CRANBERRY ORANGE PECAN BREAD WITH STREUSEL

HAPPY THANKSGIVING


I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I do not celebrate Thanksgiving. No turkey, no sweet potato casserole smothered under a mountain of marshmallows. No cornbread stuffing nor cranberry relish. No festive table heaving and groaning under an abundance of food. No traditional dishes, a holiday repertoire pulled out, no note cards flipped through searching for grandma’s recipe for this, mom’s recipe for that, dad’s special whatever. No. Thanksgiving. Dinner. None.

Mixed marriage does that to you. As does living in a foreign country, the country of your beloved spouse. French, American, lapsed Catholic, once-practicing Jew all with a bit of Italian thrown in. As each and every holiday rolls around, as the rest of the world as I know it begins planning for this celebration or that, as the festivities begin to unroll on one side of the ocean or the other, chez nous….in our home…negotiations begin.


Thanksgiving, 4th of July, Bastille Day, how does one celebrate these most national of holidays when not living in that nation? Valentine’s Day or Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day or any of these pseudo-holidays that in a moment of crazed consumption or idealized global sharing have been transported to my doorstep, are we required to join in the festivities just because the stores are bursting at the seems with decorations and gifts, music is oozing out of every boutique and friends are pulling out all the stops? Hanukkah or Christmas, Easter or Passover, even a lovely Shabbat dinner after a long, tiring week of work…. Sharing? Imposing? Teaching? Constraining? Negotiations can be long and difficult some years, other years the sons decide and some years, well, we are all carried away on a wave of holiday spirit and childlike excitement and simply do both. Or all. Holidays in our home are often a series of compromises, days and weeks of careful diplomacy and long discussions. One (me) is often confronted with burgeoning Scrooge-like tendencies, the moans and groans, the complaining and the disinterestedness in any and every approaching holiday. It is, after all, quite simply easier to ignore them completely, avoid any complexity in our already complex lives and celebrate not a one, just create our own happiness, enjoying festive meals, candlelight dinners, surprising the other with prettily-wrapped gifts on a whim with no calendar imposing, demanding, making those sentimental, emotional decisions for us.

Thanksgiving. I do believe that the last Thanksgiving meal I shared with family and friends was twenty-three years ago at my sister’s in Florida. JP and I had flown over, tiny, plump, happy baby in tow, and sat down with mother, brother, sister, grandma and great-aunt in that typical end-of-November Florida heat. Before that, well, memory fails me, but it must have been the year I was in college and drove up to New York to celebrate with my aunt, uncle and cousins. Or the year after, when Michael and I cooked together in our Brooklyn apartments, one up, one down. Well, as you can see, it has been many a long year since I ate turkey with stuffing.


Do I miss it? I am often asked if nostalgia tugs at my heartstrings, if I yearn for a good old fashioned holiday spread, to sit down with loved ones before a cornucopia of Autumn’s best and fill my plate with goodies. But how to enjoy the true meaning of a holiday when it has no meaning for others? When you are so separated in both time and space from the source and soul of the feast and the origins from which it was born, the reasons that made this day so special? How can one recount the tale of Pilgrims and Indians breaking bread together in peace and harmony to a roomful of skeptics?

Yet, through thick and thin, there are some things that remain constant in my life, some traditions that I hold on to dearly, recipes that I create and recreate over and over again in the best of culinary and family traditions. Come Autumn when pumpkins and cranberries make their graceful appearance, when apples and pears crisp and sweet are abundant, when woodsy, earthy, clumsy chestnuts and elegant, sophisticated figs tumble in, with oranges plump and juicy I can’t but thumb through my old, sticky, stained notebook full of hand-written recipes culled from years of baking and cooking with friends and family and return to our old favorites. And this is what I share over and over again with my loved ones as we create our own family traditions.


My Cranberry-Orange Bread is a must-go-to recipe every holiday any time of the year. Sacks of cranberries are stuffed into one freezer drawer, ready at the get-go for my favorite quick bread. Tangy, tart, ruby red berries paired with sweet oranges is heavenly and add to that the crunchy bite of walnuts or pecans it is utterly festive! I first made this traditional, Thanksgiving Day treat eons ago while still a young college student and have been making it ever since. This year, I have decided to make tiny individual cakes and top each with a crunchy sweet streusel redolent of cinnamon. And somehow, no matter where I am, no matter how far from my childhood home and my jumble of memories, this one bread never fails to fill me with nostalgia, sweet recollections of Thanksgivings past.


INDIVIDUAL CRANBERRY-ORANGE BREAD WITH PECANS & STREUSEL

1 orange, preferably untreated
2 Tbs (30 g) unsalted butter, ideally at room temperature, cubed
1 large egg
1 cup (200 g) sugar
1 cup fresh cranberries, thawed if frozen (I used a container of 6.7 oz/200g), coarsely chopped
Heaping ½ cup (50 g) coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans
2 cups (280 g) flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt

Streusel Topping:

3 Tbs flour
3 Tbs packed light or dark brown sugar
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
2 Tbs (30 g) unsalted butter

Prepare the Streusel Topping:

Place the flour, brown sugar and cinnamon in a bowl and toss to combine. Add the butter, cut into cubes, and, using only your fingertips, rub the butter into the dry ingredients quickly until the mixture resembles coarse damp sand or crumbs with no large chunks of butter left. Chill in the refrigerator while you prepare the Cranberry-Orange Bread batter.

