Hazelnut and Parmesan Matchsticks

The first word that comes to mind is scraggy. Well, that and bedhead. The four-year-old kind of bedhead where they’ve tried to smooth down the front of their hair with some water but left the tufts around the crown sticking straight up. Trying to appear stately but still rather rumpled. Besides that, I’ve never given the tree much thought. I guess there was the year I decided to prune its scraggy branches to form the shape of an umbrella. A fort for the kids. Oh, the irony. I’ve looked at that tree, day-in, day-out, from my kitchen window for seven years, through its green lushness of summer and its nakedness of winter, but never really noticed it.

A few weeks back, the mother of my beautiful neighbor, Farzaneh, happened to catch my eye as she was standing under a similar tree. A tree very much like mine. Scraggy and at the edge of the forest. She peered up into its leaves. I thought perhaps she was watching the darling songbirds that inhabit our trees here or the squirrels who use it like a jungle gym. She visits here from Persia 3-4 months at a time and although we do not speak a common language, we smile, we wave and there’s something comforting in that. I like it when she’s here. She didn’t last long outside before she disappeared but I noticed that she returned each day to the foot of the tree. My curiosity was peaked.

One early evening, as we were rounding up our children to come inside for dinner, I inquired of Farzaneh what it was her Mother was watching in the tree. “Hazelnuts. She’s looking for hazelnuts. It’s a hazelnut tree.” I was stunned. Of course, I am aware that Oregon grows almost 100% of the hazelnuts produced in the United States but still, a hazelnut tree, right here? Not a tree that someone consciously planted but one that appeared out of nowhere like a weed? When I think of hazelnuts, I think of desserts in swanky restaurants. The way that adding the word “hazelnut” to a recipe immediately increases its importance. The way the French put hazelnuts in everything. The “nut of royalty.” For such an upper-class nut you would think that the tree which produces it would be more...aristocratic and not so…scraggy. I just couldn’t believe I’d never noticed it before. Perhaps the hazelnuts on the ground could have been a clue.

I spent the next few days after my illumination researching the proper way to harvest hazelnuts, which involves…shaking the tree, gathering the nuts, peeling away the husks, and allowing them to cure for 4 weeks. Then, cracking them, peeling them and roasting them. And, in the end I decided to leave all of that to the experts. I would leave my nuts to the squirrels and their incessant chatter. They had, after all, discovered the bounty long before I did. Now, when I gaze out at the tree from my kitchen window, I have to wonder what else I’ve been looking at everyday but haven’t really seen?

Hazelnut and Parmesan Matchsticks

(adapted from Allumettes Noisette Thym by Clotilde Dusoulier)

If you haven’t happened upon Clotilde Dusoulier’s blog, Chocolate and Zucchini, you must check it out. Equally as charming is her first cookbook of the same name, Chocolate & Zucchini. (All in her beautifully written English, I might add.) This is one of her recipes I have wanted to try. Delicious! Would be perfect as an appetizer during the upcoming holidays especially when paired with a dry, white wine or a glass of champagne. Or, you can do as my children did, and devour them straight down with a mug of warm Ovaltine.

1 c all-purpose flour

5 tbls chilled, unsalted butter, cut into small cubes

6 tbls freshly grated Parmesan

¾ c shelled, roasted hazelnuts, very finely chopped (skin-on is okay) I like Freddy Guys hazelnuts.

1 tsp dried thyme or 4 tsp fresh thyme, minced

1 tsp fleur de sel, sea salt or kosher salt

1 large egg

1 large egg yolk for glazing

To roast the hazelnuts, heat your oven to 350 degrees. Spread your hazelnuts in a single layer on a cookie sheet. Roast for 10 minutes, stirring once, halfway through.

In a large bowl, rub the flour and butter together until the mixture forms coarse crumbs. Add the cheese, hazelnuts, thyme and ½ tsp of the salt. Blend well. Add the egg and blend it in with a fork. Once the egg is absorbed, knead the dough lightly until it comes together and forms a ball. It should be smooth enough to be rolled out: if it is too dry, add a little cold water, teaspoon by teaspoon, until it reaches the desired consistency.

Divide the dough into two balls, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 30 minutes, or up to a day. (If refrigerated for more than 2 hours, remove it from the fridge for about 15 minutes before you use it, or it will be too hard to work with.)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Roll out one ball of dough, thinly, on a well-floured surface to form a rectangle approximately 6 by 8 inches and 1/6 inch thick. Beat the egg yolk with 1 tbls of water in a small bowl. Brush over the rectangle of dough and sprinkle with ¼ tsp salt or do what I did and just crack your salt grinder over the top of the dough a few times.

Cut the dough into strips approximately 6 inches long and ½ inch wide. Transfer strips onto prepared baking sheet, leaving ½ inch of space between them. Repeat with the second ball of dough.

Bake for 13-16 minutes, until golden. Transfer dough to a rack to cool completely. They will keep for a week in an airtight container at room temperature.

