As promised

It's dark already?! The day escaped us. And now it's time to finish dinner, give the baby a bath, and settle in for the night. But first, as promised, here's that recipe for Swedish Apple Pie. I've added cranberries, and I think it would be equally nice with pears.

SWEDISH APPLE PIE

I found this recipe in The Apple Lover's Cookbook, a new book from W.W. Norton. They very nicely sent me a copy in the mail and I've been working my way through. I like this recipe because it's an easy alternative to pie—no crust, no fuss—tasty and quick.

3 large apples, peeled, cored, and cut into 1/4-inch slices

1/2 cup cranberries

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 tablespoon plus 1 cup all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons plus 1 cup granulated sugar

10 tablespoons butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the pan

1 large egg

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Grease a pie plate and set it aside.

In a mixing bowl, toss the apple slices with the cinnamon, 1 tablespoon of the flour, and 2 tablespoons of the sugar. Pour the mixture into the bottom of the pie plate and smooth it into an even layer.

Combine the remaining ingredients in a standing mixer and beat until just combined. Use the back of a wooden spoon to spread the batter evenly over the apples and cranberries. Bake for 40-45 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and crackly. Serve warm from the pan.

A batch, maybe two

I'm not quite sure where to start today, so why don't we just dive right in?

Here's the news from my end: it's March, and my mother's birthday is in a few days, and hey, I made a batch of scones and they were good! Delicious, even. Here's their before shot:

I found the recipe over at 101 Cookbooks, when I was looking through the archives the other day. The scones came originally from a cookbook called My Nepenthe by Romney Steele, and this morning, they seemed like just the thing to ward off yet another day of gray. The original version called for currants, but I had a bag of dried cranberries I'd picked up from Crow Farm in Sandwich lying around, and so I swapped those in instead. The oat/orange zest/cranberry combination proved just right—a little bit hearty, a little bit sweet, a little bit tart, and a big hit. I ate one right out of the oven, took a half hour break, and dug in again. They have a nice crumb—moist and big, and a little bit chewy—and the oat flavor is there, subtle, just underneath the citrus. The cranberries add tang and chew—for everyone's good, Alex had better come home and claim some soon.

I can't stay much longer—there are, after all, still bowls and whisks and spatulas to be scrubbed and a dog that's very anxious for a walk—but I wanted to pop in and tell you to make a batch, maybe two.

CRANBERRY ORANGE ZEST OAT SCONES

This recipe is adapted from this recipe over at 101 Cookbooks. One thing to note is that the scones are very large—like those you might find at a commercial bakery. If you like smaller ones for home consumption, divide the dough into two balls before you pat it into discs. Then cut each disc into sixths instead of eighths.

1 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 and 1/2 cups whole wheat flour

1/2 cup light brown sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 sticks cold butter, cut into small pieces

2 cups rolled oats

zest of 1 orange

2/3 cup dried cranberries

1 cup buttermilk (or almost 1 cup milk with a dollop of plain yogurt in it)

1/4 cup coarse sugar, for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Whisk together the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, and baking soda in a large mixing bowl. Cut in the butter and mix using a pastry cutter, until the butter is in small, pea-sized bits. Add the oats, orange zest, and cranberries. Pour in the buttermilk and stir until the dough is just moist.

Use your hands to bring the dough together. If it is still too crumbly, add more buttermilk a splash at a time until it comes together.

Working on a cutting board or piece of parchment paper, turn out the dough and pat it into an 8-inch round. Cut the round in half and then into quarters and finally into eighths, so that it forms 8 wedged triangle shapes. Use a spatula to transfer the scones to the prepared baking sheet, and sprinkle the top of each one with the coarse sugar. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the bottoms are golden and the scones are cooked through.

The Local Food Report: Carafoli's Sagamore

On September 15th, 1880, 500 Italians arrived in Sagamore to start digging the Cape Cod Canal. The work was short-lived—funding ran out four months later—but the community was not. More Italian immigrants came over in the early 1900s when work started again and slowly, in Sagamore Village, an Italian community was formed.

That's John Carafoli. His grandparents were amongst those who came to Sagamore looking for work, and he's one of the few who still remembers Italian Sagamore. His mother passed away when he was eleven, and as a way of trying to hold onto her, he started hanging out in the kitchens of the neighborhood women, watching them cook and bring in squash and grapes and tomatoes from the garden and getting their techniques down. Then he'd go home and try to recreate the dishes for his father and aunt and brother—lasagnas and jams and breads and sweet pastas.

By the time he left Sagamore and went out into the world, he had a whole childhood of recipes to draw from. He started working with food—these days, he's a world-reknowned food stylist and recipe developer—and the recipes acted like a sort of bridge. They took him back to Italy to trace particular pastas and breads and back to his grandparents' city of Bologna to learn about their language and culture. The recipes kept him connected him not just with his mother, but also with his Italian heritage and the Sagamore Village of his past.


There's one Sagamore woman in particular who John talks about a lot. Her name was Mafalada Maiolini, but in the kitchen, he called her Muffy. She taught him to make brassadella, a sweet, dry coffee cake from Verona that involves a top roll and a bottom roll and lots of hole poking in between, and savor, a sweet, dark jam made with leftover fruit at the end of the harvest season. When I talked with John a few weeks ago Muffy was still alive, but she passed away last Sunday, at the age of 96. In her obituary, it says that her kitchen was a gathering place for many friends—a nice way to be remembered, I think.

In Muffy's honor, John gave me this savor recipe to share. It's his—adapted from hers—honed by observation and friendship and the practice of years.

SAVOR

This is a time-consuming jam at first glance, but most of the work is in the simmering. If you can set aside two 6-hour chunks over two days to be around, you've done the hard part. This jam is traditionally made in the fall, with any leftover fruit from the harvest. Carafoli has planted his own orchard of pears, apples, figs, apricots, and peaches, and he's hoping to make savor from his own fruit next year.

