Sally & I

Hi, friends.

Sorry to have been gone so long, but Sally and I have had a lot of catching up to do. It's very different for both of us with her here, on the outside, but it's also pretty great. My parents left Tuesday, which was both nice and scary, and the three of us are slowly settling into a routine. Mostly this involves nursing and reading and trying to sleep and doing laundry and walking, and while that might not sound like a lot, it keeps us very busy.

We've also managed to start cooking again—nothing very complicated—a salad for lunch, a pot of ham and beans for supper. But mostly, we've been relying on the kitchens of family and friends. Luckily we have good friends, friends who bring things like Torta di Mele, a moist, crackly apple cake that reminds me of my host mother in Spain. Lourdes made the best apple cake—it was moist and custardy and sweet, and I've tried but never been able to recreate it. Until Teresa brought one over, complete with a print out of the recipe. It's nearly gone now, so I don't have a proper picture for you, but believe me this is a cake you want to make. It is simple and elegant and in a very homey way quite pretty, and perfect this time of year.

We'll see you soon, friends, and until then, I hope we all find time to bake.

TORTA DI MELE

In English, this apparently is called "Apple Cake with a Crackly Meringue." Whatever you want to call it, it comes from both Italy and Spain, and this version in particular comes from Lynn Rosetto Kasper's The Italian Country Table. Teresa's baked up beautifully—crackly and wispy on top and moist in the center.

2 cups plus 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 and 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

a pinch of salt

1 and 1/2 sticks cold butter, cut into small pieces

3/4 cup milk

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

shredded zest of 1 large lemon

1 tablespoon baking powder

2 large (about 1 pound) apples, peeled, cored, and cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1 large egg white

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Grease and flour a 9-inch spring form pan.

In a large bowl, work together the 2 cups of flour, 1 and 1/2 cups sugar, the salt, and the butter with your fingers until crumbly. Take 1 cup of this mixture and press it over the bottom of the pan and about 1/2 inch up the sides to make a crust.

Make a well in the remaining crumb mixture. Add the milk, eggs, vanilla, lemon zest, remaining flour, and baking powder. Blend these liquid ingredients in the well as best you can without mixing in the crumbs. Then stir in the crumbs until well blended but still a little lumpy. Fold in the apples and scrape the batter into the pan over the crust.

Beat the egg white until foamy in a small bowl. Beat in the remaining sugar until the mixture forms peaks. Spread this over the batter.

Bake for an hour to 75 minutes or until the top is golden brown and a straw comes out clean. Cool and serve at room temperature. Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream make a nice accompaniment, but the cake is so moist that they aren't essential.

The Local Food Report: Uncle Phil's P'Town Beans

Two years ago, Peter Burgess was at the Truro Ag Fair. He was chatting with another farmer—networking, for him, is what the fair's all about—who told him he had a bean he just had to grow. Yeah, yeah, thought Peter. I hear that all the time.

Well. A few days later he was out in the garden. A truck pulled up. A man got out. And he reached his hand over the garden fence and opened up his palm. In it were dried beans—cherry red with white spots. These are a Provincetown heirloom, he explained.

Turns out, the beans came from Phil Alexander, a local gardener who took care of novelist John Dos Passos garden in Provincetown in the 1930s and 40s. Dos Passos had taken a trip to northern Spain, to Alava in the Basque region, and he'd brought these beans back. Over there they are a local specialty, celebrated, and Alexander planted them in Dos Passos' garden. They thrived. He shared them with a few other local families, and since the 40s, these families have been passing the dried seed down. Sal Del Deo grew them for Ciro & Sal's and Sal's Place, and Tony Pasquale uses them today at Terra Luna restaurant. 

Peter gave me some of the dried seed last year. I usually grow Masai Bush Haricot Vert—a small, thin Fedco variety. They're tasty. But these beans were something else altogether. First of all, they're a broad bean—flat, wide, and snappy. You think they're going to be tough, but raw they're sweet, and cooked they get almost buttery. They're delicious. There's no going back for me. 