Prepare the Cranberry-Orange Bread:

Preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C). Butter 8 to 10 mini cake molds – or even cupcake or muffin molds - or one large loaf tin.

Coarsely chop the cranberries by whizzing them quickly in a small food processor, being careful not to overchop and turn into paste. Coarsely chop the nuts by hand.

Finely grate the zest of the orange.

Squeeze the orange juice into a glass measuring cup. Add enough boiling water to make ¾ cup (about 190 ml) liquid. Add the cubes of butter and stir quickly until the butter is melted.

Blend together the flour, salt, baking powder and baking soda in a small bowl and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk the egg and the sugar until blended, thick and creamy. Whisk in the finely grated orange zest and then the orange liquid. Whisk in the dry ingredients until well blended then fold in the chopped cranberries and pecans or walnuts.

Spoon or ladle the batter into the mini/individual cake tins, dividing the batter evenly among 8 or 10 tins, not filling more than ¾ full. Sprinkle the Streusel Topping over the batter, breaking up any chunks as you divide it among the cakes.

Bake the individual cakes for about 30 minutes (the single loaf for up to one hour), until the Streusel Topping is set and golden and a tester inserted in the middle of one cake comes out damp but clean.


Cool the cakes on a cooling rack before sliding a knife around the edges to loosen and unmolding.



Take a bigger bite ...

CROSTATA DI MARMELLATA (JAM TART)

MAKE A WISH


The occasional tapping of wrench against iron, footsteps across the creaking, ancient parquet and the hum of distant voices are the only things to break the silence of a silent apartment. The sun – finally, the long-awaited sun – sneaks in, wary to make too much of a show or to commit beyond today, as I sit and begin my week. Good moods have returned in spades, lighting up my days in a way that no bright ray of sunshine can. Whistling, singing, smiles bursting across rosy-cheeked male faces have a way of cheering me up and pushing me joyously through the day. My own sluggish, lackadaisical mood is reinvigorated and I find myself inspired once again. Things seem to be looking up in Crazy Town, our tiny private island lost in a sea of mankind has burst into summery bloom even as autumn sets in outside my windows. We are, once again, on the right track.

Bad dreams disintegrate into dust, evaporating into the pale, watery light of dawn, fading into a steady, calm peace. Hope fills our days after weeks of worry and woe and we laugh out loud. Autumn, my favorite season, has settled in wrapped in a golden glow and smelling oddly, beautifully of Christmas. As the blogosphere is all abuzz with Thanksgiving, sweet potato casserole, pumpkin pies and roast goose, bright, rich, exotic, warming tagines, ossobuco, curries and stews clutter my brain and I dream of far-off lands and Italy. Although no Thanksgiving finds a place in our humble home and Christmas is one of those remnants of JP’s former life which sneaks across the threshold, inviting itself for a star appearance once only every several years, the holiday season excites me, stirring up childlike images of fairy dust, twinkling lights and snow gently falling out of inky black skies, lighting up a romantically icy world. And we begin counting the days to Hanukkah.


Autumn has me thinking of crostate. Chilly autumn mornings gathered around the old wooden table in Ettore’s kitchen in that large, rambling house nestled in the fields outside Villastanza, the frost gathering on the stalks of corn just beyond the window. Bundled up against the crispness of an early November day, the stimulating aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room while the boys spill a tumble of cakes and cookies across the wooden surface, each grabbing up one, two, three of their favorites. A rustic crostata is uncovered * ta da * and takes its pride of place in the center, elbowing aside plates and mugs, turning up its nose at all the packaged goodies who pale in comparison, amid the oohs and ahhhs of the men. A homey, comforting crostata, a buttery, crispy, delicate piecrust filled simply with our favorite marmellata, jam or jelly, hidden snugly under a lattice of more delicate crust. Slices greedily eaten and washed down with milk or caffé latte, nothing rich or heavy to weigh one down, just enough to fill tummies, a soothing, unpretentious treat to wake up to, a sweet kiss to start the day. Then dress the boys, wrap them up tightly in coats, mittens and wooly bonnets and scoot them off to school.


Yes, the humble crostata. Such an Italian treat! Simple, homey and rustic, ready in a flash, sweet and light. How many did I make, blending, rolling out dough, selecting a favorite jam, baking and serving to eager husband and children? Autumn may mean pumpkin and apple pies, cranberry muffins and sweet potato pancakes to others, but this season is inextricably intertwined with, bound to the beautiful crostata. My trip to Italy and a weekend with From Plate to Page brought the crostata back to me! It had been years since I baked one, too many years, yet a gift of marvelous, luscious homemade jams in an amazing, wild, creative combination of flavors was offered to us by Wendy of Sunchowder’s Emporia located in my home state of Florida, one of our generous, incredible sponsors. I ended up with a jar of Black Forest Jam, a stunning confection of blackberries, Callebaut chocolate and Chambord as well as a jar of Pumpkin Spice Butter. Ilva threw together some fabulous individual crostate during the weekend, which had me scratching my head in wonder at how I could have forgotten to bake this favorite goodie for so long. And as soon as we returned home, well, I did.