For a “pressed-for-time” variation: Shape the dough into two logs (about 1 inch in diameter), put in the freezer for 15 minutes, slice thinly to form round crackers and follow baking instructions above.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Lentil Soup for a Blustery Day

Despite its self-proclaimed “Day of Rest”, I was exhausted from the weekend. The morning was dark until way past 8am. I was sleepy. I knew that exercising would help clear my mind but I was too tired to exercise. I stared out the window as the torrential rain rammed against the side of our house. The deluge of water that cascaded down our window reminded me that the gutter that was broken the last time it rained was, in fact, still broken. I thought of my daughter who had bounded out the door not but 15 minutes ago, late for the bus and without a jacket. My gaze fell onto the lawn. The lawn that two days ago had but nary a leaf on it thanks to yours truly. Sigh. Now, it was covered again with autumn’s version of snow.

“Curses!” I suddenly called out to no one in particular. I realized that in my grogginess of the prior evening, I had failed to set out the yard debris bin. “Ah...two weeks til I can try again. Two more weeks of leaves and a yard bin that is already full to the brim….gads.”

All I really wanted to do was crawl back in bed. And, sleep. Me, the cat and the sound of rain. But, the thought of me, luxuriously napping away while my sweetie was out “hunting and gathering” was just too guilt ridden. So, I shuffled into my office, opened up my laptop and willed myself to be productive. I sifted through emails and then, somehow found myself immersed in a two-hour one-hour project of transferring all of my favorite blogs and websites over to delicious. I can tell that you are secretly chuckling at me. Chuckling because you too know what it means to wile away the time out in cyberspace. When the joy of tagging websites eventually began to wane, I did what any woman in my state of mind would do…I went shopping. For, food.

I guided my car down the leaf-covered roads. With no children, the car was quiet. Only the sound of tires on wet pavement. Walking through the parking lot of my favorite grocery store, a seagull, so far from the sea, squawked at me from atop a streetlight. Trying to beat the next shower, I hurried inside and saddled right up to the counter to order myself a Stumptown “non-fat latte with a splash of vanilla, please.” And then, I slowly wound myself in and out of aisles. Simply taking the time to take it all in.

Back in front of my kitchen sink, I listened to my rainy day favorite, while I chopped up onions, leeks, carrots and celery. Children arrived home from school. Plopped down with books. Worked on homework. Ran outside and returned, when dinner was called, with bright red cheeks and a freshness about them.

With a bowl of soup in front of us and bread and apples within reach, we all sat around the table. We talked about nothing in particular but we talked. We laughed. We ate. And, I thought, if I have done one thing today…I have fed my family. And, maybe, for today, that’s enough.

Lentil Soup for a Blustery Day

(Adapted from Ina Garten’s Lentil Sausage Soup)

¾ lb or 1½ c of French green lentils such as du Puy

1/8 c olive oil

2 large, yellow onions, diced (approx 4 c)

2 leeks, chopped, white and light green parts only

2 large garlic cloves, minced

1 tsp salt

¾ tsp black pepper

1 tbls fresh thyme leaves, minced OR 1 tsp dried thyme

1 tsp cumin

2 c diced celery

2 c diced carrots

3 quarts chicken broth

¼ c tomato paste OR a 15 oz can diced tomatoes

1 pound kielbasa, cut in half lengthwise and then, sliced 1/3 inch thick

2 tbls dry red wine or red wine vinegar, optional

Freshly grated Parmesan cheese for serving.

In a large bowl, cover the lentils with boiling water (or water from your “insta-hot”) and allow them to sit for 15 minutes. Drain and set aside. Please note that you must use the french green lentils when you are making this soup. The regular ole brown ones just turn to mush and well, mush, especially when it's brown in color, is just not that appetizing.

In a LARGE stock-pot over medium heat, heat the olive oil, then, sauté your onions, leeks, garlic, salt, pepper, thyme and cumin for about 20 minutes or until the vegetables are soft and translucent. As I am always pressed for time, I chop my onions, and then add them to the pot. Then, the next vegetable and so on rather than stockpiling and adding them all to the pot at once. Even if each vegetable wasn’t sautéed for exactly 20 minutes, it doesn’t seem to affect the final product.

Add the carrots and celery and sauté for another 10 minutes or so. Then, add the chicken stock, tomato paste (or tomatoes) and drained lentils, cover and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer uncovered for 40 minutes or until the lentils are cooked through and tender. (Or you can do what I did this night and find that fine line between simmer and boil, which seems to cook the lentils in about 30 minutes.) Add the kielbasa and red wine and simmer until the kielbasa is hot about 5 more minutes. Ladle into bowls, sprinkle with grated Parmesan and enjoy.

Yield: About 8 to 10 servings

Now, before you write this recipe off as way too much chopping, please note that this makes a huge batch. And, what’s more, this soup makes a great lunch for you or your little buddies the next day. Nothing more comforting than opening up a thermos of scrumptious lentil soup at school or work…especially on a blustery, “indoor recess” kind of day.

