Sam’s Cake Pavlova, So Long Beacon Hill

Friday will be the last night I sleep in my studio—my home for the last four years.  I’ll soon be shipping off to Boston’s North End.  But as I type this, I’m currently in Beacon Hill penned in by boxes; stacks of old Gourmet magazines; and a dubious gang of bottles, each with about a thumb’s worth of liquor. 

There is leftover Hiram Walker creme de cacao from a chocolate martini phase,  when I had my first job as a café manager and took to drinking sweet drinks served in martini glasses. Perhaps a way to usher me into adulthood, gently.

And rosso vermouth from a make-your-own-Manhattan-at-home stage.  An attempt to survive a post-apocalyptic breakup.

Some Speyburn single malt from the time in my life when I tried to like scotch.

Dark rum courtesy of the summer I spent teaching myself to use a charcoal grill.  Fueled by enough Dark and Stormy cocktails to quell the fear that I’d set my city patio on fire and singlehandedly burn down Beacon Hill. 

Plus a long, thin-necked Galliano bottle that I took after raiding my grandmother’s cellar.  I quickly learned that I am, perhaps, the only person still alive who likes the canary yellow digestif.

The stories these bottles could tell.

But this is not space for that.  At least not today.  Today, today (!) I am going to tell you about the last—and epic—party that was held on my eighteen by six feet garden terrace, an outdoor space that I will miss very much.

A dear friend—someone who knew me well before the swift entrance into adulthood, neurotic grilling, and scotch—recently became affianced to lad who tolerates me calling him JamBug.  (Hi Theresa!  Hi JamBug!)  It was quickly decided we needed to party the shit out of my patio, one last time.

So we did.  On a Sunday night in early August.  We set the patio aglow with small glass votives; hung tea light-filled Ball jars from tree branches; and strung big bulbed lights all over the place.  The space flickered like it was filled with fireflies.

And then eighteen people were overserved.  And fed. With stuffed mushrooms, pickled shishito peppers, and Pimm’s No.1 cup cocktail cubes.  Sumac deviled eggs; pimento and cucumber tea sandwiches (crusts intact); and tomato, peach, burrata, basil salad. 

Fed a beautiful polenta artichoke tart, courtesy of a Maria Speck recipe.  Fed two porchetta plus herbed potatoes courtesy of Dave Schneller.  Essentially we stuffed ourselves.  With pig-stuffed pig, mushroom-stuffed mushrooms, egg-stuffed eggs … you get the idea.  Plus we had molasses and plum ice cream sandwiches.  And Sam’s Cake pavlova.

Allow me to explain Sam’s cake.  Theresa’s family has a restaurant.  This restaurant has a cake.  A cake named after her father, who used to make the dessert.  Famously made the dessert.  He passed away when Theresa and I were in high school.  So we honored him and his yellow-caked legacy, which also included a vanilla pudding-like component and berries.

To lighten it a smidgen I substituted pavlova.  Given all the eating we were to do.  A meringue with unsweetened whipped cream, plus pastry cream, and peaches, and berries followed.

Simple.  But a stunner.  Light as a feather.  Touched by Sam and graced by a ballet dancer, as the pavlova story goes.

A hell of a way to start a marriage. A hell of a way to end a party.

Sam’s Cake Pavlova

Ingredients:

for the pavlova

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

2 tsp white vinegar

2 tsp vanilla extract

1 tbsp cornstarch

2 cups superfine (castor) sugar (see notes section)

8 egg whites (reserve 4 yolks for the pastry cream)

pinch of salt

for the pastry cream

Adapted from Tartine

2 cups whole milk

½ vanilla bean, split, seeds scraped and pod reserved

¼ tsp salt

3 to 4 tbsp cornstarch

½ cup + 1 tbsp sugar

4 egg yolks

4 tbsp unsalted butter

for the topping

1 pint heavy cream

1 tsp orange blossom water

2 small peaches

1 cup blueberries

1 cup raspberries

Instructions:

Start this at least a day before you plan to serve it to make assembly much easier. 

To make the pavlova:

Set the oven at 250 degrees and place a rack in the center.  Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper and draw a 7-inch diameter circle on each one.

In a small bowl, mix the vinegar and vanilla extract.  In another small bowl, mix the cornstarch into the sugar.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, whip the whites and salt on low, increasing the speed to medium, until soft peaks form, and a trail from the whites becomes visible, and very tiny bubbles form that are uniform in size (about 2 to 4 minutes).