How many wishes have I wished in my life? Birthday candles blown out in one giant breath? Starlight, star bright, the first star I see tonight? Or standing atop that mountain in Italy outside of Bergamo on San Lorenzo, the night of the falling stars, le stelle candenti, quick quick grab at the first shooting star and make a wish! How many wishes come true? I have my Prince Charming… friendships deep and true have been granted…. two sons grown tall, healthy, handsome, smart and kind. But all of those wishes made over glowing lights and falling stars, coins picked up from sidewalks and eyelashes or fluffy dandelion blooms blown into the wind…well, not many. Yet, I was recently visited by The Fairy Hobmother, a surprise visit generously bestowing joy and granting wishes. He offered me an Amazon gift card and this holiday season will be that much sweeter, that much more brilliant because of his visit!

So I offer you a slice of crostata and a chance to make a wish in turn. Simply leave a comment here on this post, wishing a wish, and you too may receive a visit from The Fairy Hobmother!

A special thanks to our generous From Plate to Page sponsors:


Sunchowder’s Emporia whose stunningly delicious jams went into my crostata (order online or find a list of shops who sell the jams);
Taste of Home whose apron is worn proudly as I bake;
Zwilling J.A. Henckels (JP LOVES the knife)!

And The Fairy Hobmother from Appliances Online for the wish come true!

JAMIE’S CROSTATA

Pasta Frolla (Sweet Pastry Dough):

1 ¼ cups (175 g) flour
¼ tsp baking powder
Large pinch of salt
¼ cup + 1 Tbs (65 g) sugar
8 ½ Tbs (4 ½ oz/ 125 g) butter
1 large egg yolk + 3 – 5 tsp ice water

Place the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar in a large mixing bowl and whisk to combine.

Cube the butter and toss the cubes in the dry ingredients to coat. Using the tips of your fingers and thumb, rub the butter and flour together quickly until all of the butter is blended in and there are no more lumps. Add the egg yolk and 3 teaspoons cold water and, using a fork, blend vigorously until all of the flour/sugar/butter mixture is moistened and starts to pull together into a dough. Add another teaspoon or two of ice water if needed.

Scrape the dough out onto a floured work surface and, using the heel of one hand, smear the dough inch by inch away from you in short, hard, quick movements; this will completely blend the butter in. Scrape up the smeared dough and, working very quickly, gently knead into a smooth, homogeneous ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 15 to 20 minutes if the dough is too sticky to easily roll.

Prepare the Crostata:

You will need 10 or 12 (more or less, depending on how thick you would like the jam layer) tablespoons jam, jelly or fruit butter total (can be divided into 2 or 4 flavors).

On a lightly floured surface (kept floured), roll out ¾ of the dough to fit a 9-inch (23 cm) pie plate. Gently press into place and trim off excess dough, adding this to the remaining dough. Spoon the jam or jelly into the crust and spread evenly over the bottom.


Roll out the remaining dough and slice (using a knife, pizza or pastry cutter) into ½ to 1-inch strips. Lay over the top of the jam layer as you like, evenly spacing the strips. Press the edges of the lattice strips to the edges of the dough to seal around the sides. Trim. Place the prepared crostata in the refrigerator to chill for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C).

Bake the crostata for 20 to 25 minutes until puffy and the lattice crust as well as the bottom of the tart are a deep golden color.


Cool. Serve. Eat.



Take a bigger bite ...

APPLE DUMPLINGS & ORANGE MASCARPONE TARTLETS

STARTING OVER - BAD DREAMS AND GHOSTS


A fleeting premonition. It spun before her eyes, a flash of knowledge. Should she say something, try to get him to slow down, warn him of impending…what? Danger? She hesitates. He never liked it when she in her constant state of nervous anxiety tried to warn him, control him. And it usually all ended in nothing anyway. Or was there simply not enough time? Then there came those hang gliders, so close she could practically touch them if she rolled down her window and reached out her hand, brush her fingers across their skin; so close she could see their faces, see their smiles, weaving in and out, in and then away from the car. And then it was upon them. She turned her head and noticed that he was no longer watching the road, did not notice the curve of the highway as they sped forward, as the sharp turn in the road rushed towards them. He, too, had noticed the hang gliders so curiously close to the car, to the craggy, rugged mountainside and was observing them in wonder and slight amusement.

No barrier. She didn’t notice the lack of any wall, shield or fence at all to protect them, nothing to defend them from the fall at all, not so much as a warning, until it was too late. And the car spun off the road and took flight. Miles of emptiness hung below them as the car continued to move forward, projected into space; nothingness, miles of nothingness between the wheels of the car and the ground visible so far below them.

And the car spun forward, gently dipping in its trajectory, but mostly flying forward, less a free fall than flight, yet the threat of falling was there hanging silent and heavy between them. This has always been her greatest fear, a precipitous, dizzying drop, that fall to death. Yet her fear at this moment was overcome by a concern for him. She flung her arms around his neck, hung on tight and pressed her forehead into his warm cheek. His eyes wide open in horror, saying nothing, she calming him, letting him know with her words of tenderness and love that he was not to blame, that she loved him.