PS: For you vegetarians out there, I’ve also made this soup without the kielbasa. Exchanged vegetable broth for chicken broth and added a 28 oz can of drained, fire roasted tomatoes instead of tomato paste. Delicious.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

String Beans and Caramelized Shallots

How do you know when you should be your child’s advocate? Or when their hurt is simply nothing more than a lesson from life? Do you have that conversation with that teacher? That parent? That coach? Or do you simply stand back and let life take its course. Life’s not fair. We don’t always get what we want even if we play by all the rules. Were past generations of parents wiser for knowing how to stand back? Stay removed? Don’t get involved? Or will our children be better for having us stand up for what they rightly deserve?

These questions run through my mind as I jam the hoe-like tool into our god-forsaken clay dirt. I am planting bulbs. Those shallot look-alikes that must be planted before the winter. Before the clay earth morphs into brick by the frigid temperatures. I do not enjoy planting bulbs. I loathe it. But…plant, I do. I have 150 of these “shallots” to get in the ground. Years ago, I instituted a rule for myself to prevent over-zealous bulb buying. “You may not buy any more than 25 bulbs at a time. You must plant those 25 bulbs before you buy anymore.” Does this look like 25?

And, if you do choose to have that conversation, will it be perceived as petty? Another over-involved parent? Or appreciated for what it is…communicating? Trying to come to an understanding? And, at what point do you hand over the torch and let them be their own advocate with you cheering them on? When are they old enough to do that? And, if they don’t, maybe the true desire wasn’t there for them…only you, the parent. Is it their passion? Or yours? Does my child feel slighted? Or do I?

We don’t get much of a spring here in the Pacific Northwest. Actually, we don’t get a spring at all. We go from freezing cold, gray and rainy in the winter to cold, gray and rainy in the spring. The only sign that spring has actually sprung is the myriad of daffodils that beam their cheerful, yellow trumpets along roadways. Bunched along fences. Clustered near front doors. They are the only sign of spring. And I love them for it.

How do we know how to separate what we want for our children and what they want for themselves? Different decisions we wish we would have made in our own lives, we now make for our children. What do they truly have the talent for and what is just wishful thinking? What do they truly love and what do we love them to do?

I pull out my “hoe” ready to slip in the bulb. The earth tumbles back into my newly-dug hole. Arrrrgh. I grab a trowel and try to dig faster than gravity. Is that 3 times the height of the bulb? When I glance at the pile of bulbs still waiting to be planted, I decide that this hole is good enough. The bulb has been planted. We’ll see what happens come spring.

Maybe we can never know the right answer. Maybe we make the best decisions that we can and that’s good enough. And, then, we wait…and see what happens.

The sky is beginning to darken. I grab a whiff of a neighbor’s dinner floating by in the air. My stomach growls. I gather my tools and my basket of bulbs. No time left today. I leave them in the garage and head inside to chop up some actual shallots for our dinner.

String Beans and Caramelized Shallots

1 lb French string beans (haricots verts), ends removed OR regular string beans

1/2 tsp Kosher salt

2 tbls olive oil

1 tbls butter (optional)

2 large shallots, chopped (approx 1 cup)

black pepper, to taste

Blanch the string beans in a large pot of boiling water for 1 1/2 minutes (3 minutes if using regular green beans.) Drain immediately and spray them with cold water to stop them from cooking any further.

Heat the oil and butter in a large sauté pan and sauté the shallots on medium heat for 10-15 minutes, tossing occasionally, until lightly browned. If your shallots seem to be browning too quickly, turn your heat down a bit.

When the shallots are done, add your drained green beans to the pan, along with the salt and pepper. Heat only until the beans are hot.

Don't even bother with forks and knives. Eat these with your fingers!

This time of year, I serve these on a weeknight with a roasted chicken I picked up at my favorite grocery store and boiled fingerling potatoes tossed with olive oil, apple cider vinegar and salt and pepper. For Christmas Dinner, these accompany my father's creamy mashed potatoes and a delicious Bœuf Bourgignon.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Walnuts

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly,

“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.”

The Spider and the Fly, by Tony DiTerlizzi and Mary Howitt

I sit here at the dining room table my desk. I am wearing a down vest and flip-flops. My feet are cold. I need to put on socks. From where I sit I can inconspicuously peer out at the boys playing in the yard. The littlest one is brandishing a light saber, the older one a tree branch. They are fighting off an invisible enemy. I get up to crack the window realizing that I had not done that earlier. Now, I can hear them. “Get ‘em. Knock ‘em down. Look at ‘em. Gross. Mom! Mawwm! Mawwwwwm!” I know. The spiders are back.

I am quite aware that spiders get a bad rap but I feel a certain fondness for them. I find that they are all Charlotte to me. And furthermore, they signal the fact that my favorite season of the year is upon us. They usher in the changing of the leaves. The crispness to the air. The low hanging fog. My “New Year’s Day” is always the first day of autumn. A day that fills me with energy. Excitement. Motivation. All of which has gone into hibernation by the time the real New Year’s Day rolls around.

I get up from "my desk." Pull open the oven to check the banana bread baking in there. The warm smells from the oven immediately surround my head like a halo. Not quite yet. I stroll to the front door. Open it and step outside, cup of tea in my hands, to check on the boys. “Mom. We’re trying to kill all the spiders.” I gaze up to a big beauty that has spun her work of art overnight out of reach of the “spider killers.” I am awed. The sun reflects off the “spun glass” creating a prism. In the corner, I can see she has trapped a wasp for dinner.

