom together in a large mixing bowl. Add the butter and toss until evenly coated. Using a pastry blender, cut in the butter until it is the size of peas. Add buttermilk or milk and stir until the mixture just comes together (it will be a wet dough).

With a large spoon or ladle, place the dough on top of the fruit in 8 or so portions, distributing it evenly over the fruit. Return to the stovetop and bring to a gentle simmer over low heat. Cover and simmer for another 18 to 20 minutes, or until the dough is puffy and cooked through when tested with a toothpick or bamboo skewer. Remove from heat, uncover and let cool for 15 minutes before serving.

If you want to make this on a camping trip, Dave recommends mixing the dry ingredients for the topping together and placing them in a gallon zip-lock bag, then taking the milk, butter, sugar, cornstarch and lemon (or lemon juice) separately, as well as pans, pastry blender, measuring spoons, mixing bowls, etc. As pictured in the photos, it's super easy to make on a two-burner camp stove.

Rhubarb and Carrot Olive Oil Cake

Like contributor Jim Dixon of Real Good Food, I grew up eating stewed rhubarb in the spring, and was even known to gnaw on a raw stalk once in awhile. In adulthood, chewing on the raw product has gone by the wayside, but having as much as I can is still a priority at this time of the year.

Every year when I see the first rhubarb at the farmers market I'm reminded again that I didn't plant some in my own garden. The one year I did remember, I was too late; I planted the crown in the fall and never saw it again (early spring is the time…I could've looked it up). Rhubarb is my favorite pie filling, and I grew up eating bowls of it simply stewed with sugar. These days I mostly roast it with olive oil, usually with either honey or cane syrup.

But I'm occasionally inspired to do more. After making Nigella Lawson's Venetian carrot cake and liking the unusual, not-too-sweet and very Italian dessert, I thought it would be a good vehicle for eating more rhubarb.

Grate a medium-sized carrot and put the results on a paper towel to soak up some of the liquid. Cut 6 to 7 stalks of rhubarb into half inch pieces (about 2 cups or so). I mixed together a half cup each of cane syrup and extra virgin olive oil (sorry Nigella, but if you don't use extra virgin olive oil you might as well use plain vegetable oil), then added 3 eggs, a teaspoon of vanilla, a shot of bourbon, and the zest and juice from a smallish lemon.

I stirred in about 2 cups of almond flour and added the grated carrot and sliced rhubarb. Parchment paper got cut into a circle to fit a 7-inch cast iron skillet (a cake pan or pie tin would be fine), and I drizzled a little more extra virgin over it to grease the pan. I poured in the thick batter, added a generous sprinkle of blanched, slivered almonds to the top, and baked it at 350° F for about 45 minutes. Nigella calls for a topping of mascarpone with powdered sugar and rum (or bourbon, for my version), but I like a little whipped cream with cane syrup and whiskey.

Rhubarb is also awesome in other desserts, made into syrup or mixed in a cocktail…check out these other fantastic rhubarb recipes!

End of Summer Prune Crisp (Yes…Prune. Not Plum!)

Planted as street trees all over Portland in the late 1800s and early 1900s, Italian prunes were as synonymous with this city as the rose is today. By 1927, one source indicates, there were 55,000 acres of Italian prunes growing on farms in Oregon and Clark County, Washington. Despite the efforts of marketing types to rebrand them as plums—prunes being associated with the dried fruit used by elderly folk to aid…um…digestion—they are being grown by farmers all over the state to this day.

I love eating them out of hand and spitting out the pits (yes, I'm still five years old), but I also love them in desserts. The Italian prune crisp pictured above is one of my favorites, plucked, if you will, from my mother's 1950s-era Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook. So simple, it just involves pitting and slicing the fruit, sprinkling it with cinnamon and a mixture of flour, butter and sugar, then popping it the oven. The perfect no-muss, no-fuss, one-pan "modern housewife's" recipe.

Click here for more information on the history of these prunes in Oregon.

Italian Prune Crisp

For the filling:
4-6 c. Italian prunes, pitted and quartered
3/4 c. sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 c. water or fruit liqueur like cassis, triple sec, etc.

For the topping:
3/4 c. flour
1 c. sugar
1/3 c. butter or margarine

Preheat oven to 350°.

Place fruit in 9" by 12" pyrex baking dish. Sprinkle with sugar, cinnamon and salt. Drizzle with water or liqueur.