My eyes pop open. A dream, what a curious, odd dream. I have many of them, these dreams of falling, falling, more often than I would like. Sometimes I even fear the coming slumber because of those dreams. So cool and collected, so carefree and optimistic in daylight I am, taking all the bumps and knocks with a shrug and a smile, able to laugh it all off and support and soothe even his anxiety and pessimism. But close my eyes and the worries that I am able to elude during my waking hours crowd around me when I sleep, the stress and doubts I push to some far away corner of my brain bubble up to the surface and flood my imagination and gentle dreams turn black, nightmares of foreboding and terror. Yet this curious dream – was it a nightmare? I awoke with a jump, yet no lingering panic, no bad feelings clung to my body. Absence of the usual sweating and heart pounding, the usual feeling of dread…. I was strangely, unusually calm.


Flour fluttering through my fingers, soft and silent, dusting the tabletop like freshly fallen snow. Butter cool between thumb and index, smell the fragrance of fresh cream – try to describe the scent of butter! Cubes of pale yellow pressed between my fingers with that gentle resistance begging me to give them more of my attention, forcing me to be insistent. Slowly, rhythmically, these delicate mounds of butter fade into a mere trace, an illusion, creating perfect symbiosis with the flour like damp sand on the beach on a warm evening of summer. One single egg yolk plops into the center with a poof. A yellow so shocking, so deep, almost orange that thoughts of their pale, anemic cousins back home make me chuckle; no, these impose themselves, force their existence on you in their flashy dress, their plump, glistening, neon ostentation. A splash of milk splatters onto the dark golden orb and completes the scenario. I press my hands in and squeeze, satisfied; press and push until I have my perfect dough, sweet with a shower of white, white sugar glittering in the ray of neon. And I have in front of me a treasure trove of pleasures, a multitude of promises. After a night of dreams, turbulent, confusing, I long to spend the day in the kitchen pressing my hands lovingly, soothingly in the cool calm of fresh dough. And from this delicate, smooth ball I can create all that I desire.

Dreams are often so simple to interpret and it is a game I love to play. Analyzing the images that dance through those night visions in some macabre parallel world, so alive, so real yet so illusory, intangible, chimerical, becomes a way to admit our worst fears and discuss the worries that torment our subconscious minds. We laugh as we find a parallel, our worries seem to disintegrate into nothingness as we talk. Our little pastime of discussing and analyzing each nightmare becomes an amusement, a distraction that alleviates the anguish of these turbulent changes in life. “Do you think that I have driven you over some proverbial cliff?” he asks, worry searing deep into his eyes. No, of course not. We came to the decisions together, as one, and we know without a doubt it was the right choice, the only choice. And we are good. We are happy. And all will come out right in the end.


The scent of oranges bright and tangy fills the air. Quick spurts of oil and juice as my knife presses through the skin and into the flesh. Orange curd is on the agenda, thick, luxurious curd with the scent of my Florida childhood. Oranges nestled in the bottom of my basket in a joyful tumble and jumble with apples both red and green, the colors of the season. Apples sweet and tart dusted with cinnamon and paired with plump, golden raisins, enrobed in a wrap of sweet pastry dough will welcome autumn into my kitchen. I rustle through the jars and containers in the refrigerator encumbered with more than we would ever need, and come happily upon a jar of chocolate ganache and another of delectable salted butter caramel sauce and have one of those glorious eureka moments! Why make only one dessert when I can make an endless array, something for everyone?

Once again – is this the sixth or seventh time in the past two years? – we are awoken with a jolt as the bedroom door flings open with the force of a gale storm wind. It slams into the radiator with a crash as if someone angry bursts into the room, waking us purposely. We sit up with a start and then crash back down onto our pillows, our only doubts being whether or not the blast and the impact woke up the dog as well. But, no, silence. So we leave the door open and fade back into sleep.

“It’s him, you know, your brother, Michael.” He, normally so pragmatic, so practical and so scientific, states so matter of factly. “Haven’t you noticed that the closet doors creak and crack on a regular basis? It’s not just the bedroom door flung open in the night. He must be in the armoire and angry that you gave me his shirts. He’s inside the armoire trying to take his shirts back!” He chuckles and I laugh, but we know that since Michael passed away, there is really no other explanation for all the odd and ghostly occurrences. And maybe in a way it comforts us, knowing he is around, with us. Awakening in the night to the crash bang of the door doesn’t frighten us anymore. And then we laugh, the solemnity and pangs of discomfort brought on by my odd, curious dream, the worries of our future it stirred up once again fade away into daylight. And I pull out the box of flour, the sugar, the eggs and start my day.

Two recipes for Sweet Pastry Crust to use at will, as you like, as you desire. I have made mini tartlet shells, some of which I filled with Orange Curd Mascarpone Cream, others with Dark Chocolate Ganache and Salted Butter Caramel Sauce. And part of the Sweet Pastry Crust was wrapped snugly around two apples and baked, each apple cored and stuffed with sweet golden raisins, a smidge of butter, a dash of cinnamon and a shake of granulated brown sugar. To drizzle with more Salted Butter Caramel Sauce, of course.


