ALMOND JAM TARTLETS – MIRLITONS aux amandes et confiture

IN BETWEEN

College applications sent. Apartment Promise signed. Articles written and submitted. Those interminable two weeks between le premier et le deuxième tours. Now we are in between, in that god-awful place of limbo, a purgatory of waiting. And as one season wanes and the next not quite sure that it is ready to arrive and assert itself, outside our windows seem some netherworld of uncertainty, a lingering pause, as well. Anticipation in gray. Fingers drum on tabletops or nervously flick from button to button on the remote control or the pages of a magazine; feet pace back and forth across carpets; others stand forlornly at the window, arms crossed, eyes glazed over, staring out into gloomy nothingness until the next ray of sunshine sharply awakens them from their in between stupor.

So while some of us study design books and play with color and others arrange and rearrange imaginary furniture in paper apartments, others cook or bake. We pass the time as best we can, anticipating future events, our imaginations running through all possible solutions; we try with all of our might to play out success all around while stealing ourselves for rejection and failure. Clouds pass, shades of drab, rain glitters on the pavement while the birds twitter and chirp in expectation. Distant laughter like promises float up from below, emails checked, son and husband huddle over the computer to search for possibilities, the clicking of fingers across keyboards, the whirring of the printer…. and we wait.

These periods of waiting, anticipation, impatience are crowded with events. Storm clouds gathering or a garden bursting into bloom, so many milestones arrive all at once, piling one on top of the next, leaving us out of breath, standing in some wild, desolate landscape of contemplation. And I stroll through the market with cooking and baking on my mind and see another wilderness, that midseason void of tightly shut stalls and barren spaces during this long, long month or so of school vacation and string of holiday weekends. And the midseason gulf in between as the produce of autumn and winter shifts to spring.

My basket is abnormally light, swinging at my side, mouth gaping to be filled with fresh produce more enticing than bruised apples and soft, flavorless tomatoes. One season’s fruit and vegetables ebb well before my appetite for one or the other does, yet each craving the impending season excites is left in suspense, unsatisfied in the chasm before the harvest. My hunger is left hovering in midair as the sweetness of pears wanes, clementines and grapefruit sour well before lusty strawberries and bright raspberries wend their way from neighboring gardens to my market; the orange brilliance of plump autumn pumpkins fades before the sugary peaches and nectarines burst onto the scene. Sweet potatoes disappear, exotic pomegranates are no longer mine for the taking yet their absence has welcomed no rich, tart cherries, no rosy rhubarb. And berries. Ah, berries. It will be months before tiny cardboard boats brimming over with buxom blueberries, voluptuous blackberries, glistening, jewel-like currents find themselves nestled among the ever-present apples and bananas now flown in from some faraway place.

So with what am I to bake in the interlude? In between? This time of year, with the weather morose and the apartment still a tad chilly, we long for a satisfying snack, crave something homey, the perfect comfort food to nibble on while sipping a mug of steaming tea or with hands cupped around a warming bowl of coffee. Yet in the anticipation of a bright, warm spring, I no longer want rich, heavy snacks, nor gooey, sticky desserts. Light and delicate yet with gratifying toothsome bite, the tang of berries, the sweetness of fruit would be perfect, balanced out with a mildly nutty warmth, all cupped in a tender pastry shell. Not too sweet, neither too bland, a tasty treat to wile away the time.

As soon as I saw the photo of these Almond JamTartlets in a recent issue of Elle à Table, I knew that I had to make them. Simple to execute, big in flavor and satisfaction, these Mirlitons – oddly enough, kazoo in French (why are these called kazoos?) – were the perfect midseason snack, getting their big fruity flavor from my favorite jam or jelly (in my case, cherry and blueberry), something always on hand, no matter the season. A handful of finely ground almonds or hazelnuts creates a dense yet tender filling, all nestled in my favorite, delicate Sweet Pastry Crust.

So as we pace ourselves through this interminable period of waiting and anticipation, these tiny treats – made any size you like – surely have a hand in tiding us over and infusing the days with sweetness. As Plate to Page approaches at a quick clip, I look forward to jars of Sunchowder’s Emporia jam, a wonderful, generous sponsor of our workshop, whose amazing array of flavors will jazz up these Tartlets – I’m hoping to bring home her Raspberry Chocolate, one of the jams I tasted during my recent breakfast at Petrossian in New York.

ALMOND JAM TARTLETS – MIRLITONS aux amandes et confiture 
Recipe from the May-June 2011 issue of Elle à Table 

1 recipe Sweet Pastry Crust

Jams or jellies of your choice (approximately 12 teaspoons)
3 oz (90) g ground almonds or hazelnuts
4.2 oz (120 g) sugar
2 large eggs
¼ tsp vanilla
Scant 1/3 cup (70 ml) heavy, full fat or half fat cream

Prepare the Sweet Pastry Crust:

Make the Sweet Pastry Crust as instructed here. Roll out to approximately 1/8-inch thickness. Line lightly buttered tartlet shells – I lined 12 tiny, shallow 2 ¼ inch wide molds (in something like a cupcake tin) + 6 individual 2 ¾ inch wide tartlet molds for 18 tartelts in two sizes. Chill in the refrigerator while the oven preheats and the filling is prepared.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).