Put flour, sugar and margarine in bowl of food processor. Pulse until the consistency of cornmeal. (If doing by hand, blend by hand with a metal pastry blender.) Sprinkle evenly over fruit. Bake for 40 min. or until bubbling.

Rhubarb Crisp: A Blast from the Past

"Planning, preparing and serving meals is an art which develops through inspiration and thought. It may look difficult to the beginner, but like driving a car, swimming or anything we learn to do without thought or conscious effort, it is a skill which grows easier with the doing."

Perky, positive phrases like these, along with recipes for "Wheaties Ting-a-Lings," "Hollywood Dunk" and "Veal Supreme"—described as "popular at Sibley Tea House, near the home of an early Minnesota governor"—littered the pages of my mother's 1955 edition of Betty Crocker's Picture Cook Book.

Meant to bolster the confidence of a new generation of middle-class housewives like my mother, saddled with preparing three meals a day for a growing family and a husband who spent his days at the office and came home expecting dinner on the table, Betty was always there with her reassuring, confident wisdom.

"Good eating brings happiness two ways. First, there is the joy and satisfaction of eating delicious, well-prepared food. Then there's the buoyant health, vitality and joy of living that comes from a wise choice of foods. Both are important to good nutrition."

Of course, we now know that Betty was an invention of one of the six milling companies that became General Mills in 1928, created for the purpose of responding to recipe requests from customers. The company decided that having a woman's name to sign the return letters would be more personal, and so combined the last name of a retired company executive with the first name "Betty," which they felt was "warm and friendly."

I'm not sure my mother bought the whole ad-speak tone of the cookbook, but both it and her mother's 1944 copy of The Joy of Cooking—which was written by an actual person, Irma Rombauer—were her kitchen workhorses.

One of my mother's favorite "Betty" recipes was for apple crisp, though rather than the granola-esque crumble topping, it had a crunchy sugar topping that contrasted so satisfyingly with the soft, warm fruit under it. I've used it for many different kinds of fruit, most recently for a wonderful rhubarb crisp that brought back vivid memories of my mother's kitchen.

Rhubarb Crisp

4 c. rhubarb, sliced into 1/2" chunks
2 Tbsp. sugar plus 1 c. for the topping
1/4 c. orange liqueur like triple sec, Harlequin or Grand Marnier
1 tsp. cinnamon
3/4 c. flour
1/3 c. frozen butter or margarine, in pieces

In medium mixing bowl, combine rhubarb, 2 Tbsp. sugar and liqueur. Set aside.

For topping, in bowl of food processor combine 1 c. sugar, flour and butter or margarine. Pulse until it is the texture of cornmeal.

Place rhubarb mixture in 9" by 12" baking dish. Sprinkle with cinnamon. Sprinkle with topping mixture from processor. Bake at 350° for 40-50 min. until fruit is bubbly and topping is slightly golden.

Gadget Guy Has A Purpose: Blueberry Sorbet

Call me slow, unobservant or simply (and perhaps more accurately) in denial, but I just realized a few months ago, after decades of marriage, that my husband is a gadget geek. It kind of snuck up on me slowly, because he doesn't buy a bunch all at once. They dribble in, one at a time every few months, each meant for a particular project. It doesn't seem like that much. At first.

The KitchenAid mixer was one he found on Craigslist for a steal, cherry-red and still in its original box, intended for his initial bread experiments. Handy for grinding meat or tomatoes, too, once we got the grinder attachment. Then he switched bread techniques, requiring the purchase of a few cast iron Dutch ovens, the better to get the kind of crusty artisan loaves he'd been dreaming of.

A soda streamer came at some point, to make soda water for cocktails and soft drinks with fruit syrups we'd made, then an ice cream maker, which he's used for sorbet and ice cream experiments. But it was the bright orange instant-read laser thermometer gun that finally got my attention, with its "pistol grip" designed to "accurately measure temperatures at a distance!"

That one I'm still trying to figure out, but I'm sure he had a good reason. After all, the other gadgets and doodads have certainly paid off in some delicious additions to our repertoire. It could be worse, right?

Dave's Blueberry Sorbet

2 pints blueberries
4 Tbsp. granulated sugar
4 Tbsp. mild-tasting honey
1 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp. lemon zest

Place all ingredients in a blender* and purée until smooth. Put a fine-mesh sieve over a medium-sized mixing bowl and, working in batches, press the purée through the sieve with a spatula. Place the mixture in the refrigerator and chill for at least an hour, then follow directions on your ice cream maker to process the sorbet.

* Some sorbet recipes call for adding a pinch of salt before puréeing, but it's terrific without.