Feel free to stir in ¼ cup of finely ground nuts (almond, hazelnut, pistachio) into the dry ingredients of either of the following Sweet Pastry Crust recipes.


Make the Orange Curd (recipe follows) or my favorite Lime Curd and make a wonderful tart filling by whisking or beating in mascarpone in 2 to 1 proportions (twice the amount curd to mascarpone) or to taste. Or, for a lighter filling, beat 1 cup (250 ml) chilled heavy whipping cream until thick and stiff peaks hold then beat in up to 1 ½ cups Lime or Orange Curd or to taste.

And this week has all been punctuated by two very exciting honors and wonderful news!

Life’s a Feast has been selected by Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution as one of November’s Food Blogs of the Month.


My Cranberry-Cherry Macarons were featured on Gourmet Live’s Autumnal Desserts round up!


SWEET PASTRY CRUST #1

This recipe can easily be doubled for a two-crust pie.

1 1⁄4 cups (175 g) flour
1⁄4 cup (50 g) sugar
7 Tbs (100 grams) unsalted butter*
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Stir flour and sugar together in a bowl. Add the butter cut into cubes and, using thumb and finger tips, rub the flour and butter into each other vigorously until it resembles damp sand on the beach and there are no more large chunks of butter.

Pour the lightly beaten egg over the flour-sugar-butter mixture and stir vigorously with a fork until all of the dry ingredients are moistened and it starts to clump. With fingers, press together into a ball and place on a floured surface. With the heel of one hand, smear the dough forward quickly in hard, sharp movements, a little at a time (a tablespoon maybe) until all the dough has been "smeared". This blends in the last of the butter. Scrape the dough together and work briefly, just enough to form into a smooth, homogeneous ball.

Wrap in plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator until needed or, if making your pie right away, just until it is firm enough to be easy to roll out without sticking to your rolling pin.

* Most pie crust recipes call for the butter to be chilled. I have found that butter at room temperature is easier and quicker to work into the flour and the dough seems to be fluffier. If it is too sticky to roll out right away, 10 to 15 minutes in the fridge should do the trick.

SWEET PASTRY CRUST #2

1 ¾ cups (250 g) flour
1/3 cup (40 g) powdered/icing sugar
8 Tbs (115 g) unsalted butter, slightly softened, cubed
1 large egg yolk
Scant ¼ cup (50 ml) milk, slightly more if needed

Sift or whisk together the flour and powdered sugar in a large mixing bowl. Drop in the cubes of butter and, using the tips of your fingers and thumb, rub the butter and flour together quickly until all of the butter is blended in and there are no more lumps. Add the egg yolk and the milk and, using a fork, blend vigorously until all of the flour/sugar/butter mixture is moistened and starts to pull together into a dough.

Scrape the dough out onto a floured work surface and, using the heel of one hand, smear the dough inch by inch away from you in short, hard, quick movements; this will completely blend the butter in. Scrape up the smeared dough and, working very quickly, gently knead into a smooth, homogeneous ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 20 to 30 minutes.
To make individual tartlet shells with either recipe:

Lightly grease with butter the sides and bottoms of 6 individual tartlet tins (4 to 4 ¼ inches/ 10 ½ to 11 cm wide) – or even tinier ones - and place the prepared tins on a baking sheet.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and unwrap. Working on a floured surface and with the top of the dough kept lightly floured to keep it from sticking to the rolling pin, roll out the dough and line the tins by gently lifting in and pressing down the dough. Trim the edges. Cover the baking tray with the lined tins with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes. This can also be done ahead of time.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).

Remove the baking tray from the refrigerator and discard the plastic wrap. Cut or tear squares of parchment paper larger than each tin. Prick each tartlet shell with a fork (not too hard or deep as you don’t want holes going all the way through the dough) and place a square or parchment over each. Weigh down the parchment with pastry weights or dried beans, pushing the beans into the corners. Bake for 10 minutes. Remove from the oven, carefully lift out the parchment squares and beans, pressing the bottoms down with your fingertips if puffed up, and return to the oven to bake until golden. If the shells are too tiny to easily fill with parchment and beans, simply bake for 15 to 20 minutes until golden then, upon removing from the oven and while still hot, carefully press down the bottoms of each shell if puffed up. Allow to cool then carefully lift or turn shells out of tins and fill.

ORANGE CURD


¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar
2 Tbs cornstarch
1 heaping Tbs finely grated orange zest
¾ cup (190 ml) freshly squeezed orange juice (about 3 juice oranges)
6 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter, cubed

Place the egg yolks in a medium to large heatproof mixing bowl. I block mine by placing on a kitchen towel which I have formed into a “nest”. Whisk the egg yolks lightly.

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the sugar and the cornstarch. Whisk in the orange zest and juice until the sugar and cornstarch are dissolved. Cook over medium or medium-low heat, whisking, until thickened and bubbling.