Increase the speed to medium high and slowly sprinkle in the sugar mixture.  After about a minute, add in the vinegar mixture.  Increase the speed and whip until glossy, stiff peaks form (about 5 minutes).

Spread half the meringue to fit inside one of your circles on one of the prepared baking sheets, smoothing it out and making sure the edges are higher than the middle.  (You’ll need a well an inch or two deep in the center to create a space for the pastry cream and fruit to go.)  Repeat with the remaining meringue on the other sheet.

Bake both meringues for 1 hour plus 15 to 30 minutes, or until the shells are dry and cream-colored.  (Look at the shells around 60 to 70 minutes; you don’t want them to take on too much color, if they are rotate the pans and drop the oven temperature about 25 degrees.)

When the outside meringues are as described above and feel firm to the touch, turn the oven off and leave the door ajar, leaving the meringues inside.  (I used a fork to keep the oven propped open.)  Let the meringues cool completely in the oven.

Peel the cooled meringues off the parchment paper and store in an airtight container, or wrap tightly with plastic wrap, until ready to use.

To make the pastry cream:

Place a fine mesh sieve over a large bowl.

In a medium saucepan, place the milk, scraped vanilla bean seeds and pod, and salt, and place over medium-high heat; stir occasionally, to prevent scorching, and bring to just under a boil.  Remove the pod.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the cornstarch and sugar. (3 tbsp will yield a slightly runnier cream, while 4 tbsp will yield a firmer cream; I used 3 tbsp and thought it was a perfect counterpoint for the meringue.)  Whisk in the yolks.

When the milk is ready, slowly pour about 1/3 of the hot milk into the egg mixture, whisking constantly.  Pour a little more of the hot milk into the egg mixture and whisk again.  Repeat once or twice more, and then pour the egg mixture into the remaining hot milk mixture and cook over medium heat, constantly whisking, until the custard becomes as thick as lightly whipped cream, about 2 minutes (you’ll want to see a few slow bubbles to ensure the cornstarch cooks, but do not allow the cream to fully boil or it may curdle.)

Remove the cream from the heat and quickly pour it through your sieve into the bowl.  Let cool for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent a skin from forming.  When the cream is about 140 degrees, whisk in the butter in 1 tbsp pieces.  (Whisk until the cream is smooth before adding the next piece.)

Cover the cream with plastic wrap, pressing the wrap directly onto the top of the cream (to prevent a skin forming).  Refrigerate until ready to use.

To make the whipped cream:

In the bowl of a stand mixer, whip the heavy cream until it becomes stiff and cloud-like; whip in the orange blossom water for another few seconds. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

To serve:

Slice the peaches.  Place each meringue onto a serving dish. 

Spoon pastry cream into the center of each meringue until you deem fit (I spooned until it started to gently run down the sides of the meringue).  Scatter the peach slices and blueberries equally between the two meringues.  Divide the whipped cream evenly between the two and then toss the raspberries on top.  Serve immediately.

(Alternatively—if you are feeling brave—you could try stacking the two meringues, alternating the pastry cream, fruit, and whipped cream.)

Serves 12 to 16 people

Notes:

 -The pastry cream can be made up to 5 days ahead of time.  The meringue and the whipped cream can be made 1 day ahead of time.

-You could probably cut the pastry cream in half; you’ll have a little extra if you don’t, but I’ve never heard anyone complaining about leftover pastry cream.  You can use it as a simple sauce with fresh fruit, or to add to cakes and trifles.

-If you can’t find superfine sugar, whirl granulated sugar in a food processor until it becomes finely textured.

-You probably won’t be able to serve 16 people if you stack the pavlova.  Each pavlova on its own will conservatively yield 6 generous portions and 8 smaller ones.

Hazelnut Fig Biscotti for Old Souls

My younger brother just turned twenty-two.  What do you give a strapping Italian male who acts like he’s eighty and desperately tries to subvert his birthday each year?  Why, you give him biscotti. 

Well, first you stalk him until he gives you his new address.  You say that he’s only making it harder on himself.  That he’s prolonging the inevitable.  That he might as well just give up, give out the goods, and get it over with. (And then you promise that you won’t mail anything too ridiculous.)

Sending something edible tends to be a good idea in a delicate scenario such as this one.  I have had these cookies on my “t0-make” list.  But I pictured a giant eye roll at the sight of a box of snickerdoodles.  So I settled in on biscotti.