Rite of Spring: Rhubarb Crisp

It was almost exactly five years ago that my friend Lindsey gave me cutting from her beloved rhubarb plant. It had grown to an immense size and needed to be divided, and since I'd regaled her innumerable times with my rhubarb history, she deemed me worthy of inheriting a chunk of her leafy offspring.

My initial idea to plant it on one end of our raised beds was a definite miscalculation. Within a couple of years it had almost completely taken over half the bed with its spreading branches (far left), requiring transplanting to another spot where it could leaf out with abandon.

That move, of course, set back any harvesting for another couple of years, but finally this spring I managed to pull off a few early stalks, enough to make the first rhubarb crisp of the year (right).

Rhubarb Crisp

For the topping:

1 c. flour

3/4 c. uncooked rolled oats

1 c. brown sugar

1/2 Tbsp. cinnamon

1/2 c. butter or margarine, melted

For the fruit:

4-6 c. rhubarb, cut in 1/4" slices
1 c. sugar

1/4 c. triple sec, Cointreau or other orange liqueur
2 Tbsp. cornstarch


Mix together dry ingredients in medium sized bowl. Pour in melted butter or margarine and stir with fork to distribute. When well-mixed and crumbly, scatter on top of fruit in pan.

Slice fruit into large mixing bowl. Add sugar, water, cornstarch and vanilla and mix thoroughly. Put in 9” by 12” by 2” baking pan. Scatter topping mixture evenly over the top and bake in 350 degree oven for 55 min.

Rhubarb Revelation

The first time I heard contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood refer to honey-roasted rhubarb, it was one of those slap-my-forehead moments…of course! I've seen the first stalks appear at the farmers' markets and local produce sections of the grocery store, though the plant in my garden (below) is just starting to unfurl its leaves. So wait if you can, but if you can't, grab some and get roastin'!

Around here you can depend on rhubarb to be out of the ground and ready to eat before almost anything else. We’re still a few weeks away from when you’ll be able get enough for a couple of pies from that patch on the side of your neighbor’s house, but here’s an old favorite to get you ready for that day.

I adapted this recipe from Tenuta di Capezzana, the Tuscan olive oil producer. It’s easy and incredibly delicious. Make one cake now to eat plain, then another when the rhubarb arrives.

Olive Oil Cake with Honey Roasted Rhubarb

3 eggs
2 1/2 c. sugar
1 1/2 c. extra-virgin olive oil
1 1/2 c. milk
Grated zest of 2-3 oranges or lemons
2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
Large pinch of salt
6 large rhubarb stalks

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Butter and flour a 12-inch cake pan (I usually make this in a 12-inch cast iron skillet). In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs and granulated sugar. Add the olive oil, milk and orange zest.

In another bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder and salt. Make a well in the dry ingredients, and slowly add the egg mixture, stirring just until blended. Do not over mix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan.

Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, 50 to 55 minutes. I let the cake cool in the skillet, and serve it from the pan. but you could let it to cool completely, loosen the sides with a knife, and invert onto a serving plate (hold the plate against cake pan and flip...hopefully it will come out in one piece).

Slice a half dozen or so rhubarb stalks into half inch pieces. Toss them with a few tablespoons of olive oil, then arrange on a sheet pan and drizzle with about a half cup of honey. Roast at 350° for about 20 minutes (I do the prep after the cake is in the oven, then cook the rhubarb while the cake is baking). Let cool and spoon over slices of olive oil cake.

Photo from Jim Dixon's Produce Diaries at Culinate.com.

Best and Highest Use

When it comes to the seasonal foods of the Northwest, contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood likes to keep it simple—the fewer adornments, the better to let their pure flavors come through.

Locally grown strawberries are beginning to show up in the markets, although in short supply because the spring monsoons have affected the harvest. My approach is to eat them while I can, then wait until next year. I like them almost any way except cooked (an abomination in my opinion) or combined with rhubarb (best by itself). But this approach is particularly delicious.

Strawberries with Creme Fraiche and Balsamico

Make some creme fraiche by mixing a couple of tablespoons of Nancy’s yogurt (some people use buttermilk, but Nancy’s has the live bacteria cultures necessary) with a half pint of heavy cream. Cover and leave in a warm place for at least 24 hours, then chill.

Spoon some creme fraiche into a small bowl, add a little sugar to taste (I like to use the bigger crystals, but plain sugar, maple syrup, or honey will all suffice), and drizzle with Profumi Estensi aceto balsamico (you need a true balsamic vinegar, viscous, sweet and acidic, for this; don’t use the industrial stuff, cheap red wine vinegar with caramilized sugar added sold as balsamic vinegar in the supermarket).