Slowly pour the hot orange-sugar mixture into the egg yolks while whisking in order to heat the yolks gradually and gently. Once the hot mixture has been whisked into the yolks, pour everything back into the saucepan. Cook over medium-low heat, whisking constantly, until it comes to a gentle boil. Continue to cook and whisk for 2 minutes.

Remove the curd from the heat and whisk in the butter, a cube or two at a time, until all the butter is incorporated and the curd is smooth and thick. Scrape into a bowl or large measuring cup, cover with plastic wrap, pressing the wrap directly onto the surface of the curd, allow to cool to room temperature then refrigerate.

BAKED APPLE DUMPLINGS


Simply core one apple per person and fill the cavity with golden raisins (optional). Press a knob of butter down into the hole, dust with a pinch of cinnamon and sprinkle about half a teaspoon brown sugar into the hole.

Use about 1/3 recipe Sweet Pastry Crust for 2 baked apples: roll out and wrap each apple in a piece of dough, gently pulling and pressing up the dough around the apple, cutting off excess. Slightly overlap the dough on top of the apple, press to seal. Decorate with cut out leaves, stems, etc, “gluing” the decorations/leaves onto the dough with milk. Place in a baking dish and refrigerate for about 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Remove the dish with the prepared, wrapped apples from the fridge, brush all over with milk and sprinkle with granulated brown sugar. Bake for 45 minutes to an hour until the pastry is a deep golden color.


Serve drizzled with Salted Butter Caramel Sauce.

Take a bigger bite ...

RETURN TO MILAN

ROAD TRIP


“Road Trip!” he yelled, fists pumping the air as his foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car hit the open highway. “Road Trip!” they echoed gleefully, thrilled to be on the road and heading back to Italy, their home, their favorite place. Snuggled into their chosen seats, packed in amongst too many suitcases, umbrellas, rubber boots, crumpled, well-worn maps strewn around under seats and crammed down into side pockets and bags overflowing with boxes of cookies, bottles of water and bars of chocolate, they were on a great adventure, just the three of them, father, mother and son.

The long and winding road. Nantes, Angers, Clermont Ferrand, Lyon. Pull in quick quick to gas stations along the way, tank filled, dash in quick quick for a sandwich, a pop into the restroom then back into the car cradling cans of coke and tiny paper cups of steaming, bitter coffee, the better to stay awake during those long, tiring hours. Bursts of conversation punctuated by laughter, accompanied by the noisy crinkling of maps, chattering about their past life in that craziest of countries, Italy, trying to awaken memories of deep-dish pizza eaten da Marino, bustling Pace with the grilled swordfish, platters of antipasti and gooey crespelle eaten amid the noise of clattering cutlery, fussy waiters scurrying from table to table, clients loud and voluble as only Italians can be. Or schoolfriends, playmates, Ricky and Lorenzo, Fabio and Davide, Alessandro and Pietro; or their changing lives, moving out to the countryside, that rambling house nestled in the fields outside Villastanza and the tiny village school, or playing in the open spaces, free, with Kikka; Ettore, their adopted grandfather, Beppe and Nonna Anna, birthday parties outside with friends old and new. No, as much as he tries, those memories of days past, a young life, elude him, fly by quickly, blurry like the landscape swiftly rushing by now outside the car window.


The long and winding road. Lyon, Albertville, Torino, Genova. The rest of the time they are lost in their own worlds, their own thoughts; she dreaming of time past, the city she loved when the boys were small, dreaming of living there again among old friends, markets overflowing with lush produce, heady with the pungency of so many cheeses, heavy with breads and pasta, their own private manna. He, the son, possibly fearful of an uncertain future, not one memory of his early years to bolster and warm, a lost childhood haunting him; now stepping as a young man into the unknown, heavy with the weight of adult responsibility. And his father, joyful to be heading back to this much-beloved country, excited to visit his old stomping grounds, dine at favorite restaurants, stroll those streets they knew so well and spend time with still-dear friends, yet worried about the future and his own uncertainties, the questions it holds, unable to let go for even a week.

The long, interminably long and bumpy road. This exciting adventure, this pleasurable road trip turns into road trip from hell, pushing past Genova towards Pisa then Pistoia and news of flooding, a landslide, la frana, has them turning back, forced to retreat and head north, retracing their steps. Piacenza, Parma, Modena, Bologna, hour upon added hour, the time long and oppressive, exhaustion setting in, yet on they push, From Plate to Page waiting for her arrival. Bologna then news of roads closed due to the landslide, traffic jams on the autostrada down to Florence, so they cleverly turn down the Statale which will carry them straight to Pistoia, their final destination of the day, only to find that a mere 75 kilometers takes hours upon hours, traveling at a snail’s pace, and they arrive late, exhausted, bedraggled, struggling to recapture that lighthearted mood, yet relieved and excited to finally be there. And she flies into the waiting arms of Ilva, Meeta and Jeanne and finally, finally JP meets them face to face and all is well.


From Plate to Page come and gone, flown by all too fast, work done, friendships made and back in the car they go. Father and son had spent a glorious four days visiting, chatting, bonding, as hasn’t happened for a long, long time. Both passionate about history, together they trod on sacred Etruscan ground, stood in the shadow of towers and cathedrals, snaked up rocky passages into lost little villages perched atop stunning views, vines and trees spreading out forever at their feet. Pizza and pasta shared while talking of the past and the future, preparing the young man for his coming months immersed in this ancient, contemporary, vibrant culture.

