Spiced Candied Pumpkin Seeds, a Trilogy

I recently heard someone say: pick three things you can do really well each day and then let the rest go.  I like making lists and fall comfortably into self-loathing, so I thought now was as good a time as any to focus on the power of three and put some inner monologues to bed.

It turns out this is a lot like trying to rationalize naptime with a toddler.  There are a lot of things I can do terribly.  My subconscious is a genius at it.

I’m not good at staying in touch with anyone outside a five-mile radius.  My small talk skills fall somewhere along the autism spectrum.  I’m not patient.  I have no idea how to use a crockpot.  I’m also pretty bad at adhering to positivity trilogies. 

But it’s an admirable exercise and so today I’m sharing a recent success.  Which involves not giving up.  And pumpkin. If nothing else I’m stubborn and seasonably appropriate.

The first time I made these seeds they were not worthy of mention.  Their flavor was fine, if you don’t mind eating gloppy, thick-skinned ovals tasting faintly of sweetened curry.  Experience tells red kuri squash seeds are not the appropriate vehicle for this recipe. 

You also need to have enough time and patience to appropriately cook and cool everything. So if you have less than an hour, or are feeling foolhardy, and are not in possession of a pumpkin, these seeds are probably not in your future today.  Otherwise, proceed.

They toast up warm and fragrant and crisp, shellacked with a smooth, sweet glaze.  Their spice is balanced by briny fleur de sel and caramelized maple paired with bits of crunchy crystalized sugar.   They engage all the senses and the result is really something to be proud of.  It also solves the problem of what to do with the guts from your carving pumpkin.

I created the recipe for my Wine Bottega friends.  The final incarnation was worthy of a feature on their October newsletter.  (If the idea of monthly wine appeals to you, you should think about joining their Farm to Glass program.) The seeds pair brilliantly with anything from the era of Harry Craddock and would work with a rebellion of liquid bubbles, a Gewürztraminer, or lower tannin red like a Cabernet Franc. 

So pumpkin, persistence, and a subsidiary of booze, it is.  I can think of worse places to start.

Spiced Candied Pumpkin Seeds

Ingredients:

seeds from one small to medium-sized pumpkin (about ¾ to 1 cup)

2¼ tsp demerara or turbinado sugar (i.e. “raw” sugar with a larger granule)

¾ tsp fine sea salt (e.g. fleur de sel)

½ tsp ground cumin

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground cayenne pepper or piment d’espelette

1/8 tsp ground ginger

1/8 tsp ground allspice

1/8 tsp freshly ground black pepper

1 tbsp maple syrup

¾ tsp canola oil

Instructions:

You’ll need to reserve the seeds from a carving or sugar pumpkin for this recipe.  To prepare the seeds, scoop them out from the fleshy inside of a pumpkin and place in a colander.  Rinse under running water to help separate any pulp still attached.   Pat them dry as best you can with a paper towel and proceed with the recipe or refrigerate until ready to make (a day or two is fine).

Set the oven to 300 degrees. Spread the pumpkin seeds on a rimmed baking sheet and bake for about 20 minutes, gently tossing halfway through.  They should become dry and slightly fragrant.

While the seeds are toasting, combine the sugar, salt, and spices in a small bowl; stir to mix.  When the seeds are done, place them in a medium bowl; add the maple syrup and oil and stir to combine.  Add the spice mix and toss until the seeds are evenly coated.

Line the baking sheet with parchment paper and pour the prepared seeds on top, gently spreading them.  Place in the oven and turn the heat down to 275 degrees.

Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the mixture becomes caramelized and fragrant.  (Rotate the pan halfway through to ensure even cooking.) To test for doneness, take out a couple seeds and let cool.  They are done when dry to the touch.

Cool completely and store in an airtight container.  They should keep for about a week.

Makes about 1 cup

Notes: The unsalted, shelled pepitas in the supermarket might be worth a try if you are pumpkin deprived. 

Rosemary Focaccia, Built to Roam

It’s 8:13 AM.  On the street below a man is hosing down the entryway to a shrine for Saint Agrippina, garnished with over forty red roses.  There has been an Italian feast here in Boston’s North End, waging a war of sweets, meats, and muddied acoustics outside my window for days. 