I saved my seed this year, and next year I'll be planting them again. Peter calls them Uncle Phil's P'Town Beans, after Phil Alexander. If you'd like to get your hands on some, email Peter at tashmuit@gmail.com or send a self-addressed stamped envelope with $2 to P.O. Box 212, North Truro, MA 02652.

Oh! and if you happen to get your hands on some of the beans themselves—or any tender, buttery flat bean for that matter—I highly recommend cooking them like this.

TOMATOES ON TOAST // elspeth

Hi. I have to work a double today and it's hot and busy and August but I just wanted to drop by and say I hope you're eating tomatoes. We're not having a particularly productive tomato year in our garden—we would not, in fact, be having a tomato year at all if it weren't for our kind neighbor George, who brought over some seedlings in late May after I forgot to start mine in April. But while there will be no sauce for the freezer, we have plenty of tomatoes for right now, for slicing and dicing and salads. We've been eating sliced tomatoes with mozzarella and basil and balsamic and roasted eggplant with tomatoes and feta and zucchini. And this morning, Sally and I had chopped tomatoes with olive oil and garlic on toast. I first had pan tostado con tomate y aceite for breakfast in Spain my sophomore year of high school, and I've made it every summer since. If you haven't tried it, do. I hope you've got tomatoes coming your way, and I hope things are good. I'll see you soon, friends.

A very, very good attempt

When your parents come to dinner at the house where your fiancé grew up, it is a very good idea to volunteer to cook. The thing to do is to buy a new cookbook that day, and get very excited about a recipe or two, and then disappear to the store and finally into the kitchen for the afternoon. That way, the fathers and mothers can all pour themselves a glass of wine and head into the living room, leaving you and your fiancé to work happily on a marinade while they do the work of getting to know each other for a bit.

At least this is what I decided yesterday. The book I found was The Food of France, part of a Williams Sonoma collection. I found it in the city, and we decided on a menu of salt and pepper crusted rib-eye, braised endive, gratin dauphinos (a fancy term for scalloped potatoes), and an apple tart for dessert. The apple tart was especially important, as it required quite a bit of concentration and everyone shooed out of the kitchen for a bit.

It also, incidentally, is one of my absolute favorite things to eat for both for dessert, and for breakfast in the car the next day. I first had it in Spain, and spent many evenings sneaking into the kitchen (which very handily had glass doors, closing out the creak of the refrigerator and the noisy scraping of forks on china) with my host sister late at night, after everyone else was asleep. Of course we were chastised in the morning when our mother noticed the edges of the tart slowly creeping in, but we did it every time she made it all the same.

Now this tart is not quite like that one (I am still trying to get the recipe, and translate it, as the measurements are in grams and that sort of thing) but for now it is a very, very good attempt. Maybe it's because it is French, but the pastry cream seems a bit softer, and the crust a little bit less dense, but the apples and the apricot glaze are just the same.


It is also just as delicious the next day, if not better, especially if you have a drive to make. I recommend setting it up on your lap on a bit of tupperware, and without even bothering with forks, eating up every last bit. Just watch out for the pastry cream, as it tends to sneak out and mess things up a bit.

Other than that, I don't have too many tips. I do recommend making it for family gatherings, as it goes very well with wine, and seems to make everyone sort of drowsy and content, always handy for squashing familial discontent. If there are politics or other dire subjects to discuss, I think it would be an especially good bet. I know the election is over and all, but you might want to start practicing for next time, so as to have it in your bag of tricks.

APPLE TART

from The Food of France, Williams Sonoma collection

for the crust:

2 and 3/4 cup flour
small pinch of salt
1 stick plus 2 and 1/2 tablespoons butter
3/4 cup confectioners' sugar
2 eggs, beaten

Mix flour and salt in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, mix butter with your fingers, until soft. Then add sugar, followed by eggs. Gradually incorporate dry ingredients into wet. Knead to make a smooth dough, warp in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least an hour.

for the pastry cream:

6 egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
2 tablespoons flour
2 and 1/4 cups whole milk
1 tablespoon vanilla or rum
1 tablespoon butter