Rinse your berries, dip into the creme fraiche, and eat. Repeat.

Prunes or Just Plum Crazy?

Something just snapped in my head, I guess. Maybe it had something to do with that silky blue color that, when smudged, gives way to a midnight blue-black. Or the way they turn a deep ruby when cooked, looking lush and fleshy.

Italian prunes are my latest objet d'affection. And prunes they are, though some wimpy marketing types, because when people hear "prunes" they think "laxatives," are trying to relabel them plums, which they are not, or worse, sugar plums, which is insulting and just plain wrong. It's like what happened with hazelnuts. Which are, as every born and bred Oregonian knows, the humble filbert rebranded to sound more sophisticated. But I digress.

I've made prune tarts. And a crisp. But my favorite so far is a luscious fruit compote that has a light sweetness smoothed over with a layer of brandy, made even more perfect served with a slice of simple-to-make yellow cake alongside. Great for a company-type dessert, even better for breakfast the next morning!

Italian Prune Compote

3 lbs. Italian prunes
3/4 c. brown sugar
1/2 c. brandy

Slice prunes in half and remove pits. Place in medium saucepan with sugar and brandy and bring to a boil. Turn down heat and simmer till tender.

Great Yellow Cake
Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins

2 c. sugar
4 eggs
1 c. vegetable oil
1 c. dry white wine
2 1/2 c. unbleached flour
1/2 tsp. salt
2 1/4 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350°. Grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans.

Beat the sugar and eggs with an electric mixer on medium speed for 30 seconds. Add oil, wine, flour, salt, baking powder and vanilla. Beat 1 min. Pour batter into prepared pans. Place on middle rack of oven and bake until cake has pulled away from side of pans and knife inserted in center comes out clean, 30 min.

Cool in pans 5 min. Turn onto wire racks and cool completely. Serve as is or top with prune compote. Can also be frosted or stacked and frosted.

Farm Bulletin: Berries, Prunes and Prepping for Fall

One reason I love Anthony Boutard's missives from his farm in Gaston are the perspective they offer on a world that is physically close and yet so very far from our daily lives in the city. It's a rhythm tied to the seasons and the weather, not the clock and the day-timer. You can find him and Carol at the Ayers Creek Farm stall at the Hillsdale Farmers' Market on Sundays from 10 am till 2 pm and at the McMinnville Farmers' Market on Thursdays from 1:30 to 6:30 pm.

Growing up, the shift to autumn was marked by Labor Day, and the end of county fair season. On the farm, the calendar is different. Last week marked that shift. Our work of the spring is coming to fruition and, at the same time, we are in the midst of the planting for the winter market. Last week, the chicories and chards were planted and are now beginning to emerge. Next week the turnips, rutabagas, winter radishes and kales will be planted. We will have over a half dozen turnip and rutabaga varieties planted this year and hope to dodge the flea beetle infestations which have been pretty strong this year. No bigger than the head of a pin, hundreds congregate on any radish or other brassica available and leave but a skeleton. The showers last night reminded us that summer has passed the apex (Who would have guessed?) and that sometimes we don't get to enjoy a long "Indian Summer." Heeding Aesop's fable of the ant and grasshopper, we are scurrying to get everything in place lest we are deprived of a leisurely autumn.

Blackberries

The Chester Thornless Blackberry (hereafter just "Chester") originated in 1968 at the Southern Illinois University plant breeding program at Carbondale. The original cross was done by Robert Skirvin. It is named after Professor Chester Zych, who kept the variety "SIUS 68-6-17" alive between the time the Carbondale breeding station was closed and variety was officially named in 1985. According to Skirvin, the thornless trait comes from a popular English variety called "Merton's Thornless." The English have cherished Merton since the 1930s. The plant is "semi-erect" which means it has a strong stem but still needs the support of a trellis. Chester has a very "clean" flavor, the flavor of the wild blackberry amplified. It was named the 2001 "Outstanding Fruit Cultivar Award" by the American Society for Horticultural Science.

Commercial growers shy away from the Chester because it is very hard to grow well and cannot be machine harvested. The fruit is prone to UV damage and should not be picked before it is perfectly ripe. There is no doubt that the Chester is one fussy customer, but for us it has always returned the affection lavished upon it. It is a great fresh berry out of the hand, and freezes well, to boot.