The best way to describe it is to call to mind a state fair; the Great New York State Fair is my reference point.  Except picture more teeth and truncated consonants and swap out the secular wine slushies and spiedies for tents filled with blessed arancini balls and cannoli shells.

The smell of things fried in oil wafting up to a bedroom window may sound charming.  It can be.  The sound of when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie while cooking dinner may sound romantic.  It can be. 

The resonance of a cover of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” at 10:15 PM when you are trying to sleep is neither charming, nor romantic.  Especially when it is not—in fact—the last dance of the evening.  Under the auspices of broken promises, the age of disco continues to rage for another half hour.

For most of July, I took things to the limit traveling up and down the northeastern coast to the Cape, Vermont, and Rhode Island.  Trampling across beaches, up mountains, and settling on green grass to listen to banjos and acoustic guitars.

I mention this because during these weekends away from the city I’ve felt stronger, often on less sleep, and more booze. I also found myself reflecting a good deal as, I think, traveling tends to nudge. There are things to help this process if you are willing to listen and open wide.

Recently, this has included a Texas gentleman who goes by the name Shakey Graves.  I saw him in Newport last weekend at the epic folk festival. His gritty, soulful lyrics are matched by his lone guitar and suitcase kick drum.  And I haven’t felt this way about music since I was thirteen and discovering The Beatles for the first time. 

The man can sing.

So sit back and watch me go

Bored and lazy

Yeah, watch me go, just passin’ through

Follow me beyond the mountain

Yeah go howl at the ol’ big moon

Oh strip them clothes right from your body

Dress your skin in sticks and stones

Doesn’t matter where we’re headed oh

Yeah cause some of us were built

Yeah, well, some of us were built

Yeah, well you know that some of us

Oh we were built to roam

So there’s that. 

There’s also been this here focaccia that has done its fair share of traveling.  To Barnstable County accompanying pan-fried fish and a tomato casserole.  To Newport alongside smashed avocado and six-minute eggs.  To a motor lodge with cheese from a farm in Vermont with rosé drank from Styrofoam cups. To my beloved wineshop on Hanover Street because those wonderful folks deserve good bread.

It goes most places, easily. With pockets of olive oil in its open crevices.  Seasoned with pins from a spindly rosemary plant I’ve had for a scant decade.  It’s soft, and chewy, and incredibly simple.  The recipe is worth holding tightly to and the focaccia slab is suitable to share with as many people as you can.

I’m not spiritual in the sense of god, or saints, or shrines.  But I do believe in the power of an acoustic guitar and of things made of flour and of heart.  And for me, right now, that’s enough to fill a soul full.

Rosemary Focaccia

Adapted from The Wednesday Chef and Saltie:A Cookbook

Ingredients:

6¼ cups (915g) all-purpose flour, sifted

2 scant tbsp kosher salt

1 tsp instant yeast

3½ cups warm water (a little warmer than room temperature)

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil, plus more for the pan and to drizzle overtop

pinch coarse sea salt

pinch red pepper flakes

2 to 3 tsp minced fresh rosemary

Instructions:

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and yeast; add the warm water and stir until all the flour is incorporated and a sticky dough forms.  In a 6-quart container (the bowl of most Kitchen Aids will do) pour in ¼ cup olive oil.

Pour the dough on top of the olive oil and scoop a little oil that pools at the sides of the bowl over top. (It will look like you’ve made a terrible mistake here, the dough will be very loose, almost like porridge.) Cover with plastic wrap and place in the fridge for at least 8 hours and up to 2 days (I’ve been averaging about 24 hours).  The dough will rise and puff up.

When ready to bake, take the dough from the fridge, oil a baking sheet (about 18 x 13), and pour the dough onto your prepared pan.  Using your hands, spread the dough gently out to the corners, or as close as you can get it.  Let the dough rise until it roughly doubles in volume (about 1 hour).  It is ready when it is puffed up and spread out. 

Meanwhile, in a small bowl combine a tablespoon or two of olive oil with a pinch of red pepper and salt, plus the rosemary. 