Firenze to Milano, our old stomping grounds, a fast and breezy road trip and back in better spirits. The conversation flows, topics buzzing around our heads like bees on a summer afternoon, swatting one-liners and souvenirs back and forth, a verbal tennis game, punctuated by long, drowsy moments, each lost in our own thoughts, as the landscape flashes by and the cars dash madly around us. Milan looms larger than life, our eyes wide like children entering a fairgrounds, feeling our way forward from memory, pointing at sites and sights both familiar and new. The city has gone mad! Roadworks and construction projects trip us up at every corner, streets now closed off, only accessible by local residents; we get lost, find our way again only to be teased, entangled, tripped up once again until we finally make our way to our lovely little hotel in the center. And three days begin.


Settling Simon into his new home is top priority as is making a side trip to the grocery store. Then on to Pace, that bustling, family-style restaurant near our first apartment, where we would take the boys every Friday evening for dinner. Arriving just a smidgen too early, I peep in the window and excitedly announce that nothing has changed: the same waiters, albeit older, grayer, are setting up the tables and the trays of antipasti, the same old gentleman, the owner, stands guard, surveys, controls, while the other gentleman sitting behind the cash register counting out bills and making notes in a ledger is one and the same. We laugh, anticipating our meal even more, knowing that each plate of pasta, each serving of carpaccio will be just as it was almost fifteen years ago. And we are reminded that here, in Italy, nothing really ever changes, at least not the good things. Or politics.

And on and on goes the weekend: perfect slices of steaming pizza al trancio, by the slice, and thick squares of tender focaccia studded with olives eaten while standing on the sidewalk in front of our best takeaway Pizzeria da Gino; more pizza al trancio, this time dense, chewy, thick deep-dish slices dripping with gooey cheese slathered over spicy rich tomato sauce from da Giuliano; a wander through our favorite market on Piazza Wagner where nothing has changed except a few faces, yet there they are, my favorite men, Vittorio and Franco, behind the cheese counter and we greet each other noisily, happily, while Simon, grown now, tall and lanky, almost fifteen years later, stares on, bemused and embarrassed to be made much over! And they laugh and hand us heavy, pungent chunks of freshly cut Parmesan cheese, just like old times. Ah, the food of Italy, rich and warming, homey comfort food in every shape and form, clean, simple yet fragrant and flavorful, the best the Italian soil has to offer!


Movies! Let’s go to the movies! We press in among the crowd huddled together in the vast yet close plush lobby of the cinema after having pushed our way through the swarming throng around the Duomo and the Galleria on a gray Tuesday afternoon. Tin Tin! In Italian! We love going to the movies in Italy and Simon is pleased to prove to us that, yes indeed, he does understand every single word. And to complete the trip, a fabulous, steaming panzerotto around the corner da Luini, now gone upscale in their wild popularity. And a surprise visit to the old millinery studio where I trained, hugs and laughter and loads of chattering with Nadia and Laura. And I am so pleased to see that Gallia & Peter still remains.

With Jasmine

And we hug Simon arrivederci, addio… until we see each other in just a couple of weeks. And we climb in the car and drive home, back to Nantes, feeling just a little lost, just a tad homesick. Nostalgia for those wonderful times past spent in a city, a country we love pushing us through the mountain tunnel, the violent winds and the heavy rains. To each his or her own thoughts, dragging us on, hour after hour, as night settles upon us and darkness swallows us up. We feel so at home in Italy and wonder when we will be able to go back again…for good.

Where to eat in Milan, Italy:

Panificio da Luini via Santa Radegonda, 16 Milano panzerotti pugliese fritti e al forno

Ristorante Pace via Washington, 74 Milano ristorante toscano

Pizzeria da Giuliano via Paolo Sarpi, 60 Milano pizza al trancio

Pizzeria da Marino via Lodovico Castelvetro, 6 Milano pizza al trancio e cucina toscana

Pizzeria da Gino corso Vercelli, 9 Milano pizza e focaccia al taglio e cucina take away

Gelateria Grom 5 delicious locations in Milano


Take a bigger bite ...

FROM PLATE TO PAGE TUSCANY

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it,

and the imagination to improvise.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
- Sylvia Plath

Squeals of laughter resonate throughout the villa, bouncing off the heavy stone walls, boomeranging down the stairwell. Women clatter from floor to floor, trailing power cords and camera bags in their wake. Sweaters tugged closer to ward off the chill of this Old Grande Dame of a house as we settle in for the second From Plate to Page workshop.


Like a first day at camp, we gather around the long wooden table, sneaking barely perceptible glances at one another, feeling out, sensing personalities and expectations, eyes sliding from one face to the next, self-conscious in our own newness. Introductions made, we begin to know each other as only as women can do, ooohing at wedding photos, giggling at confessions, cheering and urging on, hesitations melting into avowals, admissions of passions, desires, obsessions; the gates to secret gardens slowly but surely opening to this adventure.