6 large ripe pears
6 large ripe apples
6 large ripe peaches
1 pound Italian prune-plums or other plums
1 pound seedless red grapes
12 ounces fresh cranberries
12 pitted prunes
12 ounces pitted dried apricots
12 ounces dark raisins
zest of 2 oranges, removed in strips and minced
1 bottle red wine or saba
1 quart red grape juice
1 quart cranberry juice
1 cup cooked peeled chestnuts

Peel and core pears and apples; peel and pit peaches and plums. Cut into coarse 1-inch dice, and place in a nonreactive (like stainless steel) heavy-bottomed 8-quart pot. Add grapes, cranberries, prunes, apricots, raisins, and orange zest. Add wine or saba, grape juice, and cranberry juice and mix well.

Place pot over high heat and bring to a boil. Immediately reduce heat to its lowest possible setting, and simmer, uncovered, for 6 hours. Remove from heat and allow to sit, loosely covered, at room temperature overnight. (Sugar and acid in mixture will keep it from spoiling.)

The next day, uncover the pot and again bring to a boil. Reduce heat to lowest possible setting, and simmer for 6 more hours. Toward the end of cooking, stir frequently to prevent scorching.

Remove pot from heat; mixture will be very dark and thick. Place chestnuts in a food processor and process to make a mealy puree. Stir into cooked mixture. While mixture is still hot, pour into sterile jars and seal according to manufacturers' directions. Savor may also be covered and refrigerated for up to 4 months, or frozen in a tightly sealed container for up to 6 months.

Yield: 11 pints

I could lie

I could lie to you. I could tell you that we've been roasting Truro pork chops and using the bones to make big batches of broth for homemade Pho and lingering over fresh pumpkin muffins, or apple spice cake. But the truth is we have a leaky pipe and a flooded basement and no water, and since Saturday we've been relying on take-out and the generosity of friends.

Not that it's been bad, really. We had a nice lunch at Wellfleet Town Pizza on Saturday and our friend Gui grilled us prime rib from Northeast Family Farms that night, and we even contributed the box of just-picked Chinese cabbage you see up there, from the Mac's Shack garden. I could hardly believe the greens were still lingering, without any covering or attention.

Then yesterday we went over to Alex's brother's to sample cheeses from a new place called Robinson's Farm in Hardwick. The Robinsons started raising grass-fed cows in 2006, and this year, they just released a line of artisinal raw milk cheeses. Alex and Mac are thinking of selling them in the restaurants as part of a local cheese plate, and by the pound at the markets.

The Swiss was good with pickles and pepperoncinis, and a there was a buttery melting cheese that was top-notch over pan-fried potatoes. I'm hoping that Alex will pick up at least the melting one, so that I can make an all-local French onion soup.

In the meantime, of course, I'll take running water. When that happens, here's what's on my to-cook list:

1. this penne with garlic and kale
2. Stacey Glassman's squash with olive oil and garlic
3. cream of beet soup from James Peterson
4. buckwheat pancakes with the flour I ground down the other day from our grain CSA
5. deb's cranberry upside-down cake
6. more simple breakfasts like this
7. and maybe, just maybe, a batch of homemade pop tarts to use up our astounding supply of raspberry jam
   

Happy cooking, everyone.

I just wanted to say

That it might be cold, but with a pair of smart-wool tights and thick jeans, hiked up cashmere socks tucked into thinsulate boots, two cotton shirts, a wool sweater, a scarf, a hat, leather mittens, and a down vest on top, it's really not that bad out there. Even the Swiss chard—upright and perky despite a dip into the twenties in the greenhouse last night—seems to agree.

I was worried about it yesterday, so for dinner we made a spur-of-the-moment, balsamic-doused salad with Swiss chard, raw shaved beets, chunks of apple and crumbles of goat cheese, toasted pecans, grated Brussels sprouts, and dried cranberries.

I thought of you.

And it was lovely.

On-the-spot sold

A year ago, I was eating a breakfast that looked like this:

Of course, I was also on my honeymoon, and in Paris. Today, I am at my dining room table with a mug of cold tea. Life is rough.

Except that actually, it's not. Buttery croissants and flaky baguette are all well and good, but really, if we're being honest, they're not what I need right now. After the turkey, and the creamed onions, and the grapenut pudding, what I really want is some whole grains, a few leafy greens, and a long walk.

That's where Ancient Grains comes in. I first had Ancient Grains at the Scottish Bakehouse on Martha's Vineyard with my friend Ali. It was early, and it was cold, and I'd just flown over for the day to do some interviews. Ali told me that what you're supposed to order at the Scottish Bakehouse is the egg sandwich, but I had already told the girl in line I wanted the hot spelt and quinoa, and so I got a steaming mug of whole grains, cranberries, pecans, and milk instead.

It was, hands down, one of the best mistakes I've ever made.

There was something about the combination—the way the spelt was big and nutty, the way the cranberries were at once sweet and tart, the way the quinoa swam around in the hot, sweet milk—that made warm cereal magical. There were undertones of cinnamon and hints of maple, and I was instantly, on-the-spot sold.

It took some fiddling, and some trial and error, but just in time for the cold weather and the annual interholiday health-food kick, I've finally figured out how to make Ancient Grains at home.

ANCIENT GRAINS

I'm not sure how close this is to the version I had at the Scottish Bakehouse, but it's easy to prepare and I think that taste-wise it comes pretty close. The key is to pre-cook big batches of spelt and quinoa—I keep bags of the cooked grains in the freezer, so that they're ready to go when I roll out of bed. This recipe makes two bowls.

1 cup cooked spelt
1 cup cooked quinoa
milk or cream to taste
1 tablespoon maple syrup, or more to taste
1/4 cup fresh cranberries, halved
1/4 cup crushed pecans

Combine the spelt and quinoa in a small pot. Add milk or cream to taste—depending on how thick you like your breakfast cereal—and the maple syrup, and stir well. Warm over medium heat until just steaming—you don't want to overheat the milk. Pour the cereal into bowls, top with cranberries and pecans, and serve at once.

Note: I haven't been able to find quinoa locally (or pecans, for that matter!), but I don't think any other grain complements the spelt as well. If you have local suggestions, let us know!