Set the oven to 450 degrees.  Make a number of indentations in the puffed dough with your fingers, like you are playing the piano.  Give the olive oil mixture a quick stir and drizzle it evenly over the top of the focaccia, allowing it to pool in the dimples created.

Bake for about 30 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through, until the top turns golden brown.  Let cool on a wire rack and then cut into slices in the pan.

Makes enough for 12 sandwiches (or 24 narrow strips for snacking)

Notes:

-Start this recipe a day ahead.  This may seem annoying, but it’s not a lot of work: there's no kneading.

-The focaccia will last up to 2 days sealed in a plastic bag on the countertop.  If you won’t use all of it right away, it freezes brilliantly.  (If you want it for sandwiches, slice before freezing.)

-See Shakey sing. (Lyrics from "Built to Roam.")

Butterscotch Pots de Crème, a Peace Offering

Let’s see.  Where to begin?  

Much has happened since we last left off.  I’ve moved, suffered a terribly sad breakup, a gladiatorial chest-rattling ailment, and a two-hour midterm on microbes.

Instead of feeling incredibly weepy for myself, I come here today with an offering of pots de crème for the universe.  Essentially, this is pudding.  But pudding so good it has silenced rooms.  And I’ve yet to see it last longer than a minute or two in any human’s presence.

I’ve made the recipe a few times—once with muscovado and later on with plain old brown sugar.  If you do not have the former do not be dissuaded.  In either case, it’s well worth the pint of cream.

The result is more custardy than you might expect—heavy cream and egg yolks will do that.  It’s not tooth-achingly sweet either, as some butterscotch desserts can be.  I also highly recommend leaving the cloud of whipped cream on top unsweetened.  It wonderfully balances the rich, toasty caramel that lies beneath.

The recipe conveniently makes four dinner guest-sized portions.  Except when you are only having two dinner guests.  Then you conveniently have a double ration for the cook.  Or perhaps you walk the ancillary portion down to your friends at the neighborhood wine shop? Who devour it instantaneously in your presence.  And might even swear a little.

The point is, no one who has seen the likes of these pots de crème has been able to resist them.  Nothing but praise.  Dishes scraped clean.  So tuck this recipe away for a day when you’ll need a little extra oomph. 

Because all is fair in love, war, and pudding.

Butterscotch Pots de Crème

Adapted from Orangette and Gourmet

Ingredients:

2 cups (1 pint) heavy cream, divided

6 tbsp dark muscovado sugar or dark brown sugar

¼ tsp salt

2 tbsp demerara sugar

4 egg yolks

1 tsp vanilla extract

Instructions:

Set your oven to 300 degrees and make sure you have a rack positioned on the middle level.  In a small saucepan, combine 1½ cups of heavy cream with the muscovado (or brown sugar) and salt.  Bring to barely a simmer on medium heat, stirring occasionally until the sugar is dissolved.  Remove from the heat.

In a medium saucepan, combine 6 tbsp of water with the demerara sugar over medium heat, swirling the pan occasionally, until the sugar gets browned and bubbly (it helps if you don’t use a dark-colored pan, so you can easily check the hue).  You’ll want it almost chestnut in color (this should take about 5 minutes).

Remove the browned sugar liquid from the heat and slowly add in the cream mixture, whisking to combine.  In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla and then add the hot cream mixture in a slow, thin stream, continuously whisking until combined. 

Set a fine-mesh sieve over a glass measuring cup and pour the custard through (you’ll need a 1-quart size or you’ll have to pour it in batches).  Skim off any foam with a spoon.

Select a baking dish that is large enough to hold four ramekins (or other oven-proof containers) without touching.  Fold a dishtowel to line the bottom of the dish.  Place your ramekins in the pan and divide your mixture among them.  Place a piece of aluminum foil over the top of each to help prevent a skin from forming.

Slide the baking dish into the oven and pour hot tap water into the dish until it is halfway up the sides of the ramekins.  Bake until the custard is set around the edges but still slightly jiggles in the middle when shaken (about 40 minutes).