I glance over to the patch of grass where the moles have literally had a field day. Our 17-year old Siamese turned in his Mole Patrol badge last year. Until this fall, we had never had a problem with them. While our neighbor had dug in traps, filled their tunnels with water and let off smoke bombs all to no avail, we had simply let Bruce outside to do his part in assuring the balance of nature is kept. Much like the spiders.

The smell of baking bread wafts through the open window. I stand up from the steps and go back inside to check on my creation. Ahh…perfectly golden on top. Clean toothpick. I pull it from the oven to cool. From the front door, I call the boys in. They throw down their “swords” and run inside. I glance once more up to the lady in the corner and smile at her handiwork before heading inside myself.

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Walnuts

(adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg)

I don't often make banana bread. I have the good fortune to live in the same city as that of what I consider to be the best banana bread...period. Mary's banana bread at Sweet Ambrosia is so delicious that I usually take the "Why bother?" approach to my own homemade version; however, should I have a bowl full of brown bananas, this is the recipe I turn to.

6 tbls unsalted butter, melted

2 c unbleached all-purpose flour

¾ c sugar

¾ tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

½ cup semisweet chocolate chips or chopped up dark chocolate bar (I like to use Scharffen Berger 70% cacao dark chocolate or Valrhona.)

½ c chopped walnuts

2 large eggs

1 ½ c mashed banana (about 3 ripe bananas)

¼ c well-stirred plain yogurt (whole, low-fat, non-fat, Greek – whatever you have lying around.)

1 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9x5 inch (or other standard sized) loaf pan with cooking spray or butter.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking soda and salt. Add the chocolate chips and walnuts. Stir well to combine. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, melted butter and vanilla and stir to mix well. Pour the banana mixture into the dry ingredients and stir gently with a rubber spatula until just combined. Do not overmix. The batter will be thick and a bit lumpy but all the flour should be incorporated. Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan.

Bake for 50-60 minutes. The top should be a deep golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean when the bread is done. (If it seems to be browning too quickly, tent the top with aluminum foil.)

Cool the loaf on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Then, tip it out onto the rack and let it finish cooling. Slice. Eat. Enjoy.

My daughter and I discovered that, should you have any of this bread left the following day, you can bring it back to it’s “just baked” state by popping your slice in the microwave for 12 seconds. The bread will take on some warmth and the chocolate will just start to melt. Heavenly.

PS: If you have not discovered on your own the delightful Molly Wizenberg, I implore you to check out both her book, A Homemade Life, and her blog, Orangette. Both are well written and highly inspiring.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

“End-of-the-Season” Tomato Tart

When my mother-in-law emailed to say that she was coming to visit us for a week this August, I…rejoiced. Contrary to the negative connotation that the words “mother-in-law” usually elicit, I have the good fortune of being married to a man whose mother is simply, lovely. When she comes to town, we drink cabernet together, visit farmer’s markets together, cook together and in the evening, curl up on the couch and chat like girlfriends. So, when she gave us her dates, I rearranged the calendar so the days would be wide open for her visit. Then, she reminded me why she was, at this particular time, coming.

“And, on Tuesday, I’ll be picking up my new golden retriever puppy, Mollie.”

Let me explain, dear friend, why I received this information with a bit of trepidation. Not a day goes by that my children do not beg me for a puppy. Present me with spreadsheets and flowcharts regarding the cost outlay and delegation of responsibilities. Perform award-winning speeches in persuasive speaking. When my 10-year old was but a little guy, I used to say that once he was in kindergarten we could get a puppy. Then, along came the baby. To their cries I would reply, “The baby IS the puppy. You can take him for walks, give him treats, teach him tricks and even clean his poopy diapers.” Believe it or not, this worked…for a while.

The Saturday before the big “Puppy Pick-Up Day,” was “Go Visit Your New Puppy Day.” Wanting to be supportive and share in the excitement, the whole family joined my mother-in-law (aka Nanny) as we went to meet Mollie. We were ushered into the small greeting room where we met “couldn’t be cuter” Mollie. We held her. Snuggled her. Sniffed her puppy breath. And, then, as we were picking ourselves up to go it was mentioned, soft as a whisper, that “We still have a male puppy available, would you like to see him?” And, someone, said, “Yes.” And, voilà, there he is, dear friend, in the picture below. I’m holding him and yes, isn’t he adorable?

Driving home, we knew, the time had come. We were getting a puppy. We talked about where he would sleep. Where he would eat. What we would name him. We talked about walking him, training him and cleaning up after him. We went to bed elated. At 4:00 in the morning, I bolted up, swore like a sailor and said to myself, “Have you lost your mind?”