Whisk together the egg yolks, 1/4 cup sugar, cornstarch, and flour in a medium sized mixing bowl. In a medium sized heavy bottomed saucepan, mix milk and remaining sugar. Bring just to a boil, and pour a small amount of the hot milk into the egg mixture, whisking constantly, to temper the eggs. Pour the egg and milk mixture back into the pot of milk, and whisking constantly, bring back to a boil. Once it begins to thicken, cook for two minutes longer. Stir in butter and vanilla and scrape the cream into a mixing bowl. So that it doesn't form a skin, press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the cream, and put the bowl into the refrigerator until you're ready to use it.

for the tart:

4 sweet apples
1/4 cup apricot jam

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Roll out pastry dough. Press into a greased 10 inch tart pan, trimming excess dough from top. Line dough with tinfoil or parchment paper, and fill tart center with rice, coffee, or other dry beans. Prebake for 10 minutes, remove weights and foil or paper, and bake several minutes more, or until just cooked through.


Remove from oven and fill with pastry cream. Peel and core apples, and cut into very thin slices. Layer around the top of the tart into two circles. Cook tart 25 to 30 minutes, or until apples are golden and pastry is dry and cooked. Let cool completely, then melt apricot jam in a pot with a bit of water, and spread with a pastry brush over top. Chill or serve immediately. This tart is just as good, if not better, eaten the next day.

SQUID INK // the local food report

I was standing down at the docks at Stage Harbor the other day, hanging around with a microphone when something very exciting happened. My friend Shannon announced that she and her boyfriend Russell had come up with a recipe for a squid ink martini! They had my attention immediately.

Shannon and Russell help her family run a CSF, or Community Supported Fishery. It's a catch share program, and this year customers haven't been getting much squid. Usually there's tons of squid by now, Shannon says, but this year the water's been cold and it's been a slow season. So she and Russell are trying to help share-holders make the most of what little squid they do get, and part of that is using the ink.

I've eaten squid before, and even squid ink pasta, but I've never heard of a squid ink martini. Apparently squid ink has a very briny, slightly metallic taste that lends itself well to vodka and triple sec—sort of like a dirty martini without the olives.

The ink sac is the little silvery thing you see right there. It's tiny—maybe two or three centimeters long—and it ruptures easily. If you want to save it, you have to clean the squid very carefully. Alex gave me a tutorial the other day.

First you strip the wings from the body. Get your thumb in between the wings and the body and that will help you separate the wings from the body and begin peeling the skin off. 

Next grab just above the eyeballs and slowly pull the guts from the body. If you do it right everything should come sliding out, even the cartilage. If the cartilage doesn't come out of the body, go back in and pull it out, slow and steady. If you're not sure what the cartilage is, it's the long, thin clear strip that looks and feels like plastic.

Rinse out the hollow body tube and set it aside. 

Now squeeze the eyeballs out of the head and remove the beak (more cartilage). You will be left with tentacles.

Carefully extract the ink sac from the guts. As you can see from the bottom photo, it's easy to rupture.

Now you have squid and squid ink. The guts and cartilage can go in the compost. You can cook the squid up into something delicious. (We like stuffed squid.) You can make a squid ink martini, or you can make Nancy Civetta's Risotto Nero alla Fiorentina. If that sounds good, keep reading.

Nancy is a member of the CSF and also works for the Cape Cod Commercial Hook Fisherman's Association. She was on the docks when I was talking with Shannon and Russell the other day, and after requesting squid ink martinis at the next pick-up, she told me about what she does with squid ink.

Turns out, she lived in Italy for a long time, and what they like to do with there is make a squid ink risotto. You use both the squid and the ink, which is nice since you can't really get one without the other. And best of all, it's delicious.

If I still haven't convinced you, consider this. Squid ink is naturally rich in glutamane, the same amino acid found in fish sauce (yum) and imitated synthetically as MSG. In other words, salty and delicious. And if you're looking for other recipes, try calamares en su tinta (squid stewed in their own ink—I once had the octopus version in Spain!) or squid ink pasta with spring asparagus. And for a riff on the squid ink martini...try the squid ink sour!