The Local Food Report: Cranberry Land

Everyone, I'd like to introduce a new friend. This is Cranberry Goodin Pudding:

We met through Ralph Tupper and his wife Kathy, who own a cranberry bog in East Brewster. They sell their berries each fall at Windfall Market in Falmouth and the farmers' market in Orleans, and along with the fruit, they bring recipes. They have all sorts of ideas: cranberry chicken, cranberry sauce, cranberry pumpkin bread. When Ralph and I started talking cranberries for my radio show this week, I pressed him to pick out a favorite, and he pointed to Cranberry Goodin Pudding. Apparently, it lives up to its name.

If you don't have your dessert roster lined up yet for Thanksgiving, Cranberry Goodin Pudding would be a good candidate. It's easy: just a layer of fresh cranberries, then a sprinkling of brown sugar and walnuts, and finally a thick, whipped batter of eggs, flour, sugar, and butter. Then you simply bake and serve, with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. It's about as easy, delicious, and local as it gets.


CRANBERRY GOODIN PUDDING

Despite the name, this recipe is less of a pudding and more of a crisp or pastry. The cranberries form a sticky, sweet layer on the bottom, and the batter and nuts add a nice crunch on top. We liked it best warm, with vanilla ice cream.

1 and 1/4 cups fresh cranberries
1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
1 egg
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Spread the cranberries over the bottom of a buttered 9-inch pie plate. Sprinkle the fruit with the brown sugar and nuts. Beat the egg until frothy, slowly add the sugar, and beat until blended. Add the flour and melted butter and beat well. Spoon this batter over the nuts and cranberries. Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until the top is golden. Serve warm, with vanilla ice cream.

That same tart-sweet

I thought I'd lost you, lemon meringue. I thought I'd lost your after dinner taste, the way you lingered on my parents' white enamel stove top, sturdy glass pressing hard against the black coil face. It's hard to justify you or that other old favorite—banana cream—these days.

But the other evening, when the light got long and I could almost feel my junior high lacrosse uniform brushing my knees, when I could almost hear the mudroom door clang, feel the shutter behind me as my sister dropped her stick and bag—it was like we were rushing in again to see you waiting, wafting, quiet on your perch.

It was almost real: my mother with the salad spinner whirring, whirling, pressed against her belly tight, the stairs creaking as my father came down from his desk and we clamored up. There you were by my mother's side still steaming, white-peaked and hot, while across the room my father poured his evening gin and tonic, arranged a bowl of ice cold Virginia Diner peanuts, and sat us down to talk through school and sports and lunch. Almost real, but not quite, that is.

But then that same night I picked up a bag of cranberries from the fridge—my fridge, 234 miles south. I popped one in and puckered my mouth in that same tart-sweet characteristic lemon pout. You, lemon meringue, could go cranberry! I thought. I looked online and there they were—cranberry meringue pie instructions on the Celebrate Boston 1930s recipe site. Like most first tries you weren't quite—not right, not what I expected—not lemon, I suppose. But then we tried again and again—gave you body and custard and zest—and finally there you were: all lemon meringue soul in a Cape Cod cranberry tart.

It's so nice, meringue pie, to have you home.

CRANBERRY MERINGUE TART

I love this twist on the classic lemon meringue. It is unexpected, beautiful, and best of all tart, custardy, and delicious. I'm not going to give a crust recipe here, because the one I use is already detailed over here at Smitten Kitchen. The filling was inspired by the 1930s recipe for Cranberry Meringue Pie over here, although it has undergone a fairly significant overhaul. Both fresh and frozen cranberries work equally well, making this one of the Cape's few year-round fruit pies.

3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup ice cold water
2 cups Cape Cod cranberries
1/2 cup whole milk
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 and 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 eggs, separated
a pinch of salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon butter
1 pre-baked sweet tart shell
4 tablespoons confectioners' sugar

Make the custard:

Combine the sugar, cold water, and cranberries in a medium-size pot over medium-high heat. Bring the mixture to a boil, stirring occasionally. After about three minutes, the cranberries will start to pop; turn the heat down to medium and keep cooking, stirring occasionally, for another five minutes, or until the fruit has all popped and come together with the water and sugar to form a thick, almost jelly-like substance. Turn the heat off and let the fruit cool for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally to help the process along.

In the meantime, in a small bowl, whisk together the flour, egg yolks, and salt until smooth. When the cranberry mixture has cooled slightly (you still want it to be fairly warm, but not so hot you can't stick a finger in—if it's too hot it will curdle the milk), slowly pour in the milk and cream. Stir well, then pour 1/2 cup of the warm milk and fruit into the egg yolk mixture, whisking vigorously as you do. (Again, this will temper the yolks, so that they don't overheat and curdle.) Now whisk this tempered yolk and berry mixture back into the pot of fruit and milk.

Turn the heat back on to low and simmer, stirring constantly with a (heat-proof!) spatula until the yolks, milk, and fruit come together into a thick, creamy custard. (After several minutes, the mixture will start to steam, and about three minutes after that, it should be thick enough to coat the back of the spatula; that's what you're looking for.) Turn off the heat and add the vanilla and butter; keep stirring until the butter is absorbed.

Spoon the custard into a medium-size mixing bowl, press plastic wrap over the top of the mixture so that it doesn't form a skin, and put it in the refrigerator to cool.

Fill the pre-baked crust, top with meringue:

When you are ready to bake the pie, preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Get out the pre-baked pie crust and the cooled cranberry custard, and spoon the custard into the tart shell; the filling should just reach the top of the crust sides. In a stand mixer or large mixing bowl, beat the egg whites and confectioners' sugar until the mixture forms stiff peaks. Spoon this over top of the custard, dropping the egg whites in even dollops over the top of the tart to form a series of valleys and peaks.

Bake on the top shelf of the oven for 15 minutes, or until the egg meringue peaks are golden brown. Serve warm, or at room temperature.