Over the course of the next few hours, while the rest of the house was still sleeping, I formulated the speech I would need to give the children once we were all awake. Let me further explain, dear friend, that it’s not as if we haven’t had a puppy before. We had a great, big, 80-lb golden retriever in our lives for 8 year before he died much too young from cancer. And, I love dogs. So, while my mind was racing to come up with the most truthful, honest reasoning I could give to my children, it dawned on me that all these years of “not another puppy,” I’d been blaming it on my sweetie – “You know that Daddy doesn’t want a dog. We can’t get a dog.” - when really the reason lied with me.

Mid-morning, I gathered the chickadees in the sanctuary of our bedroom, took a deep breath and said, straightaway, “We can’t get the puppy.” And, with a hand up to silence their crying out, I said, “And, here’s why.” Another deep breath. “When Daddy and I decided to have children, I wanted my full-time job to be at home with you, raising you, watching you grow into the amazing people you are. I didn’t have to do that. I wanted to and not a day goes by that I am not grateful for it…. however, for almost 13 years, Mommy’s been in the baby phase of parenting and I’m ready for the next phase. I can see it coming. It’s almost here and if we were to get a puppy, that would put Mommy back in the baby phase for another two years, at least, and I simply can’t do it.” “But we would help!!!!” “ I know that you say that you would help and I know that your words are genuine but the reality is that I would be responsible for the puppy and I can’t do it.” “Why?!!!”

A quick glance at my sweetie there, silently supporting me, I decided to switch to a metaphorical speech. “Imagine that you get to go to the most beautiful school on earth. Flowers everywhere. A little creek running along the backside. A gigantic playground with real swings. Computers at every desk. You can even play football at recess. And each day you come to school you get to study something you love…maybe for you, it’s fashion design, and for you, it’s the science of football and for me, child development. And you love everything you’re learning but….while you get a break to eat your meals, there isn’t any recess. And, there aren’t any weekends or holiday vacations. And after dinner, you have homework until bed. As the years go by you begin to look up from your studies long enough to notice that other people are outside playing from time to time. They’re down by the creek. Swinging on the swings. You realize…other people are actually playing. Other people have recess. And….Mommy wants recess.”

As I stepped down from the podium and the emotions from my fiery sermon began to ebb, I took stock of the children’s faces. The 10-year old was staring off into space, not making eye contact with anyone. The baby was bouncing all around our senior citizen feline, saying, “I just want a black kitty.” And, my daughter…the silent tears. I have no patience for the dramatic, full-blown crying fits…but the silent tears. Torture. Trying to swallow down the lump in my throat, I quietly said, “I’m so sorry. I wish I could give you this. I love dogs. But I can’t take care of one right now. I simply can’t be responsible for one more living being. I’m sorry.”

We somehow managed to get through the next few days. When Nanny brought Mollie home to our house, my daughter held her and cradled her. And, yes, she was sad but I believe there was a part of her, the part of her that knows she may be a mother one day too, that understood. Although, when asked by her friends why she didn’t get the puppy, I’m sure she responded with, “I don’t know. Something about my Mom wanting recess.”

Later in the week, Nanny sent us an email message to let us know that she and Mollie had made the cross-country flight home without a hitch. There was no need to worry. (I believe my frequent-flyer husband had been more anxious about his mother’s flight home with a puppy under “the seat in front of her,” than she had been.) Attached to the email were pictures of Mollie in her new home and a recipe for “Granny’s Tomato Tart.”

In honor of Mollie’s safe trip home and the knowledge that sometimes the hardest part of being a parent is saying, “no”…I made “Granny’s Tomato Tart” or I should say, my version of it, with the October tomatoes that just keep coming from the “little tomato plant that could.”

“End-of-the-Season” Tomato Tart

(A simplified version of Granny’s Tomato Tart, The New York Times, August 11, 2009)

Crust:

1 ¼ c all-purpose flour

½ tsp salt (1/4 tsp salt if using salted butter)

8 tbls (1stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut in pieces (if salted butter is all you have in the house, use it and reduce salt above.)

1 tbls fresh thyme, minced or 1 tsp dried, optional

2 tbls minced shallot, optional

2-3 tbls ice water

Filling:

1-2 tbls Dijon mustard

8 oz Gruyere cheese, coarsely grated

10 ripe plum/roma tomatoes

1 tsp Herbes de Provence

Freshly ground black pepper

½ tsp salt, or to taste

Now, before you run away from me simply because I’m suggesting that you make your own tart crust, please hear me out. I do not consider myself much of a baker. I can bake and I do from time to time but it is not my forte; however, I can turn out a pretty tasty pie crust and I’ll tell you the secret…you gotta keep it cold. That’s it really…well, that and wipe from your mind the image of the “Cover Pie Crusts.” Those perfectly crimped beauties with the little cut-out leaves that grace the covers of magazines this time of year. Trying to make our food look like “cover food” is just as silly as us trying to make ourselves look like those air-brushed fashion beauties. And, now back to the recipe…

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the flour and salt. Add the butter and process for about 10 seconds or until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add the thyme and shallot; process a few seconds more. (For those of you who prefer a more “purest” tart crust, simply eliminate the thyme and shallot.)

