Figs and cheese for dessert

Although I love to bake, in the interest of ass size, we don't often have dessert. Most of the baked goods I produce are carted off to school events, parties, or other people's houses. But my post the other day that included Manouri cheese and thoughts of figs and honey made dessert necessary.

Off I went for some fig shopping. How excellent that my local produce market had not only the standard Black Missions but also a variety I had never tasted but had seen in The New York Times food section, the Candy Stripe. And how also excellent that, unlike the unfortunate people of New York,* I paid a mere $8 a pound for them. That said, I think $8 a pound for figs is really a lot, and I only bought four.


There they are, along with some Black Missions, one of the varieties we have growing in our yard. If we get enough heat to ripen what we have on the branches now, we'll be happily swimming in figs in the fall.

My verdict on the two figs: Those Candy Stripes are undeniably lovely, but their taste is not nearly as jammy and earthy as the Mission and reminds me of a Kadota. Nice, but overall I like the cheap fig** better.

You heard it here.

* They paid $19.99 a pound. I know: just plain silly.
** Right now they're at just under $3 a pound, which means I will buy them for general eating but will wait until they are closer to $1 a pound to make jam.

Women's Olympic gymnastics:A few questions and a comment

Now that this competition is over, I can get to bed at a decent hour. Unlike swimming and volleyball, the gymnastics coverage was always on at an unreasonable hour. What was particularly unreasonable was that this was the case even when they were showing tape. We had to suffer through Bob Costas locked up in his hermetically sealed studio (really, he could be in Nebraska for all we know) and Mary Carillo's segments where she tries to bring China inside to Bob through her silly little travelogues. But then you know what would happen if you switched gymnastics and Bob/Mary. Right. And I'm not even NBC.

But there is more than broadcast hours that seems unreasonable to me about women's gymnastics. Here is a run down.

The U.S. team

What's up with that funny little strut they do as the walk from one apparatus to the next? It looks silly. They should stop that and just walk across the gym.

Have you noticed that the better someone does, the more of those fake-looking little air hugs they get? When Alicia Sacramone fell off the beam, no one hugged when she first walked off. Husband is a sensitive guy and was so upset by this. "Give the girl a hug! She needs a hug!!" he wailed.

The Chinese team

Cheng Fei: One of the commentators mentioned that the Chinese government gave her parents a house as a reward for her gymnastic achievements. After she made all those mistakes, will the government take the house away? I'm worried about that.

The Chinese woman gymnasts: Do they really need that many hair clips?

Can we dispense with calling them the Chinese women's team? They don't look like women to me. The one who's missing the tooth? That's the tooth Sophie just lost but on the bottom, and she's eight.

Bela Karolyi

Can anyone understand what he is saying? Subtitles wouldn't be out of line here. I did not think it possible I could feel sorry for that Ken doll Bob Costas until I heard him interviewing Karolyi.  

And finally

I was struck watching Nastia Liukin and her father sitting together as the bars event she should have won but did not concluded that she had something more valuable than a medal: She had her dad right there next to her. One of the Chinese gymnasts responded in an interview that she did not even know if her parents were in attendance. Sad.  I know the life of any elite athlete comes with much sacrifice and many compromises on the part of the athlete and the family, but I think it says something that girls who grow up connected to their families, in their communities, and receiving a regular education compete and even win against those who are taken from their families at as young as three-year-old, turned over to a state-run machine and denied a life of choice, an education, and a family. Husband remarked "It's kind of like a gymnastics orphanage." Really, it sounds more like a gymnastics prison. For kids. 

 

What summer is all about

In a word: tomatoes.

Because although I love fresh tomatoes, I only eat them when they are in season. The rest of the year, it's dried and canned. That's just the way it is.


Nothing makes me happier than seeing these appear at my produce market. I actually consider myself sort of an ambassador for them. As I stand picking out my bag or sometimes just smiling at them, I lean over to anyone who is looking at them with skepticism and say "Yes, they really are worth every penny. You must try them." Not that I ordinarily make a habit of telling people what to do, but I make an exception here. And sometimes in the checkout line people will notice me gazing lovingly at my bag and I will be compelled to explain why they are so remarkable. And then I hold their place in line while they run out to get some. No one's ever come up to me to tell me I'm wrong.

What I think makes these tomatoes so special is the dry farming. Not watering the heck out of the vines concentrates the flavor, making ordinary tomatoes and even beautifully colored heirlooms taste in comparison like a big watery mess. And I think you just can't beat an Early Girl for sweetness.