The Local Food Report: Gray's Grist

Thornton Simmons sometimes loses his r's. They roll into words like flavor and over the way the water on his mill pond skims down the turbine wheels, round and down. Simmons is a New Englander through and through: he claims ancestors working as millers in the Little Compton area as far back as 1621. He says the work comes naturally to him—that he has cornmeal in his blood.

Simmons is the miller at Gray's Grist Mill—a small, stone-grinding operation with a property boundary so old it was cut in half when Massachusetts ceded the area to Rhode Island in 1747. The mill pond lies mainly in Adamsville, Rhode Island, while across the street, the mill house stands firmly on Westport ground. It's been turning out cornmeal for over three hundred years.

As for the corn, it's Narragansett white flint corn Simmons grinds. The handful of farmers who still grow it say it's a testy strain—two ears to a stalk, eight rows on a cob, hard and dense and slow to dry. But something about the climate, the soil, and the ancient granite stone Simmons uses to grind it down makes it worth it. You used to be able to mortgage your house on this cornmeal, Simmons likes to say.


Over the years, the mill has been powered by all sorts of things: water, a dodge truck motor, a tractor with a power belt, electricity. Maybe, if Simmons gets his way, the mill will be able to go back to water again. The trouble with property straddling two states is that it can make digging out an old mill pond awfully hard: there are two Conservation Commissions, two sets of regulations, two bodies of law to contend with. Simmons has to get it done, though—even with a deep pond, the water build-up will only ever be enough to run the mill for four hours before it needs to rest, fill up again.

The mill is one of the oldest continuous grist mills in the country. The water runs under the mill house, from a man made pond dammed from the west branch of the Westport River, running down from Tiverton. Simmons says there used to be a lot of dam wars—someone upriver hoarding water, the miller downstream with a dry, slack pond. When the water did come, it ran the turbines that turned the stone. Dried, shucked corn went down through the hopper into a feed shoot called the shoe. A stick straddling the stone called a damsel hit the shoe and knocked the corn into the eye of the stone—you need speed in the feed, as Simmons says. Once a year or so the 56-inch diameter granite stone needs to be dressed—roughed up to keep it sharp. Granite is best for cornmeal, french burr for wheat and rye.

However it's ground, Simmons has no doubt about how to eat cornmeal: jonnycakes. These thin, lacy cornmeal pancakes are the ones Rhode Islanders and people from southeastern Massachusetts have been padding with butter and a little drizzle of maple syrup for years. They're simple food, but hearty—honest in a way that makes you taste the corn, the water, the land.

They're easy—just cornmeal, water, and milk—and you fry them in a hot, black iron skillet. The batter sort of dances when it hits the pan, quivering out, flattening into a thin disk with tiny eyelets all around the edge. To get any satisfaction you need a stack—five, six, seven thin cakes with crispy edges and a swath of butter and hot maple syrup running down. Simmons says he likes to serve his with cranberries, so the other morning, I made up a batch with a side of thinly sliced pears and cranberries, sauteed until soft with butter and a little bit of cinnamon. The combination was just right—sweet maple cutting tart berries, soft pears atop crisp corn. I guess that's no surprise; it's simply what you get with four hundred years of cornmeal passed on down the line.

NARRAGANSETT JONNYCAKES

This recipe is for thin jonnycakes—if you like the thick kind, head on over here. An important note about stone-ground cornmeal: keep it in the freezer or refrigerator. Because the stone-grinding process doesn't grind out the corn kernel's germ, or nutrient packed embryo, left out the cornmeal will spoil quickly.

2 cups stone ground cornmeal
a generous pinch of salt
3/4 cup cold water
1 and 1/2 cups milk
oil for frying

Whisk together the cornmeal and salt in a medium size mixing bowl. Pour in the water and stir until the mixture is smooth. Stir in the milk, adding a bit more if needed to make a thin, pourable batter.

Warm up a griddle or cast iron skillet over medium-high heat. Spoon a tablespoon or so of oil into the pan, and let it get hot. Then, taking care to stir the batter (the cornmeal quickly settles), spoon out about two tablespoons of batter onto the pan for each cake. They should thin out and dance as they hit the pan, forming a thin disk.

Cook for several minutes, or until golden brown and lacy on the bottom side, then flip. They won't need so long on the second side—only a minute or so. Serve hot, with butter, maple syrup, and if you like, sauteed apples or pears with cranberries.

We do need pie

Last week, I made a real, honest-to-goodness mincemeat pie.

It had venison in it, and a bunch of spices and fruits, and a thick, flakey crust, and it was staggeringly good. I was just a little bit surprised, I have to admit.

For some people, maybe, the idea that ground meat and sugar and fruit are going to meld together in the oven into something delicious makes total sense. Unfortunately, I have never been one of them. Mincemeat pie, ever since I started watching Friends at the age of about fourteen, has always reminded me of the episode when the cookbook pages get stuck together and Rachel makes half an English trifle and half a shepherd pie. She is a little bit puzzled but puts it all together anyway—a big, layered dessert with ladyfingers, custard, jam, and—horror of horrors—beef sautéed with peas. Then she tries to convince everyone to eat it by telling them it's the same idea as mincemeat pie.

Needless to say, this was not an overly winning introduction.

But the other day, I pulled something out of the freezer labeled "burger '09." Once it had thawed out, Alex informed me that it was actually venison from a deer shot locally, by a friend. It seemed wrong to waste it, and so I called my mother, who called her friend Sally, who said she knew just the thing: mincemeat.

Sally, as it turns out, is a big mincemeat fan. She makes jars and jars of it each December and gives them out as Christmas gifts. She has to bargain for the meat, usually, by giving a jar in exchange, but since most traditional mincemeat recipes make 20 pints of preserves, this is a fairly good trade. She gave my parents a jar a while back, and she told them that the trick is to cut the mincemeat with apples when you make the pie, so that the filling gets the flavor and the heft of the sweet meat preserve but has a solid apple base.