Then, with the machine running, add the water a little bit at a time, just until the dough begins to hold together. Turn it all out onto cutting board/pastry mat/hunk of marble and form it into a flat disk. Wrap in plastic wrap or parchment paper and chill until firm, at least 30 minutes. Or if you’re really pressed for time, as I usually am, go ahead and slap it in the freezer for 10 minutes.

Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. Slice up your tomatoes. Grate your cheese. Have your mustard and spices ready.

At the appropriate time, pull your dough from the refrigerator. Lightly flour your work surface and rolling pin. Roll out dough into one 10-inch disk 1/8-inch thick. Line your 10-inch tart pan with the dough and trim the extras.

Spread mustard lightly over the bottom of your tart shell. Sprinkle evenly with the cheese. Arrange the tomatoes, in even, slightly overlapping, circular rows. Sprinkle with the Herbes de Provence, the salt and pepper. Bake until tomatoes begin to shrivel and cheese is melted about 30 minutes. Serve warm.

Yield: About 6, good-sized, tart slices

My sweetie did observe that this tart tastes and smells an awful lot like a grilled tomato and cheese sandwich and while, I do agree, I had to remind him that it’s all about the presentation. So, feel free to serve your tart slices with similar accompaniments as a grilled tomato & cheese sandwich: a cup of soup, a green salad or like I did today for my children’s lunch, some apple slices. (A glass of red wine would go nicely as well.)

PS: For those of you having a hard time getting past the part where I turned down that cute little bundle of fur…I will let you know that the little buddy went to a great family and here he is at home on his boat.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Herbes de Provence Goat Cheese Spread

We are of the opinion, our household that is, that the tooth fairy is an unreliable, flighty little thing. That she is prone to wild mood swings and is picky. Picky, picky, picky. Our dear children, having just survived another round of the molting process, bless their hearts, will wrap their precious little gift, carefully, ever so carefully, in a tissue. I then instruct them to place the tiny object into an envelope, carefully, which they will then seal and place under their pillows to await the arrival of the tooth fairy. More often than not, come morning, their little eyes will be filled with tears instead of joy. The tooth fairy did not come.

Just as disappointed as they are, I shrug and say, “Maybe she doesn’t do envelopes anymore. That’s what I did when I was your age but maybe now, she prefers the box.” “Which box?” “You know. The special little box that holds teeth?” So, into the box the wee bit of ivory goes. And, believe it or not, come morning, there are times when she even snubs the box. To my children’s questioning gaze, I sigh, strike the thinker pose and pause, before exclaiming, “Ah ha! Maybe you just have to leave it out in plain view. Otherwise she can’t…she can’t sniff it out. Her sniffer doesn’t seem to be working.” At which point, they become suspicious.

Say what you will about the tooth fairy, there is; however, one area in which she can be consistently relied on. If her prize is a molar, the payment to the child is always, a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Now, as the child races down the stairs to show me her reward, I brace myself in anxiety-fraught anticipation. You see, to steal a quote from a dear friend, "I should have been born Catholic I have so much guilt." And, as the child opens her sweaty palm to show me the warm coin, I have to force myself not to recoil. Not to recoil away from that face. The face with the look of disappointment on it. The stern, Susan B. Anthony face that seems to say to me, “What are you doing to further my cause? My life’s work? What? What I ask you?!” I quickly fold up the child’s hand, pat her on the head and say, “Good job, now why don’t you go put that somewhere safe.”

I have often pondered what it is I’m doing. What I’m actually doing to further the cause of women put in motion over a hundred years ago. My mood swings between the elation of being alive, at this point in history, where women enjoy freedoms not even conceivable hundreds of years ago and the despondency I feel when I hear the latest report of tragedies incurred by women around the world. And, just when I feel that bit of panic rise up my throat, that feeling of “What can I, one person, possibly do?” I turn on Pink Martini’s Una Notte a Napoli, pour myself a glass of my favorite “cab of the moment,” and start chopping. Something. Anything. Today it’s the herbs gone wild in my garden’s last push of the season that I’m using to liven up an Herbes de Provence goat cheese spread that is irresistible.

My chopping tool of choice today is a beautiful, perfectly sharpened, Wüsthof chef’s knife. The prized possession of my 10-year old son. Perhaps the sole reason, he skipped out the door without a single complaint the entire week of his summer cooking camp. He knew that for a week’s worth of work, he would come home with the King of Cooking Tools. The tool to trump all others. The tool for which, using his Birthday money, he purchased a locking case and into which he carefully and ever so deliberately placed his prize and had to really think about whether it would be okay for me to borrow it from time to time.

On the other hand, another possible explanation for why he didn’t complain is he’s always known that when he turned the correct age, he too would begin to go to cooking camp each summer, just like his sister before him and his baby brother behind him. Because, perhaps, furthering the cause of women is less about how I raise my daughter and more about how I raise my sons. Perhaps. Perhaps, not.

Do you think, dear friend, that if I can teach my sons to nourish themselves, to have an appreciation for the preparation of a meal, to gaze out at their yard and recognize it as the support-system from which they too can harvest herbs, tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, then, maybe, just maybe, they will treat their yard, the earth, the soil a little more tenderly? Maybe they will be a little more deliberate when deciding what to put in their mouths? Maybe, just maybe, they will know the feeling of satisfaction that comes from making and sharing a meal? Of nourishing themselves and their families?