Blackberry Slump

Our good friend, Martie Sucec, gave us this old Gourmet Magazine recipe for Blackberry Slump when we first started at the Hillsdale Farmers' Market in 2002. It is simple to make.

4 c. fresh blackberries (2-3 pints)
2 tsp. lemon juice (add some zest, if you like more lemony flavor)
3/4 c. sugar, depending on the sweetness of berries, or to taste
1 c. all-purpose flour
1-1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 c. milk (whole, 2%, hemp or soy) room temperature
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Put berries in an ungreased 5 to 6-cup casserole, gratin dish, deep dish or ceramic pie plate and sprinkle evenly with about 1/2 cup of the sugar. Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and remaining sugar into a medium bowl. Add milk and melted butter and whisk until smooth, then pour over berries (don’t worry if berries are not completely covered). Bake slump in middle of oven until top is golden, 35-45 minutes. Transfer to a rack and cool 20 minutes. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

The Pflaumen's Folly (Zwetschenkuchen or Pflaumenkuchen)

Mrs. Lloyd of Lee, Massachusetts, occassionally supplied the Boutard family with plums from her backyard tree. When those small black plums were ripe, a kuchen was dessert. Aden Gokay was a backyard orchardist from Old Chatham, New York. One late summer's Saturday, Anthony's father, Cecil, and Aden drove to Geneva for the Cornell University Fruit Day at the Agricultural Field Station and returned that evening with an impressive haul of plums, gages and other fruit. Cecil remembers Aden's Coupe de Ville (the Boutards' mighty chariot at the time was a 42 h.p. Hillman Imp) and Anthony remembers the several days of zwetschenkuchen that followed in a house usually devoid of dessert. He still loves it warm in a bowl sodden with cold milk and that, comrades, is why we grow plums. In German, zwetschen are prune plums, and pflaumen are table plums and gages.

1/4 c. butter
1 c. sugar
1 egg, well beaten
1-1/2 c. all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 c. milk.
2 Tbsp. melted butter
Plums
Turbino sugar

Butter a 9" x 9" pan. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Cream butter in mixing bowl. Beat in sugar and the egg. In a separate bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and salt, then add to the first mixture alternately with milk. Cut plums in half and place cut side up close together in even rows over batter. The plum flesh should float slightly above the batter. Sprinkle with melted butter and then sprinkle with turbino (raw) sugar, especially over the plums. Bake about 20 minutes or so until the batter is cooked. Cut into squares.

Peachy!

Last weekend was unusual for us in that we had commitments every evening, something we normally try to avoid since we're more in the "homebody" category than the "party animal" section of the social library. But it was all good, from hanging with Armandino Batali of Seattle's Salumi at Foster & Dobbs on Friday to dinner with good friends on Saturday to a knock-out dinner with the bro' and w- on Sunday.

And, since a couple of desserts were going to be needed and I was covering the Hillsboro Farmers Market for next week's column in the Oregonian, I picked up ten pounds of ripe, juicy peaches from VanDyke Farms. With those luscious peaches perfuming the car, it was all I could do not to grab one and slurp it on the drive home, but stickiness is not one of my favorite things, so the box made it back to the house unscathed.

The first dessert was a variation on the cobbler recipe I posted earlier, substituting peaches for berries. The second was a peach and blueberry crostata that absolutely rocked, and is one I'll be repeating with all kinds of fruits as the season goes on.

Peach and Blueberry Crostata
adapted from Bon Appetit's Outdoor Entertaining

For the crust:
1 3/4 c. flour
1/2 c. hazelnuts, toasted
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 c. plus 3 Tbsp. chilled unsalted butter
1/4 c. ice water (approx.)

For the filling:
5 large, ripe peaches, peeled and sliced
1 c. blueberries
3/4 c. sugar, plus more for sprinkling
3 Tbsp. cornstarch
1/2 tsp. cinnamon (optional)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Blend first five ingredients in processor until nuts are finely ground. Add butter in chunks, pulsing until mixture resembles coarse meal. Mix in enough water to form moist clumps. Gather dough into ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate 1 hr.

For filling, place peaches and blueberries in large mixing bowl and gently combine with sugar, cornstarch and cinnamon.

Roll out dough on floured work surface into 15-inch round. Transfer to prepared baking sheet, centering it atop a nonstick tart pan bottom. Brush dough with egg white, then mound peach filling in center, leaving a 1 1/2 inch border. Fold dough border over filling, pleating loosely and pinching any cracks to seal. Sprinkle crust with sugar.