And I’ll be honest.  I wasn’t sold on these guys when I first made them.  I had to bake them for so much longer than the recipe said, such a long time that I thought I sent the poor souls to an early grave.

But the next morning, I noticed an almost breakfast toast quality to them.  Like a piece buttered and scattered with cinnamon sugar.  With a little more of a snap. 

The toasted sugars from the second baking, once cooled, deepened the cookie and mellowed its spices. And, when dunked into a cup of coffee with a little cream, it offered about as much comfort as any cookie can.  So much so, that I made another batch this weekend.

This time, I just halved the hazelnuts and chopped the figs by hand, instead of blending some of the fruit and nuts in a food processor as the recipe originally suggested.  It resulted in a sliced cookie that was a little shaggier, a bit homier, but with a fig and hazelnut flavor that was more pronounced.  Either way, they promise a toasty gingersnap presence that will warm the souls of cranky old men.

So, little brother, I hope you didn’t give out a decoy address.  And if you did, I wish whoever is living in apartment 11C to be as old-souled as you are.  Make your birthdays be filled with biscotti for years and years to come.

XOXO

Hazelnut Fig Biscotti

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen by way of The Babbo Cookbook

Ingredients:

1 cup of whole hazelnuts

8 large Turkish (dried) figs, cut into small bite-sized pieces

¾ stick unsalted butter, softened

¼ cup granulated sugar, plus a few extra tbsp for dusting the dough

¼ cup plus 2 tbsp dark brown sugar, lightly packed

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla extract

½ tsp almond extract

grated zest of a medium-sized orange

1¾ cup plus 2 tbsp all-purpose flour

1 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp baking soda

½ tsp kosher salt

1 tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp grated nutmeg

¼ tsp ground cloves

3-4 cardamom pods, smashed, shelled removed, and seeds ground (a scant ¼ tsp ground)

dash of ground ginger

1 egg white

Instructions:

To prepare the hazelnuts

Before you do anything, you’ll want to remove the skins of the hazelnuts.  (I suppose you could leave them on, but a birthday is as good a reason as any to spend the extra time and skin them.)  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Place the hazelnuts on an ungreased cookie sheet and toast them until you can smell them and their skins start to crack.  Remove the skins by placing the hot nuts in a dish towel and rubbing them together.  You’ll get about eighty percent of the skins off and will have to spend a little time removing the rest (it’s okay if you can’t get the final few off, just leave them out). Then slice the hazelnuts in half.

To make the biscotti

In a bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugars until light and fluffy; add the eggs, one at a time.  Add in the extracts and grated zest and stir with a rubber spatula until well incorporated.

In a medium bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices.  Slowly beat the dry ingredients into the butter mixture, until the majority of the flour has been well incorporated.  Remove the bowl from the mixer stand and add in the fig pieces and sliced hazelnuts and stir until well combined (there should not be any flour still visible).  The dough will be fairly firm and will be heavily studded with nuts and fruit.  Wrap it in plastic wrap and chill it until firm (about an hour).

After about 45 minutes, preheat the oven to 325 degrees and grease a cookie sheet with butter.  Whip an egg white with a wire whisk until foamy. When the dough is ready, roll the dough out on a floured surface until it is roughly the length of your cookie sheet and about five inches wide (you can do this gently with your hands).  Place the dough log on your cookie sheet, brush it with the egg white (you’ll have some leftover), and then scatter generously with sugar.  Bake for 20-45 minutes (the recipe said 20, but it seems to need a bit longer: for me it was closer to 45 minutes).  Once the log turns golden brown, is firm to the touch, and starts to crack: it’s ready. 

Let it fully cool and then slice the biscotti on a bias into roughly ½ inch slices.  Lay the slices sideways on the cookie sheet and cook them at 250 degrees until they turn a deeper brown, crisp up, become completely dried out. (This took me about an hour.)  You’ll probably want to start checking after 30 minutes and turn the cookies over from time to time so that they brown evenly on both sides.  Allow them to cool fully, ideally overnight.

Makes 15-20 cookies

Notes:

-I’ve already eaten five six since last night (oops). Technically, they'll keep at least a week in a ziplock bag or airtight container.

-These guys are lovely super crisp, so be patient with the second baking.  Here is the recipe I used from Smitten Kitchen (with pictures).  And, if chocolate is more your speed, try these guys, courtesy of grandma.