Mostly, this is because an all-mincemeat pie is a little too heavy for most people these days. The recipe Sally uses came from a man named Azel Adams, who used to live in Western Maine, in a place called West Forks. She recorded him on cassette a while back for a book, talking about recipes that kept him going when he worked in the 1920s and 1930s in the winter woods. Mincemeat, apparently, used to be a sort of power food—meat and sugar and fruit slapped between two biscuits for a hearty January lunch. Most of us, as Sally pointed out, don't really need that sort of midday meal to keep us going any more.

But we do need pie. And toned down with apples and served with a hunk of cheddar cheese, mincemeat pie, as it turns out, can sometimes be just the thing.

MINCEMEAT PIE

[for modern-day lightweights]

I adapted this from The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book by Fannie Merritt Farmer. In the header of the very old, very dilapidated copy of this book my mother picked up for me a few years back, Fannie calls this recipe "Quick Mincemeat." Based on what Sally told me, I'm guessing this is because traditionally, making mincemeat was a huge, once-a-year production. Whereas most recipes make enough for twenty pies, this one makes filling for only one. For mincemeat beginners, I think that's just enough.


for the mincemeat:
1 cup apples, chopped
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup cranberries
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon molasses
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup venison or beef stock
1 cup ground venison, cooked
2 tablespoons fruit jam or jelly (I used cranberry apple, but I'm not sure it matters much)

for the pie:
2 cups mincemeat
5 cups apples, chopped
1 nine-inch pie crust, top and bottom

Combine all of the mincemeat ingredients except the cooked venison and the fruit jam in a large, heavy-bottomed pot. Bring everything to a boil over medium heat, and then turn the burner down as low as it goes and simmer the mixture for 45 minutes to an hour. Keep a close eye on it during this time, stirring frequently, as you would a jam. As the mixture loses moisture, it will become increasingly thick and sticky and can burn if you aren't paying attention. When it gets to be the consistency of a runny jam, add the venison and the jam and simmer it for another 15 minutes or so, until it cooks into a nice, thick preserve. Turn off the heat, and allow the mincemeat to cool to room temperature.

To make the pie, first preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Then combine the mincemeat—the recipe above should make about 2 cups—with the 5 cups of sliced apples. Mix the two up well so that the mincemeat coats the apples. Any crust will work, but the best choice would be one that is thick and flaky, and more salty than sweet. Roll out the bottom crust, drape it over the pie plate, and spoon the filling in. Then roll out the top crust and drape it over the filling, making sure to pinch the edges and cut a few slits in the top to let steam out. Bake the pie for 25-30 minutes at 400, then turn the temperature down to 325 and bake another 25-30 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the filling is thick.

Eat the pie warm or at room temperature, served with a thick, sharp slice of cheddar cheese.

Still going strong

Some foods simply don't get enough credit. Take these cranberries, for instance.

I bought them in October. October! There've been a few casualties, a crinkled up little black berry here and there, but on the whole, I really can't believe how still-going-strong their mentality is. They simply Do. Not. Quit. I think we ought to throw them an evening ball, or maybe a roller skating party, or some sort of disco dance. At the very least, they deserve to jump into a batch of muffins.

Cape Cod Cranberry Muffins, to be specific—which are from a book my parents gave me as a present last year. Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins & More, it's called. To tell the truth, it's not my favorite book—the instructions tend to get a little long-winded and wordy for my taste, and lots of times the recipes call for ingredients you'd never, ever have on hand. But sometimes, especially when you're looking for something just a little bit fancy, it has just the thing.

And this morning was one of those times. Because on a Friday morning when your parents and sister have shown up for a visit nearly in the middle of the night and you've stayed up far too late catching up and drinking wine, you need sort of a weekend on a weekday muffin, if you know what I mean.


These were just that. They're not so heavy that you feel like you just tucked away your weekend's allotment of butter, and a bit of whole-wheat flour gives them balance—throws them somewhere between indulgent and stern. They're also not too sweet. In fact, they're a bit too tart, if we're being honest, but I think that could easily be fixed by baking them with egg wash and a sprinkling of sugar over top, or even with a dollop of orange marmalade or apricot jam on the side.

Because otherwise, they're very good, and just the thing to start using up some of those terribly determined cranberries. They have to go sooner or later, and at this point, I'm starting to think now would be a good time for them to politely move on.

I'm guessing you have some hanging around, too, either fresh or frozen. And if you don't, Phoenix Fruit in Orleans has a whole stockpile of berries from a local bog in their freezer, so you can easily pick some up. Either way, you'll be helping to get them on their way so that we'll have plenty of room for strawberries once they arrive. I can't wait!

CAPE COD CRANBERRY MUFFINS

adapted from Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins, & More by Carole Walter

These muffins are slightly tart, so if that's not your thing, you might want to add another 1/4 cup of sugar or so. The other option is to brush them with an egg wash and sprinkle them with sugar before you bake them, as they often do at commercial bakeries for a sweet, hard top. Or, you could serve them as we did, with a dollop or apricot jam or orange marmalade. I think the marmalade would be best.

1 and 3/4 cups fresh or frozen cranberries
1 and 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 and 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons mild oil, like canola or olive or walnut or even some sesames
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
2/3 cup orange juice

1 egg lightly beaten with 1 teaspoon water
granulated sugar

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Pick over the cranberries, taking out any stems or shriveled berries. Coarsley chop the berries. (I used the food processor, pulsing a few times, for this). In a medium-size bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

Melt the butter over medium heat in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Remove from heat and add canola oil and sugar, mixing well.

In another medium-size bowl, stir together the 2 eggs and orange juice with a wooden spoon. (I have no idea if it's important that the spoon be wooden—it seems a bit fussy to me—but Walter's directions specifically say to use one, so just in case, I think you should.) Blend in the warm sugar mixture, then add the dry ingredients and stir until just moistened. Gently fold in the cranberries.

Divide the batter evenly between the 12 greased cups of a muffin tin; they should all be just about full. Brush with egg wash and sprinkle with sugar, if desired, or for a less sweet muffin, go ahead and bake them as they are. Start paying close attention to their color after 10 minutes or so; they'll probably need more like 15 or 20 before they're golden and cooked through.

Walter says they freeze well, but I doubt they'll make it that far in our house.