Bake crostata until crust is brown and filling bubbles, about 55 minutes. Cool tart 15 minutes on rack, then slide metal spatula under edges of crostata to loosen. Transfer to platter.

Tart Tart, Tang Tang.

As stated previously, I am a sucker for a good recipe and, if it features one of my favorite ingredients in an easy and delicious-sounding new form, there's a good likelihood that it'll end up in the "Gotta Try This" folder. When the Dining section of the New York Times ran an article a few months ago on lemons, they had me hooked. And since I'd recently purchased a non-stick tart pan, the description of the Lemon Confit Shortbread Tart made it a cut-it-out-right-now item even if everyone hadn't yet read the paper (sorry, honey...).

This one was particularly appealing to my lemon-loving self because the filling is no creamy compromise to less lemon-centric souls, but simply thinly sliced rind-and-all lemons with a touch of sugar, boiled down and sandwiched between two lightly lemon-scented crusts. It's enough to make even the most ardent lemon supporter's back teeth sing and it's incredibly good, especially served with fresh Hood strawberries and a dollop of Mio Gelato's Italian cream. Like the farro salad, it's going to be appearing with regularity on our summer table.

My friend Mary Fishback of Bread & Ink Cafe and the founding dessert maven behind Rimsky-Korsakoffee House made it with clementines and said it totally rocks, so come up with your own variation and let us know how it turns out. You (and your guests this summer) will be knocked out!

Lemon Confit Shortbread Tart
Originally from the New York Times Dining section

For the crust:
3 c. flour
1 tsp. salt
1/2 lb. (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into 1" pieces
1 1/4 c. sugar, divided
1 large egg
1/8 to 1/4 tsp. almond extract, or to taste
2 Tbsp. lemon juice

For the confit:
8 Meyer lemons, preferably thin-skinned and seedless, but regular organic lemons will work
3/4 c. sugar
2 Tbsp. water

For the crust, combine flour, salt, butter and 1 cup sugar in a bowl.  Mix with your fingers until it forms flaky crumbs and lumps. Mix in egg, almond extract and lemon juice. Continue to mix until it clumps; it may seem very dry at first. Shape into a ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or up to 1 day ahead of baking.

For the confit, slice off and discard ends of lemons. Slice 5 crosswise, peel and all, as thinly as possible. Remove any seeds and place in a bowl. Peel skin, including white pith, from remaining 3 lemons, then slice thinly crosswise and add to bowl. Add 3/4 cup sugar and 2 tablespoons water. Toss and let sit at room temperature for at least 30 minutes or up to 2 hours.

Place lemon slices and their juice in a saucepan, and bring to a boil.  Cook down until lemons are candied and small amount of liquid in pan is sticky and syrupy, about 15 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and let cool.

To bake, preheat oven to 350°. Divide dough in half and form each half into a ball. Roll out one ball on a floured surface until large enough to fit into a 9-inch round tart pan. Dough will be crumbly (more shortbread than pie crust); if it falls apart, press it back together. Spoon Confit over crust, spreading evenly. Roll out second ball of dough and place on top, sealing edges but making sure no crust overlaps the rim or tart will be difficult to remove later.

Bake until edges of tart are lightly golden, about 35 minutes, then sprinkle top with remaining ¼ cup sugar.  Return to oven for about 10 more minutes; edges should be lightly golden and crust cooked through but not browned.  Serve warm or cooled.

Spring Thing

Some people look for the first robin, some people wait for the opening of their neighborhood farmers' market, others look for the mailman to start wearing shorts. Me, I yearn for the first pinkish green stalks of rhubarb to appear in the produce aisle. Growing up, my grandmother always canned jars of rhubarb sauce that would be served for dessert after the noonday meal (called "dinner," not lunch). Of course, my grandfather would douse it with half a sugarbowl of refined sweetness, but I ate it straight from the jar, savoring each strangely appealing bite, feeling the tart/sweet taste in my mouth.

I was even known to take a stalk, cut off the poisonous leaf (which we'd sometimes tie on our heads with string for an impromptu sunhat) and munch on the raw article, prompting much pursing of lips and choking from surrounding brothers and cousins. But I loved it. Which probably accounts for my continuing love of rhubarb in just about any form, though I admit to a loathing of the bastardized version that cuts its wonderfulness with strawberries.

So far I've made a rhubarb pie and a couple of crisps. Yet every time I have it, it somehow tastes new to me. So I'll continue to make more until the season ends, summer comes and I can look for the signs of spring again next year.