Carefully remove the ramekins (they will be hot) and let cool on a wire rack (discard the foil).  The custard will continue to set as it cools.  Meanwhile, whip the remaining ½ cup of heavy cream until soft peaks form (you can do this by hand or with a stand mixer).  Refrigerate both the cooled pudding and the whipped cream for a few hours.

Divide the whipped cream among the puddings and serve.

Makes 4

Notes:

-These are best the day they are made.

-I don’t have any tried-and-true suggestions for a demerara sugar substitution.  You might try using the Sugar In The Raw packets you see at coffee shops.  This is turbinado sugar and isn’t as deeply molasses-flavored but may be a good last-ditch effort.  

Early Riser Polenta, For Us Humans

Very scary things have been said about polenta.  It’s pasty.  It needs to be fussed over or it’s all lumps and bumps. It burns if you so much as glance at it wrong.     

But here is the secret.  It has to be stirred.  And this can’t be hurried.  That’s it.

It knows what it needs.  And what it needs is an hour to be ready.  So do not rush it, thankyouverymuch.  Making polenta is mediation by way of cornmeal. 

I felt this needed to be discussed for a few reasons.  One.  Because I had an early dinner with my brother a few weeks ago and the man revealed he has yet to latch on to the right polenta recipe.  Since he owns my great grandmother’s hand crank cavatelli maker—and has used it—I can assure you his polenta void is not for lack of wont.

Two.  Because at said dinner at a trendy-new-restaurant-which shall-remain-nameless, we had a side of farro that was barely passable.  Sad and pale and bored.  (Like a New Englander trudging through March April.) And this should simply not be the case for Italian grains that require so little to taste delicious.

Three.  Because I recently visited Misty Brook Farm and have fallen for their Early Riser cornmeal, which they also feed to their pigs and chickens.  And I hope this balances out some of the implied elitism when I say it’s organic, meaning it’s a non-GMO (a rarity), and from a local farm.  Any food that’s fed to both farm animals and humans can’t be too highbrow.  In fact, I hope we can come to live in a world where people say, “If it’s good enough for the pigs, it’s good enough for me.” 

During my research, I also stumbled across this quote from an online garden supply store about using Early Riser: “Chickens will produce eggs with deep golden yolks, cows love it, and it makes a high quality cornmeal for us humans as well.”  Now, cows aren't technically supposed to eat corn.  But that aside, it’s ground so fine and delicate that it makes the creamiest polenta known to man.

But you still have to stir it. 

So do your dishes while it gently bubbles on the stovetop.  Or, better yet, grab a book and a bottle of wine and head to the kitchen.  This is precisely how I became well acquainted with both Nigel Slater’s recipe for root vegetable korma and a fantastic Umbrian Sunday dinner red from The Wine Bottega.  (Both of which I highly recommend.) You don’t have to be chained to the range, but you really don’t want to stray too far for too long.

You see.  The key is stirring, and patience.  This makes a high quality polenta for us humans, as well.

Early Riser Polenta

Ingredients:

5 cups water

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus additional, to taste

1 cup cornmeal

2 tablespoons (1 ounce) butter

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Pinch of crushed red pepper

Black pepper, to taste

Instructions:

In a 2-quart saucepan, bring the water to a simmer.  Add the salt and then slowly whisk in the cornmeal.  Continue to whisk until any lumps dissolve.

Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook the cornmeal for about an hour, stirring regularly to prevent any lumps from forming.  The cornmeal will bubble occasionally; if it starts to sputter and splatter, turn down the heat.

The polenta is done when it is creamy and has reduced roughly by half.  (It should not taste floury or raw, if it does, cook it longer.)  Stir in the butter, cheese, and crushed red pepper.  Taste and adjust for seasoning.  Serve hot.

Makes about 3 cups

Notes:

-I’ve made the recipe with standard yellow polenta (typically medium or coarse ground cornmeal), as well. (You can find Early Riser at Misty Brook Farm here.)

-If your polenta is looking too dry, add in a drizzle of water.

-For more on the problems plaguing corn, and about Early Riser, see here.

-The vegetable korma is a great way to use up any winter roots you may still have lying around.  (The recipe is from Tender.)