Pie, again

I warned you, didn't I? The cascade of sugar and butter are still going strong.

Too strong, in fact. The other night we had a fire in the oven, thanks to the pie waxing innocent to your left. It was the frozen blueberries, I think—they're so much juicier than their summer selves.

The pie started out as an experiment. I had leftover dough left over from the pecan pie, and it seemed a shame to let it sit idle in the fridge, especially when there was a party involved.

So I rolled it out, ransacked the house for fruits, and decided on a thawed high bush blueberry and fresh cranberry lattice. I added sugar to taste, a bit more than usual because of the tart fruit, and a handful of flour to hold the berries together (the general rule is 1 tablespoon per cup of fruit, but as the fire proved, with frozen fruit, perhaps it's best to aim for more like 1 and 1/2).

I topped the filling off with lemon and cinnamon, and all seemed well as the pan slid into the oven. It was hardly full, a bit sunken even, so I didn't bother to add a cookie sheet for safety. A half hour later, the room filled suddenly with smoke, the fishmonger cursing and flinging open the doors. I stumbled downstairs, guilty as charged, but luckily, all was saved. He'd scraped the oven, returned the pie to its post, and I even managed to make it to the party on time.

So long as you have a sturdy cookie sheet and a heavy hand with the flour, I highly recommend giving the pie a try.

CRANBERRY-BLUEBERRY HOLIDAY PIE

Makes 1 pie

Roll out a bottom pie crust, drape over 9-inch pan, and let rest. In a large mixing bowl, stir together 2 and 1/2 cups thawed blueberries, 2 and 1/2 cups fresh cranberries, 1 to 1 and 1/2 cups sugar, or to taste, 5 to 7 tablespoons flour, depending on how juicy the berries are, 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and a pinch of cinnamon. Mix well and spoon filling into crust. Roll out and weave a lattice top. Bake (over a cookie sheet!) at 425 for 30 minutes, then turn the oven down to 350 and bake another 30 minutes, or until crust is golden and filling sets.

Pizazz

I know this may look like plain jane applesauce, but it's not. It has pizazz, and fire and spice. It bites.

And that's a good thing, because to be honest, I was getting a bit tired of plain jane. It's been apple season for a while now, and we were overdue for a change.

Insert cranberries. Tart, saucy, firm—the perfect antidote to jane. Colorful, too, in this drab and dreary weather.

They were just what was called for, given the quality of the apples in the fridge. The once firm balls were terrible: mushy, mealy, soft. They had every quality I dislike in an apple, redeemed only by a bit of sweetness and a fine red coat. Luckily, they could still be cooked, and with the company of cranberries, well enough to hope this simple act would save them.

Oh, did it save them. It turned them from white to pink. It kicked up sweet with tart, textured soft with firm, swept out undertones of September crisp. It was not plain jane. Even the skeptic in my house agreed; this was very good applesauce.

It was easy, too, same as any plain jane. Meld fruit, water, and heat, and you really can't go wrong. Along with a food mill and two strong arms, this is all you need. A jar goes a long way for storage, and a nice big bowl helps for snacking. Beyond that, it's cranberries and a few bad apples. So don't work too hard, and enjoy.

APPLESAUCE WITH PIZAZZ

Makes 1 quart

Place 5 to 6 apples, medium size, soft, and sweet, in a large soup pot. Add 1 cup cranberries, fresh, and 1/2 cup quince, sliced (optional). Cover bottom of pot with about 1 to 2 inches water, cover, and bring to a boil. Turn heat down to medium low, and continue cooking until fruit is soft. Crank through a food mill with a bowl beneath to catch the sauce. Serve warm or cold, or, if you're as strange as me, sometimes with a splash of cream.

Austerity & sweets

The fishmonger sees the muesli as an act of desperation. It's that bad, already? he asks. No fresh apples? No pears?

I'm sure they still have apples up at Crow Farm, I reassure him, though I believe we've seen the last of the pears. There are still two quince sitting on our kitchen counter, and a freezer full of blueberries, strawberries, applesauce and more lies in wait beneath the floorboards.

No, I inform him, some of us happen to like muesli. Muesli is, in fact, one of my favorite breakfasts—dry oats and fruit softening beneath the creamy weight of a bowl of milk, the austerity of the grains contrasting nicely with the sticky summer sweetness of the well-dried fruit.

There's something comforting about the transformation of the cereal. Lost in a sea of Spanish faces and words, I remember combing the pantry of my host mother's kitchen for comfort, and there it was, nestled into a box of the Swiss cereal sent abroad.

It doesn't hurt that it's good for you, too. There's little better than raw oats and dried fruit when it comes to good health, and I'm sure on these in between days, with turkey behind and cookies ahead, we could all use a little bit of reassurance.

So see it as you will: recession rations, comfort food, a well-enforced goodness after holiday cheer. You may just find you like it.

HOLIDAY MUESLI

Serves 1

Mix: 1/2 cup rolled oats, dry, 1/4 cup dried apples, chopped into raisin-sized bits, 1/4 cup dried cranberries, 1 teaspoon cinnamon sugar, a pinch of nutmeg. Top with milk; eat for breakfast, or maybe as an afternoon snack.

An invitation

This is an invitation. I'm helping to throw a dinner party, and I very much hope to see you there. It's a community supper, of sorts—on December 11th, at 7pm—a celebration of the fall harvest and the varied fruits of the season.

There will be lamb, from Border Bay Junction Farm in Barnstable, delivered whole and roasted in cuts from top to tail. There will be turnips, too, simmered into soup and served up hot and creamy from the roadside stand in Eastham.

There will be Brussels sprouts from Crow's Farm in Sandwich, greens from Tim Friary's garden at Cape Cod Organic Farm, and fruit pies made from local cranberries and apples.

It's being held at Willy's Gym—tucked back into a wood-floored, mirror paneled room out of the way of all the hubbub in Eastham. The executive chef from Mac's Shack, Jerome Watkins, is cooking there for the winter, and he'll be in the kitchen with me. Sarah Robins from the Flying Fish and Hillcrest Pizza will be there, too, along with her pastry chef Marissa Ferry.