Whisk together the ground almonds and the sugar. In a small bowl, whisk the eggs until thoroughly blended, then whisk them into the almonds and sugar until the mixture is well-blended, thick and smooth. Whisk in the vanilla and the cream until smooth.

Remove the pastry shells from the refrigerator. Place a dollop – ¾ to 1 teaspoon depending upon the size of tartlet molds you use – of jam or jelly in the center of each pastry shell. Carefully spoon or pour just enough of the batter around the jam to fill the shells up ¾ of the way.

Bake for approximately 20 minutes or until each tartlet is puffed slightly, set and a light golden in color.

Remove from the oven, gently remove the tartlets from the tins or the molds and allow to cool on racks before serving.
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CLASSIC AMERICAN DOUBLE-RICH CHOCOLATE LAYER CAKE

TWO SIDES TO EVERY STORY 

From French to American. Films, tv series, books, news programs, politics and elections, board games, music and family vacations, a cultural back and forth like a ping pong game, the never-ending lazy tick tick tick of the small white ball flicking rhythmically back and forth across the table. Or the thunk thunk thunk of a tennis ball out in the scorching sun before we stop to catch our breath, pearls of sweat collecting on our brow.

Our constant, fluid switch from French to English and back again, even throwing in the occasional Italianism just to kick things up, baffles even the most cosmopolitan outside observer. Heads turn in our direction as we try to converse over a restaurant meal or stroll through the supermarket. One visit from a dog trainer, standing in the backyard in the center of our small family, observing our interaction with our pet as we tossed toys and called out commands: Sit! Couché! Vieni qua! His head whipping back and forth from one of us to the other, a pained, stunned look washed across his face as he asked “Can’t you speak to the dog in only one language?” Or mother and two young boys, one still in the stroller, standing in line at the checkout holding a normal, everyday conversation to pass the time; I notice all eyes turned upon us and I wonder what could possibly be wrong. Until I realize that as I spoke in English, one son answered only in French, the other only in Italian. Ah, such is life.

Intellectual flip-flops, cerebral seesaw, day in and day out we skip from French to American and back again with the ease and smoothness known only to multi-cultural families. No sweat, no thought, no biggie, just a simple way of life that seemed to come ready made, handed to us with the marriage certificate or that first bundle of joy. Over the years, we have collected jokes, objects of humor and discussion, historical tidbits, a veritable encyclopedia of cultural references that allow us to travel to France, then to America and back again with a natural fluidity that never seems to trip us up or make us stumble and fall in confusion.

And, of course, the same goes for food. Our kitchen, our table, may be a cultural melting pot, but each individual dish has resolutely retained its own personal identity. I have often written about how food has always been one way that we keep our children grounded in their roots, one tool used to teach them who they are, where they come from, each dish the tunnel leading to a single road back to a unique destination. Food, like language, like customs and so many tiny, daily rituals, is their heritage, part of a history, a way to retain each individual, singular identity of their own. And so we slide through a repertoire, from French, Italian, Moroccan, American and back again, from Blanquette or Quiche to Focaccia, Risotto and Eggplant Parmesan, from Tagine and Couscous to beef stew or pancakes until we start the circle over again. And desserts from Tiramisu and Panna Cotta, from Galette des Rois and Frangipane Éclairs to simple, homey American treats to warm a son’s heart and cravings, just simply reminds us of home.

So after a run in with an oh-so French Vanilla Custard Berry Tart, my son, who despises all things creamy, gooey or fruity in a dessert, clamored for one of his favorites, each more American than the next. “My turn!” he seemed to be saying, my little American. A simple pan of brownies or a coffee cake, if you please. Or, better yet, a chocolate layer cake. Comforted as he is by the same old familiar treats time and time again, we are often locking horns over my choices for baking. While I want to try out new recipes for posting on my blog, he just wants something to eat that he is sure he will love. Comfort on a plate. So a new recipe must be packaged to look like the old even though I know he is and has never been one to be easily fooled, if ever.

A week neck deep in the French elections and richly ensconced in everything French in the kitchen, the Beouf aux Carottes or a Cauliflower Potato Gratin, the Vanilla Custard Tart, the Tender Cooked Beef and Carrot Cannelloni and the Orange Cointreau Tiramisu, Simon requested an all-American Chocolate Layer Cake filled with his favorite Chocolate Buttercream. I turned to my mother’s 1973 Reader’s Digest Secrets of Better Cooking and found a Double-Rich Chocolate Cake. A bit cakier and fluffier than my favorite dense, moist, dark chocolate layer cake, it is nonetheless a wonderful cake, light and delicate, very chocolaty and the perfect backdrop to a rich cream filling. And, as all great American desserts, it is open to a little spontaneity, creativity and diversity by simply adding some ground cinnamon or some powdered instant espresso, replace the vanilla with orange or almond extract, grate in the zest of an orange, fill with any flavor buttercream or smear each layer with jelly or jam before piling on the whipped cream.