This is one of my favorite things to do with my favorite tomatoes and is what I took to the dinner we attended in Mendocino this past weekend. (What, did you think I showed up empty handed?)

It's an appetizer! It's a side dish! Seriously, I would eat this for breakfast or dessert.

I team my tomatoes with kalamata olives, fresh basil, and Manouri cheese, my homemade balsamic vinaigrette, and flaked black salt.


I buy black flaked salt in bulk from this fancy place.

It has a nice taste, crunch, and appearance that is perfect for tomatoes, fish, zucchini, rice, pasta, . . . almost anything, really.

And about that Manouri cheese. Try some of this if you can find it.

It's a Greek semi-soft cheese made from the whey drained from feta production and then combined with milk and/or cream. The taste is much milder and less salty than feta, with a slight citrus note. It makes a very nice and more flavorful substitute for fresh mozzarella or ricotta. And it's particularly nice with something sweet. I've served it drizzled with honey and sprinkled with a bit of fresh thyme.



But you know what I'm really waiting to pair it with.

My husband is not a dentist

But he plays one at our house.

Sophie has been complaining of pain from a loose tooth. This happened once before, and I took her to her pediatric dentist, who pulled it. Our dental insurance covered the extraction, but we were billed for the topical anesthetic and the bubblegum-scented laughing gas. Husband declared this entirely unreasonable and vowed to pull the next one himself. To his credit, this is his second.


Like many doctors, he feels it important to start off with a little self medication to steady his nerves.

The scotch also makes a good topical disinfectant (according to him).

He was disturbed, however, that he couldn't find the needle-nose pliers he favors for these tasks. This tool wasn't quite doing the trick.

The vice grips were just the ticket.


A little more scotch. A check to make sure he had the right tooth (this gave me concern). And one, two, three—pop!

Like I said, he's not a dentist. But Sophie is a happy patient.

A Mendocino weekend:Kids, dogs, food, and wine

Every August friends of ours have a house party at their country house in Mendocino County. (They're retired, and their life is good like this.)


Friends they have collected from many parts of their lives over many years come together to camp in their meadow, catch up on what's gone on in people's lives since last year's gathering, marvel at how much all the kids have grown, pat dogs, and share some good food and wine.  Attendance varies, but everyone agreed that this year was a particularly good one for kids and dogs. There were lots of both, and they all got along well: no barking, no crying.

We usually pitch a tent in the meadow, but this year our old van made a triumphant return to this event. This vehicle spent the better part of this year dead in the driveway, but after months of unsuccessful shopping for a replacement, we gave up and repaired this one by having a Subaru engine put in it. The conversion product is called a Vanaroo. As in "Whoohoo! We've got us a Vanaroo!" We're planning on getting some body work done and a paint job, but for now it cracks us up to have the fastest piece of junk anyone's ever seen coming down the road. The rear seat folds down for a futon that we outfit with all our down quilts and flannel bedding from home. I kept waking up in the night thinking how damn comfortable I was. 

I was relieved that Husband was not able to take off work early enough on Friday for us to be present for the butchering of the goat. When we arrived, it had just been taken off the spit

and was being carved. Carving, I can handle; butchering, not really. I know it's good to have a connection to one's food and all, but . . .


This was my taste of goat. Not bad at all! I expected it to taste more like lamb than it did. The texture is similar to lamb, but it is not nearly as gamey as lamb can be. I had heard goat can be stringy and chewy, but this was neither. The goat was only a couple of months old and had been feed alfalfa, so that was probably the difference. I don't know that I'm going to order up a goat from my butcher for Sunday dinner, but I did enjoy this.

After everyone has eaten themselves silly and the sun has gone down, the musicians come out

and the marshmallow orgy around the campfire begins.

It's funny the reversal in party behavior the years have brought. Our age group, mostly parents of young kids, sip wine around the campfire, while the seniors play music on the porch and pass a joint.

Breakfast the next morning is always fresh berry crepes. 

Tradition crepes (made in David's perfectly seasoned crepe pans) wrapped around fresh berries, peaches, and whatever else is on hand and a sauce of sour cream, yogurt, sugar, and a little rose water. 


Before we left there was time for a kids-and-dogs swim in the pond, complete this year with a mud slide,
and a hike to the top of the ridge to pick huckleberries.

Sophie made this piece of art from a wasps' nest we found in pieces on the trail.

I don't know if I'll ever have a country house (it's looking pretty doubtful), but if I do, I'll have a party every summer, and you're all invited. Bring a dish to share.

News: Jen from Use Real ButterNOT an axe murderer!