I do hope you'll be there. Between the orchestration of flames beneath pots and pans, the roasting and the plating and the eventual serving, it could be quite a tiring day, and it would be nice to see some familiar faces at the table.

Reserve your spot soon, if you're coming—we can only serve so many (and five courses, too!). They have a list going at Willy's, and you can put your name in by commenting here, too. The cost is $35, which covers not just the food, but a little extra for the women at Safe Harbor Shelter in Hyannis, too. If you're anywhere near, I hope to see you there.

Dune bogs

My friend Talilla took me adventuring the other day. A fine mist fell as we packed into the car, dog and bags and rain jackets jostling loudly.

We drove away from her house, past the East End playground and out towards the highway on Snail Road. At an old abandoned parking lot at the base of the dunes, we camoflauged the car behind a bush and piled out.

We wound up the sand track, rolling up and down the sea of dunes as we headed towards the water. The vegetation changed—trees gave way to shrubs, shrubs to beach grass, and finally sand to sea. The waves rolled in, crashing white, and we walked south along the shore.

It took us nearly a half hour to reach the bog. Talilla veered inland, suddenly, and there it was: a massive expanse of wild cranberries. The plants burned red. Growing amongst the berries were clumps of grass, and strange tan mushrooms the consistency of jello. We picked, stooped over, until we'd each filled a bag. The berries were firm, a deep scarlet, and big in hand.

When our backs began to ache, we straightened and turned home. We wandered back through the warm rain, searching out the expanse of pavement and the silver glint of my car. We hadn't picked much, I realized later, at home. A few cups, perhaps, barely enough for a pie. I wondered what to do with mine—a pudding, maybe a salad?

I found a few pudding recipes scattered online—most too sweet, one with rice, another with cinnamon and apples. But none were quite what I was looking for. It was morning, still, and I wanted a breakfast dish.

I decided to adapt a dessert pudding, cutting the sugar and raisins and adding an egg for thickness. The rest was easy: scalded milk, a cup of oatmeal, a few spoonfuls of sugar and the cranberries, halved. All told, it couldn't have taken more than 10 minutes to prepare, and after a half hour in the oven, it was ready to eat. I cleaned my bowl, twice, and scribbled the recipe down for safe keeping.

CRANBERRY OATMEAL BREAKFAST PUDDING

Serves 4

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium heavy-bottomed pot, stir together 2 cups whole milk, 1/4 cup brown sugar, and a pinch of salt. Stir well, and heat until very hot but not boiling. While you wait, half 2 cups fresh cranberries. Stir together with 1/4 cup white sugar in a bowl. When milk is hot, stir in 1 cup oatmeal, 1 egg, beaten well, and cranberries. Bake 30 minutes; enjoy hot with cream or milk.

The Local Food Report: cranberry crisp

Driving across the island, the Nantucket cranberry bogs seem nearly as old as the soil itself. Rutted dirt roads wind through their midst, passing by ponds and heather moors and abandoned glacial till.

But in truth, berry cultivation is a relatively new activity on this seabound sand. In the mid 1800s, as the whaling industry collapsed and with it Nantucket's economy, the settlers turned to swampy land to earn a living offshore.

Before long, 234 acres of bog were turning out berries, developing names like Milestone and Windswept and a careful web of ditches and dikes. The vines have changed hands over the years, but the berries remain the same large, red globes the first cultivators fell in love with.

Today, the Conservation Foundation owns the bogs, managed under the careful guidance of Tom Larrabee with a bit of help from Executive Director Jim Lentowski. Lentowski is a true cranberry lover; in his recipe collection he holds chutneys and ciders, cookies and muffins, and a carefully gelled & molded red berry salad.

But his mother's cranberry crisp recipe, he says, is the best. Combining fresh berries and dough, it appears perhaps more cobbler than crisp, but it is delicious all the same.

(recipe courtesy of Jim Lentowski & the Nantucket Conservation Foundation)

Serves 6 to 8

Spread 2 cups whole, unfrozen cranberries across a well-buttered, shallow, 8-inch round pie dish. In a small bowl, combine 1/4 cup sugar, 1/2 cup coarsely chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts), and 2 tablespoons melted butter. Sprinkle this mixture over the cranberries.

In a separate bowl, beat 1 egg with 1/2 cup sugar until well combined. Stir in 1/2 cup whole wheat flour, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg, and 4 tablespoons butter, chopped into small pieces. Beat well and spread batter over cranberries in an even layer. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Sprinkle with confectioners sugar and serve with ice cream.

Country cranberry honey scones

The warm weather is over for good now, I fear. The wind's kicked up, the gray blown in, and the last visitors trickled away over the bridge last night.

It's always strange, this shift, but comforting, too. The start of a new season—one with cozy fires and shorter daylight but with more hours to laze—means the start of another term, too. It's baking season—time to warm bread over the pilot, brown biscuits on cookie trays, and bake the warm winter squashes into puddings and pies.

I kicked it off Sunday morning with a scone recipe. Country cherry honey scones, they were called, found tucked inside the pages of Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins & More. My mother and father had gotten me the book for my birthday, but between April and August there'd been little time to explore. Early Sunday morning, as the wind bore down, I settled onto a kitchen chair to find something warming to make.

The scones caught my eye immediately. There were a few substitutions to be made: they called for dried cherries and orange zest, sparkling sugar and half-and-half, but I was fairly sure we could make do without. I dug into the cupboard for a jar of dried cranberries, grated the rind from a lemon, and began mixing a batter. In went flour and honey, baking powder and butter, one large egg and a dash of whole milk.

I shaped the dough into a round, cut it into careful pinwheel slices, and set the triangles in on a cookie sheet to bake. Brushed with egg wash and sprinkled with sugar, they emerged golden and shining, just in time for the table. One bite in, I was already hooked.