Kale Greens Under Buttermilk Roast Chicken, South By Northeast

First things first.  In my buttermilk haze, I completely forgot to truss this bird.  I get a little excited about roast chicken.  And also a bit distracted buttermilk, as you may have heard.  

So when I opened the oven door, the bird’s legs were splayed out in a poultry version of happy baby yoga pose.  The legs were also golden brown and incredibly moist. This was first apparent during the carving, and then became even more convincing once I had a thigh in my clutches.

This dish is a take on Southern staples like buttermilk fried chicken and silky collard greens. The greens—also known as dinosaur kale in this kitchen narrative—were graced with the juices that trickled out of the chicken as it cooked.  They shriveled down quite a bit in the roasting pan, so what was left of them didn’t feed a crowd.  But they fed me, crowd for one.

I ate some of the greens straight from the roasting pan.  Some I placed on top of crusty bread.  I even slipped a few spoonfuls into the inner leaves of a Napa cabbage.  Which sounds a bit odd, but it brought the west coast-vibed vegetable to a whole new place.  A homey place.  A place where I imagine the sweet tea flows freely, where peach pie is prom queen, and where lard is a birthright.

So what I’m trying to say is that the meal delivered on its Southern hospitality.  I also recognize you can’t just throw buttermilk and sweet tea around and expect to develop a drawl.  Though—if I’m being honest about my Southern dalliances—I did make pimento cheese spread earlier this week.  And I had it for, not one, but two whole meals. 

That said, I fully admit the inspiration for this chicken came from a certain New Yorker, who was inspired by the lovely Nigella Lawson.  I’m also writing to you from Boston, which has a reputation for being a bit more buttoned up than our neighbors to the South.

No matter. An appreciation for chicken steeped in buttermilk might unite us all.  This recipe is easily destined to become a Sunday night staple at my place, paired with some shriveled olives and perhaps a glass, or two, of Chinon. Call it New England meets Georgia meets the Loire Valley.  I call it dinner, comingling.  But perhaps that’s just my Southern spin.

Kale Greens Under Buttermilk Roast Chicken

Inspired by Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:

Kosher salt

About a 3 pound whole chicken

2 cups buttermilk

6 cloves garlic, divided 

1½ tsp smoked paprika

1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 tbsp sugar

Bunch of dinosaur kale (or Lactinato kale)

Small handful of cilantro, very roughly chopped

¾ tbsp butter

Black pepper

Olive oil, as needed

Instructions:

The day before you plan to make the chicken, salt the inside cavity of your bird liberally and repeat on the outside.  Combine the buttermilk, 3 cloves of smashed garlic, paprika, red pepper flakes, and sugar in a bowl large enough to place your chicken.  Add your chicken to the bowl; spoon the buttermilk marinade on top so that the chicken is well covered in marinade, and refrigerate it for at least 24 hours.

The following day, when you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Roughly chop the dinosaur kale, smash the remaining 3 cloves of garlic, and toss both in a large roasting pan.  Toss the greens and garlic lightly in some of the buttermilk marinade to moisten them, then add the roast chicken to the roasting pan; the roast chicken should be well covered in marinade, but you will likely have some leftover remaining marinade that you’ll want to discard.

Gently lift up some of the bird’s top skin so that you can slip the cilantro into it and then rub the butter under the skin.  (At this stage, you may also wish to tie its legs; if so, truss on.)  Season the bird and the kale with black pepper, perhaps a little more kosher salt, and drizzle a little olive oil on top, just for good measure.

Cook the bird until a thermometer reads 165 degrees when inserted into the thickest part of a thigh.  This should take about 90 minutes, but it will vary depending on your oven, so you may want to check and see where you’re at after 75 minutes, give or take.  If you notice your greens are getting a little dry, toss them with a little more olive oil. Let the chicken be for a good 10-15 minutes before attacking.

Makes 1 roast chicken and about 1 cup of greens

Notes:

-If this leaves you wanting more buttermilk.  More chicken.  Perhaps even fried.  You may want to check out this Eat Boutique recipe.  It’s a recipe from a Georgia-bred fellow New Englander and French enthusiast.

-If you are wondering what I do “during the day” (and let’s be honest, you probably aren’t—but here I am, telling you any way) check out this link where I compare my day job (a dietitian) to my pay job (a grad student in BU’s gastronomy program).