Got that? I said she's NOT. And should know. I just had lunch with her and her lovely husband, who is also NOT an axe murderer. You never know though. This was my first blog meet-up, and I was a little nervous. Really, I was more nervous about what they would think of me, because—really, you know—I am quite an idiot sometimes.

Jen and I have been reading each other's blogs for a while. We discovered we have things in common: good things (we cook, we eat, we ski) and not so good things (we're both breast cancer survivors). What a turn though when someone whose blog you admire and who think you'd actually like to know shows up in your email inbox. And then on your phone. And your then town.

She did, as she and husband Jeremy were on their way from backpacking in the eastern Sierras to visiting family in San Jose, and I got the chance to share with her one of my favorite eats in Berkeley, Tacubaya. (The other tacqueria I was planning on taking Jen to would have required she drive farther from the freeway and—perish the thought—find parking in downtown Berkeley.)

If you want to see what Jen had you'll have to visit her blog (I forgot to take a picture—remember, I was nervous).

Here's the chicken taco I had:

and my salad:


But, really, although the food was great, it paled in comparison to the company.


Smiles, smiles. Jen looks better than anyone who has been backpacking for four days should. And who knew Jeremy could take such a good picture?

Hugs to you, Jen. Until we meet again . . .

p.s.—Sophie says hi. She's glad you liked one of her favorite restaurants, and she's excited to come to your house to ski.

Angelina and I make a pie:She picks, I bake

Let's hear it for teamwork! And blog friends! A few months ago, I mailed Meyer lemons to Angelina of Dustpan Alley in Oregon, and now she has mailed me blueberries.

From Oregon! That she picked herself!!

And as evidence that there are berries and then there are berries, behold some blueberries I had in the fridge next to the ones that arrived on my doorstep today:

Think they make a difference in a pie? Heck, yeah.

So it's PIE TIME. Are you ready?

Cooks Illustrated's July/August issue had a recipe for blueberry pie, with a very clever crust trick, that I've made a few times now. The crust trick is the use of vodka in place of half the water normally used to reduce the gluten that forms when flour is combined with water. The dough tastes funky, to be sure, but the alcohol evaporates in the baking, and there is no residual flavor. Thank goodness.

I disagree though with Cooks on the use of butter and shortening. I hate shortening. It's fine for greasing pans, but it's just wrong as a food ingredient. I've always made an all-butter crust; I tried their combination and found that it just didn't taste as good. I'll gladly sacrifice a little flakiness for taste, and anyway my version has a lovely texture.

There's a trick to their filling as well. They add instant tapioca to firm things up without making the filling gelatinous. And adding a grated apple increases pectin without effecting flavor. Tricky, aren't they?

But as usual, I think Cooks makes things more difficult than they need to be. I've simplified their procedures in a couple of places where it doesn't seem to make a difference to me. And in addition to using all butter, I've changed the amounts of the basic ingredients for the crust. Their amounts gave me too much leftover dough.

BLUEBERRY PIE

Crust (enough for a double-crust pie)

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon table salt
2 tablespoons sugar
2 sticks unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/4-inch square cubes
4 tablespoons water
4 tablespoons vodka

Combine dry ingredients in bowl of table-top mixer or food processor.

Combine water and vodka. Add ice.

As machine is running, add butter to flour mixture piece by piece. Continue mixing until dough starts to clump. With machine still running, add liquid tablespoon by tablespoon until dough looks like this:


You will probably not need all the liquid.

Divide dough into two balls, and flatten each into a disk. Wrap in plastic and chill while you assemble the pie filling.


Filling

6–7 cups blueberries
1 Granny Smith apple, peeled and grated
2 teaspoons lemon zest and 2 teaspoons juice
3/4 sugar
2 tablespoons instant tapioca
pinch of salt

Put half of the berries in a medium sauce pan and place over medium heat. Mash berries gently a few times with a potato masher to release the juices. Cook until about half the berries have broken down and mixture has cooked down by about half. Cool slightly.


Wrap grated apple in a clean dish towel and squeeze out the juice. Break apple apart with your hands and place in a large bowl. Add cooked berries, remaining uncooked berries, lemon zest and juice, sugar, tapioca, and salt. Toss to combine.

Assemble pie and bake at 350 for about 45 minutes or until crust is golden brown and filling juice bubbles.

Everyone has their own style of crust. Cooks recommends for this pie a full top crust with 1 1/2 inch holes in it, which I think looks silly. For berry pies I always like a lattice crust.


But that's another post. I'll call it Lattice crust: Yes, you can.


Thanks, Angelina!! I wish you were here for a piece.

Now go over to see what that clever Angelina is doing with blueberries and cheese. Sigh.