COUNTRY CRANBERRY HONEY SCONES

(adapted from Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins & More by Carole Walter)

Makes 12 scones

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. In a large bowl, sift together 1 cup whole wheat flour, 1 and 1/2 cups white flour, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 1 tablespoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda, and 1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest. Cut in 1 stick butter with a pastry cutter. Toss in 1/2 cup dried cranberries.

In a separate bowl, mix together 1 large egg, 1/4 cup honey, and 1/2 cup whole milk. Pour into dry ingredients and mix well. With floured hands, gently knead the dough several times. Put onto floured surface, divide in two, and pat each ball into a 1/2 inch thick disk. Cut each into 6 wedges and place scones on a well-greased cookie sheet. Brush with egg wash (made from 1 egg and 1/2 teaspoon water whisked together) and sprinkle with sugar. Bake 10-15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Chicken roast

The bones are all that's left of the bird we roasted Saturday evening. It was my first chicken; my first attempt at transforming the cold, clammy flesh into something worthy of a warming fall celebration.

Our guests were bringing vegetables and dessert, and I'd kicked my roast-hungry sous chef out from the walls of the tiny kitchen, determined at last to learn this bird.

I'd picked it up in Dartmouth that morning—at Paskamansett Farms—packed it gently into a large white cooler to rest alongside two sister birds.

With the freezer already well stocked—there was a pig from the same farm, smoked into bacon and packed into sausage, a good supply of grass fed beef from a Foxboro farm, and assorted bundles of lamb from a Barnstable shepherder already in—the chicken and her sisters would round out the winter.

Confronting her in the sink, I rinsed and washed her body cavity with cold water, checking for an organ here or there and finally laying her down. I chopped onion and apple, carrot and butter, and threw a handful of breadcrumbs and cranberries into a bowl. With a spoonful of poultry rub and a good bit of salt and pepper, her stuffing was made.

With a few cloves of sliced garlic and a few sprigs of thyme in hand, I turned back to the bird. Slowly, carefully, I felt my way beneath her skin and began to spread the seasonings against her fat. The garlic rested heavy on her thighs and breast, and I rubbed her well with salt and pepper.

The oven heated up, and I began to stuff. I packed her full until finally her skin just stretched to conceal the bread, fruit, and fat, and sewed her up. I felt the heat begin to rise from the oven, and worked quickly to give her one last gift. Chopping quickly, I filled her pan with turnip, onion, and brilliant orange butternut squash.

It made for a magnificent send off—this ferry of herbs and color—wending its way towards the oven barrow. On the plate, it was equally splendid. Meat and root fell together, fruit crunched tart, and a savory gravy of herbs and fat filled out the meal. She didn't last long.

But today, meat gone and bones light, she's back to the soup pot for the final journey.

ROAST CHICKEN

Make stuffing. Chop and combine in a bowl: 1 good sized carrot, 1 firm apple, and 1/2 large white onion. Add 1 and 1/2 cups torn bread, 1 stick butter, cut up, and 1 cup cranberries. Season with poultry rub and salt and pepper to taste; set aside. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Pick and have handy several sprigs thyme. In a finger bowl, mix together 2 tablespoons salt and 1 teaspoon pepper. Peel 1 head of garlic and cut each clove into thin slices. Rinse whole chicken inside and out in cold water; put in roasting pan or dutch oven with 4 tablespoons olive oil drizzled over bottom. Gently work fingers between bird's skin and flesh, and push in garlic and thyme, spreading evenly over thighs and breast. Pack bird with stuffing; stake or sew shut with twine.

Peel and chop 2 cups butternut squash, 2 cups turnip, 1/2 onion, and 1 apple. Throw around chicken in pan. Cover with tinfoil or put dutch oven lid on, and put in to bake for about 1 hour, or until skin is crisp and bird cooked through. Put stuffing and root vegetables into serving pans; baste bird with juices and let rest 15 minutes before serving. Save bones and meat scraps for soup.

The Jam Kitchen

I'd heard mention of the Jam Kitchen before. It was mythical, almost, brought up over a pot of homemade blackberry jam or a hot batch of tomato sauce with women gathered around the kitchen table. No one I'd spoken with had ever been there, but they all had a vision.

There were row upon row of solid cast iron burners, the rumors imagined; a stool and station for every girl; an old-fashioned, industrial line-up simultaneously beautiful and efficient.

When I arrived for the jam-making workshop at dusk last night, I finally saw the place with my own eyes. A woman stood, sorting cranberries and apples, lining up pots and spoons and a long row of bowls.

It was every bit as charming as they'd said it would be: white tin basins, wide blue floorboards, windows from stool to ceiling for sun-cooking preserves.

We sat down quickly and were put to work. Down went the apple corer, out popped eight thick slices and a cylindrical core, and the knife took the chopping from there. The cranberries we had to eye carefully, picking out bruises and wrinkles and a few rogue stems.

With the fruit ready, the woman in charge lit a wave of blue beneath our burners, and we added sugar and lemon juice, and began to stir. It all happened so quickly—the popping of berries and rolling foam, the thickening against the spoon and finally a falling sheet. We scraped the foam and set to jarring.

The jar lids were sterilized with brandy, she told us. The alcohol killed off any lingering trouble, without all that fuss about boiling. When we'd packed and sealed our eight ounce jars, she ran them through the dishwasher, just to be sure. Labeled and cooled, they looked more professional than any jars I'd ever managed at home: with solid white lids in place of gold ball screws and caps, and a well-printed label, I tucked them away to give as holiday gifts.

CRANBERRY APPLE JAM
recipe adapted from Mary Beers, Green Briar Jam Kitchen instructor

Makes 6, 8 ounce jars

Pick through 4 cups cranberries (fresh or frozen) removing any stems and debris. Wash cranberries and place in cook pan. Peel and chop 4-6 apples into small chunks. Add 4 cups apples, 4 cups sugar, and 1/4 cup lemon juice to pan.

Cook over low heat until sugar is dissolved. Increase heat to a rolling boil. Caution: cranberries pop. Cook until thick and glossy, or until in the wake of the spoon as you stir you can see the bottom. Skim off any foam. Pour while hot into sterilized jars and seal.