RISOTTO NERO ALLA FIORENTINA

This comes from the kitchen of Nancy Civetta in Wellfleet and is a delicious way to use the whole squid.

1 plus pounds dirty squid, cleaned and cut into rings and tentacles — save the ink sacs

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 red onion, finely diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 cups Arborio rice

1/2 cup white wine, or more, as needed

3 cups of fish stock

salt and pepper to taste

Put the ink sacs in a shallow bowl and add a little hot water. Mash to break them up and set aside. Sauté onion and garlic in butter and olive oil on medium heat. Once the onion has softened, add the rice and cook for a bit, stirring frequently. When the rice starts sticking, add white wine to coat the bottom of the pan and let it evaporate, stirring. Then being adding the fish stock a ladleful at a time until it's absorbed. Adjust the heat so the rice just simmers. Stir frequently so the rice doesn't stick' always add a ladleful of stock when the rice starts to stick. It should take about 20 minutes to cook.

Keep tasting until the rice is done (al dente). Once the rice is cooked, add the squid and ink sacs and stir just until the ink has incorporated throughout the rice. Then turn off the burner and let the squid cook in the heat of the rice. Let it sit off the heat for a few minutes and stir in salt and pepper to taste. (No parmigiano!) Then buon appetito!

GRATEFULLY // elspeth

A friend told me that when she and her husband were expecting their second child, they asked a nice couple they met at the playground with two kids how much harder it really was. "It can't get much harder, right?" the couple laughed. She moved forward confidently. Then the baby came. The word she now uses to describe how much harder two is than one to friends who ask her is "exponentially." I'm not sure I quite feel this way—going from no baby to rearranging our whole lives around a tiny person's needs and schedules was fairly jarring—but I will say that two is a whole new ball game. I have not accomplished much of anything around here in the past few weeks beyond basic daily necessities: attempt to sleep, attempt to get Sally and Nora to sleep, eat and provide meals, wash the diapers, try to keep Sally from jealousy. Most days we do ok. Other days, mainly the days following nights with both girls waking, are challenging. I am learning to ask for help, to accept it gratefully. It is humbling.

But it's also incredibly nice. I feel lucky to be able to be home for a few months, to be fully present in our daily household rhythms after a summer of chaos and babysitters and longer hours working. I am in the kitchen more than I have been in months; we aren't going out much, and no one's at the restaurants at night anymore working. I am able to focus on what we need—for my reserves, for Nora's milk, for a tired husband, a growing Sally. We are eating well, but simply.

Last night I made a chickpea and chorizo soup inspired by one my mother's friend Julie made us once in Spain. Sally and I roasted a batch of applesauce together (without Nora please Mama, said Sally) with Spartans and Honeycrisps my mother brought down the other afternoon. I soaked the two livers from a chicken my dad cooked while he was here this weekend in milk and breaded and fried them and ate them for lunch yesterday. And for some reason, I can't stop buying and cooking eggplant—mostly roasted, sometimes pan-fried, but always with a generous glug of olive oil and rubbed down with garlic and sea salt. 

The recipe I like best comes from Nigel Slater—from his book The Kitchen Diaries, where he records his daily meals for a year. It's more prose than instruction, and it assumes that the reader knows their way around good ingredients and a kitchen. 

"I slice a couple of eggplant thickly," he writes. "Brush them with olive oil and season their cut sides with black pepper, crushed garlic and crumbled dried oregano, then I bake them on a flat baking sheet in a hot oven till tender and soft. A matter of twenty minutes or so. Whilst the eggplant are still warm, I scatter them with crumbled feta from the Turkish shop down the road, toasted pine nuts and some small, fresh mint leaves from the garden, the pointed variety with no hairs. Then I drizzle the result with more olive oil. Juicy, silky, nutty and warm, it is good, and enough for supper." 

He's making this August 2nd; I've made it at least a dozen times since then. I realize I might be sharing this too late—there were eggplants at the farmers' market last week, but every week I stock up, because I'm not sure when the last morning is they'll appear. I hope they haven't already disappeared.