I must admit that not much cooking has gone on since the completion of his camp but occasionally, like today, he will pass through the kitchen when he sees me chopping and say, “Hey, Mom. Do you want me to do that? I really like to chop.” And, once I pass the knife over, he’ll instruct me by saying, “Now, Mom, you’re really supposed to hold the knife like this. See? With this finger like this.” I’ll try not to smile and simply be grateful that a tiny, little seed has been planted. I can’t know if it will grow but I’m just glad it’s there. And, maybe the next time I see Susan B. Anthony’s face, I’ll realize that it’s not a look of disappointment but the very real fact, that nobody but nobody smiled in pictures back then. That’s it. Plain and simple.

Herbes de Provence Goat Cheese Spread

(Adapted from Herbed Goat-Cheese Toasts, Epicurious)

6 oz. mild goat cheese, room temp

¼ c chopped, mixed herbs – oregano, basil, rosemary & thyme – heavier on the first two, lighter on the second two

1 1/2 tbls minced chives OR minced shallot

½ tsp black pepper OR to taste

a pinch of salt

1/3 c well-chilled heavy cream OR for a tangier version, ¼ c plain, yogurt

Stir together first 5 ingredients. In a separate bowl, beat the cream with a whisk until it just holds soft peaks, then fold into cheese mixture. If using yogurt, add it once the first 5 ingredients have been mixed-together. Enjoy immediately or let the flavors mingle for a day. Delicious.

“What do I do with this?” you ask, my friend. I keep mine in a little glass container in the fridge that I can serve it from whenever the moment arises. At times, I’ll set it out with our favorite seeded flatbread crackers and sliced pears as an after-school snack. Or, the other night, I set it out with sliced bread as an accompaniment to pre-made spinach & cheese raviolis topped with Dave’s Gourmet Red Heirloom Pasta Sauce, which is currently at Costco and I can’t say enough good things about it. Or, use it as a spread on my aforementioned, Heirloom Tomato Sandwich.

Whatever you do, though, take it out of the fridge at least, 20-30 minutes before you serve it. The other day I plopped it down for some friends straight from the fridge and then had to painfully watch as they politely tried to stab at it and awkwardly tried to “spread” it on their crackers without breaking them. I heeded Julia Child’s advice and did not apologize for the mistake but I had to avert my eyes from the rather uncomfortable situation.

PS: My favorite “cab” of the moment is a cheapie. Black Mountain Vineyard (Fat Cat) Cabernet Sauvignon which you can find at Trader Joe’s for $6.99 a bottle. Definitely let it breathe before drinking. And, if you happen to stash one in the back of your attic, improperly stored for say, 9 years, can I tell you that upon finding it and drinking it you will be treated to a most exquisite glass of cabernet sauvignon. Try it and let me know if you agree.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Pizza à la Julie

Apparently, there is a bobcat a-foot in our neighborhood. He's reportedly been seen sunning himself on the side of the road, peeking through the rails of back decks and even, chasing a female runner up one of the wooded trails. While he's not easy to spot due to his coloring, the telltale sign that he's around is the frenzied chirping from the birds in his locale. Here is a picture I snapped of his cousin on a recent trip to the Oregon Zoo. He looks none too happy to be in here while his blood relative is out fancy-footin’ it in the wild.

My evening had started out as one of pure bliss. Two dear friends of mine and I had sipped a beautiful, “citrusy” pinot gris and munched on crisp red peppers dipped in a hummus – truly one of the smoothest, most flavorful that I have ever had – which the hostess had picked up at the Beaverton Farmer’s Market. The children were off playing in the bowels of the house and we were left alone to chat away. Kids’ activities. Teachers. Books we’ve recently read. Books the kids have recently read. The meaning of life. And, while we chatted, the heady aroma of onions being caramelized swirled around us.

As we were deep in conversation about the meaning of life – a topic “to be continued” – the hostess laid down before us what she calls her version of pizza. I could barely contain myself when I saw what befell me. Thick slices of Heirloom tomatoes covered with the caramelized onions, Herbes de Provence, chopped pecans and crumbled blue cheese. I inhaled each tomato “pizza” with such quickness that I bordered on being quite rude. I simply couldn’t help myself. Each bite was heavenly.

Growing up, my siblings and I were regaled with the legend of the Hide-Behind Monster. Supposedly, one can never see the Hide-Behind monster. No matter which direction or how quickly you turn your head, he is always behind you. And, he’s a tricky little monster in that he doesn’t show up in mirrors. You always know he’s around when you hear the crack of a tree branch and the “hoot” of an owl. And so, throughout my childhood, I always carried with me the feeling that someone was behind me. I would dart up dark stairwells as quickly as possible. Upon reaching the top, I would promptly twist around trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was there but nobody ever was.