The warming Tuscan sun breaks through the autumn chill, luring us into the gardens of Il Salicone. We breathe in the charm of Italy and pinch ourselves, surprised to find ourselves in this ancient, storybook spot. Sixteen women, feeling somewhat like schoolgirls away at some imposing boarding school, have gathered together in the vineyards outside of Pistoia for this Plate to Page workshop. Twelve new participants, each fairly unknown to Meeta, Jeanne, Ilva and I, new acquaintances quickly becoming friends and colleagues, yesterday strangers, now confidants and collaborators. Working with our senses, writing, styling, tasting, breathing, immersing ourselves body and soul into the atmosphere and the food surely has an effect, breaking down barriers, pulling us close through these common, emotional, sensual bonds.


Sixteen women of all ages, all backgrounds, traveling from places far and wide, Canada and Holland, Britain and Italy, Germany, Malta, Brazil, Belgium, Norway and the United States, with cultures even more disparate, claiming bedrooms, sharing space and meals, simply enjoying each others company. Dinners loud, raucous affairs reverberating cheer, emphatically festive. Information passed along from mouth to ear like the juiciest gossip; women studiously huddled around computer screens or heads close together, peering through camera display screens, searching for the perfect image. Pensive expressions, studied faces breaking into unexpected, satisfied grins, chuckles harboring a good secret only to be divulged later as stories are read, photographs revealed to an expectant cast of characters.


Eager students, the cacophonous clacking on so many keyboards, twelve women anticipating, curious, daring to ask, wanting to understand, our art, our craft the foremost priority, the passion of each and all. Lunch al fresco Under the Tuscan Sun, served by voluptuous Nicoletta, exuding her Italian heritage, expounding passionately on the food and the wine, sixteen cameras capturing the moment, images seared into memories, frozen in cameras, impromptu, instantaneous, alive and vibrant or created in still life, heady with scents, textures, sounds. And captured in words, black on white, words voluptuous, luxurious, colorful, emotional, memories old and memories new.


6 months of meticulous planning, head scratching, head banging, tears and laughter, everything must be perfect. Each one of our participants must feel welcome, at home, comfortable enough to share her every thought, fear and whim. As our lovely Judith so perfectly captures and expresses:

Writing is solitary and there is certainly an appeal to being able to share fears and frustrations with others who tell tales through words and pictures. How much of my personal life should I reveal, must everything be 100% truthful and hot off the fire, how often must I blog, and how the hell do I adjust the white balance on my camera? Blogging is a new frontier for sharing and those of us who truly care about what we write push ourselves to do it better with every post.

We struggled, and worked through long hours, weeks and months endeavoring to create the perfect atmosphere, the ideal, consummate, program that would inspire each one to reach inside herself, think, search, feel… and be able to express herself as need be, freely, without fear or shame; the perfect creative environment that would inspire our participants to express their innermost thoughts and let loose their imaginations. And stimulating it was for each one of us, participants and instructors alike, and the words and images flowed like the Bisol Prosecco, sparkling, cool yet so warming, invigorating and exhilarating.

Creativity is a highfalutin word for the work I have to do between now and Tuesday.
- Ray Kroc

Our group, Friday morning strangers, by that same afternoon had found the rhythm, channeling our common bonds and passions to not only be able to work together in perfect harmony and unity but to open up completely and become friends. The rest of that weekend lost in the Tuscan vineyards, nestled cozily amongst her lush rolling hillsides, was beautiful creative symbiosis; each member of this fantastic group felt less alone, part of a family, finally understanding that we as bloggers are all trying to find the same balance between craft and life, yearning to express our innermost thoughts and tentatively, then boldly trying to let loose our emotions, imaginations and creativity. From Plate to Page allowed for growth, understanding, comfort in the realm of writing and photography, our art, our craft, our passion.


Our Plate to Page Tuscany participants, this group of stunning, generous, funny and talented women made the workshop and the weekend truly harmonious, memorable and successful… and they will stay friends, colleagues and inspiration for always.


Judith of Aroma Cucina
Marta of Princess Misia Recipes
Kate of Serendipity
Valentina of A Wee Bit of Sugar
Lynn of sacatomato
Alexandra of Ombranelportico
Elizabeth of Roast Duck and a Big Gooey Cake
Hayley of The Delectable Diary of Hayley Harland
Olivia of Eatmania
Heidi who writes for Xmagazine
Robin of What About the Food?
Denise of The Little Things

And a huge, immense thank you to our sponsors, whose products will surely inspire each of us in the kitchen and find their way one by one onto our blogs…. Plate to Page was only made better by your generosity.

Taste of Home
Zwilling J.A. Henckels
Sunchowder’s Emporia
Peppadew International
Bisol Prosecco
Gourmelli
Smaromi
Nielson-Massey
Matcha Factory
Riso Gallo (your boxes of instant risotto were left in Italy with a very happy son)
Tabasco


With a special shout out to the wonderful and amazing Sarah of Taste of Home, Sven of Smaromi, Hadley of FarSide Marketing and Tracey both with Gourmelli, Wendy of Sunchowder and Tess from Food Matters ….

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.
Art is knowing which ones to keep.
- Scott Adams

Take a bigger bite ...