Our exquisite platter of “pizza” was long-gone, the sky was dark and the children were getting sleepy. I reluctantly packed up my little tribe, headed home and continued to marvel over tonight’s dinner. We had received notice earlier in the week that our street was to be “slurried” the following day - which meant nothing to me except that I wanted to start singing, “Surry with the Fringe on Top” - and all cars would need to be off the street by 8am. As I’ve told you before about my “morning-challenged-self,” I knew that I would need to take care of the car that very night. I decided to drop the children off at home with my sweetie and then park the car on the next street over. There is a little trail that connects our two streets. In the daylight hours, it is perhaps a 5-minute walk through the woods.

I parked the car, alongside others with the same idea, and then, headed down the trail armed with a flashlight that beamed a quarter-size circle of light. Now, let me explain that this trail goes straight down a flight of stairs and crosses a little creek before it goes straight back up another flight of stairs. All was going well. I was still talking to myself about the pizza, humming Rogers and Hammerstein show tunes and shining my little pin of light. But, as I went down, down, down…down into the darkness. Down into the bank of ferns that somehow seemed to be growing taller than I. And, down the trail that at this point, I could barely make out, I became aware that the darkness was literally swallowing me up. Pressing on me. Suffocating me. I was alone in the complete and utter pitch black. I started to take deep breaths, switched to whistling “Whenever I feel afraid…,” and pulled out my cell phone hoping to gain a little more light by shining it on the ground as well. And then, I had the feeling that someone or something was behind me. Just sure I was about to be attacked, I flipped around as quickly as possible. Heard a crack of a tree branch. The frantic chirping of birds. An owl. My heart started racing. I started to panic. Hyperventilating even. I picked up my pace, ran across the bridge and started to fly up the stairs on the other side. I was on the verge of screaming, “Help!”, convinced that the bobcat, a person, or the Hide-Behind monster was about to grab me, when my feet lost their footing on the gravel stairs. I slipped and “down, down, down, I fell.” Hard.

Stunned, with a throbbing elbow and skinned knees, I laid there. The light from my neighbor’s front porch was shining on me through the ferns. I prayed to the Lord above that neither she nor anyone in her family had been peering out in this direction the minute before. I shook my head, slowly stood up and chastised myself. “Look at you. A grown woman. You really need to get over it. The Hide-Behind monster does not exist!” I methodically climbed the final stairs, turned the key in my front door and went into my sleeping house...absolutely mortified.

As for the bobcat, who knows?

Pizza à la Julie

2 tbls olive oil

1 tbls butter

1 large or 2 medium, onion(s), thinly, sliced – Walla Walla or Hermiston Sweets, if you can find them. Regular, yellow onions if you can’t

3-4 large heirloom tomatoes, sliced ½ inch thick

½ cup crumbled, blue cheese – such as Rogue River Blue

1/3 cup chopped, roasted pecans

1 tsp of Herbes de Provence or 1 tbls of a variety of chopped, fresh herbs such as basil, thyme, oregano and a pinch of rosemary

optional: salt & pepper, to taste

Begin by prepping your onion(s) to be sliced. Peel. Cut off the end(s). Then, heat/melt your olive oil and butter in a large, skillet over medium heat. Thinly slice your onion(s). Add them to your heated fat, stir them around to coat them in the mixture and then, turn your heat down to low. You can at this point add a pinch of salt and pepper but I usually just let the oil/butter work their magic with the sugars in the onion. Now, don’t be frugal with your onion(s). Trust me. It’s better to have more than you can ever imagine because they will cook down. Way down. Keep your heat on med-low to low and stir the onions from time to time. After about 20 minutes they will become translucent and take on an amber color. Take care not to let them brown too quickly or burn which will give them a bitter taste.

While the onions are caramelizing, you can sip wine and chat with friends slice your tomatoes and lay them out on a platter. Next, crumble up your blue cheese and have it ready. And, if I may, I’d like to suggest Rogue River Blue Cheese. This year’s wheels have just been released into stores and Rogue River Blue has the distinct honor of not only being made here in Southern Oregon but being known as the “Best Blue Cheese in the World” due to the numerous awards bestowed upon it over the years. I'm not sure how the Roqueforts feel about that, but let's go with it.

I was recently enlightened to the fact that, while pecans are available year-round, those pecans harvested in the fall are the sweetest and most moist. So, get thee to a store now and gather up some fresh pecans. You can choose to roast them the traditional way - 350 degrees, single layer on a cookie sheet, roast 5 minutes, stir, roast another 4-5 minutes OR you can do a little trick I learned for roasting all kinds of nuts when you’re short on time. Just pop them in the microwave for about a minute. Not quite the same, but it’ll do. Chop them up and set them aside. If you’re choosing to use fresh herbs, chop them up and set them aside also.

By now, your onions should be done. Put a “forkful” of them, and their delicious syrup, on each tomato slice. Next, sprinkle the blue cheese over the onions, then the pecans and finally the herbs and optional, salt and pepper. Serve them up to your friends and watch them swoon.

I do, in fact, serve these “pizzas” to my children and they inhale them. One difference, though, is that I put the blue cheese and nuts on the side and let the children decide if they want a more "purest" type of pizza or if they want to load up on all the goods.

Yield: About 12 “pizzas”

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009