DOUBLE-RICH CHOCOLATE CAKE
From Reader’s Digest’s Secrets of Better Cooking

3 oz (90 g) unsweetened or bittersweet chocolate, chopped
2 cups (260 g) sifted pastry or cake flour
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 ¼ cups (250 g) superfine sugar
2 large eggs
1 cup (250 ml) milk
1 tsp vanilla
½ tsp orange extract, optional

1 single recipe of my Favorite Simple Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter and line two 8-inch (20/21-cm) cake pans with parchment paper.

Melt the chocolate either in the microwave or over a pot of gently simmering water just until melted. Remove from the heat, stir until smooth and set aside to cool to room temperature.

Sift the flour before measuring out the 2 cups (I stick my measuring cup right into the flour box or sit it on a large dinner plate and sift the flour directly into it, leveling it lightly with a knife) and then stir in the baking soda and salt. Set aside.

Cream the butter with the superfine sugar until well blended, light and creamy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, followed by the vanilla and orange extracts.

Add the melted chocolate to the creamed butter, sugar and eggs and beat in to blend. Beat in the flour mixture in three additions alternating with the milk in two additions, beating just to blend after each addition.

Divide the batter into the two prepared cake pans and bake for 25 to 30 minutes or just until set in the center (I may have let mine go a few minutes too long). Remove from the oven to cooling racks, allow to cool in the pans for 10 or 15 minutes before running a thin-bladed knife around the edges to loosen the cake and turn out of the pans. Peel off the parchment paper and turn upright and allow to cool on the racks completely.

Set one layer of the cake on a serving platter, spread thickly with the Chocolate Buttercream, set the second layer on top and dust all over with powdered sugar before serving.

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VANILLA CUSTARD BERRY TART

BLEU BLANC & ROUGE RED WHITE & BLUE

I have no consistency, except in politics;
and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
- Lord Byron

The excitement mounts! An electric current zips through the apartment as the date approaches. We sit, night after night, glued to the television set, listening, observing, trading viewpoints and arguing opinions. The four of us gather every evening at 8 sharp for the news, following each candidate’s every word, every step. We compare the campaigns waging on both side of the Atlantic, the stream of candidates, from their policies to their faux pas, dissecting their political histories, analyzing their records, arguing their strengths, their weaknesses and whether or not we each consider their program, well, realistic.

To tell the honest truth, we also spend just as much time making fun of each candidate, each campaign move. As the evening news rolls to a close, the stream of back-to-back spots runs in glorious red white and blue, or rather bleu blanc rouge, and we love this part of the French presidential campaign. For one minute or two, this candidate or that one’s head looms large against the backdrop of searing red, crisp white or pale blue the color of sky, campaign motto splashed across the screen, La France Forte, Le Changement C’est Maintenant, Un Pays Uni Rien Ne Lui Resiste, Oui La France. Talking heads growling, barking, bellowing or mellow yet urgent, explaining as a teacher addressing a class of naughty children who refuse to follow the lesson. One son chuckles in self-satisfaction as he imitates this voice or that, following the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen, husband remarking on the insignificant, tiny mistakes made in editing while the younger son explains what is wrong with this policy or that. We sadly watch as the night’s series of campaign spots comes to an end, yet the discussion is far from over.

Everything is changing. People are taking their comedians seriously
and the politicians as a joke.
- Will Rogers

Our sons are well versed in politics. We raised them on television and radio news programs, often eating lunch or dinner in front of a panel of political pundits, never missing the evening infos, reading newspapers and debating, dissecting, explaining and, as they grew up, arguing, thrashing out, discoursing on everything French, American, Italian, European. We each have our own strong opinions and ideas of what works and what doesn’t, who is right and who is not and often lock horns. So this year, with presidential elections in both of our “home” countries, it is particularly exciting! The atmosphere is charged; we are geared up for a long year of exuberant, exhilarating, stimulating, often frustrating but definitely animated discussion.

And the fun has already begun with posters of our “favorite” candidates taped to each of our bedroom doors, faux campaign headquarters (although who put them there I have yet to learn), Our imitations are refined and in order, our clocks and watches synchronized so as not to miss even one well-regulated campaign announcement or candidate interview. Everything down to the second is timed and regulated in this beautifully over-regulated country, but how much better than the wild free-for-all in that vast cultural and political landscape (madhouse, some would argue) across the ocean. Words are measured, accusations tempered, and, as we are taught, everything is easier in moderation.


J - 2 (or as the French say it gee moins deux), two days until le premier tour, the first round of voting when the field will shrink from ten to two. Ah, yes, we will miss the odd candidates, and we may be sorely disappointed in the results. We may even be driven totally crazy by the madness of the final two weeks when things may get completely out of hand, wound up two notches or five, but we revel in everything political, no matter how insane.

And soon, France will have a new President and things will certainly return to the old humdrum, the same old same old, le retour à la normale, the status quo. And then the next one Over There will just be getting started.

From politics, it was an easy step to silence.
- Jane Austen

Bleu blanc rouge. Red white & blue: a little tribute to the fun and games that these mad, interminable, delirious, frenetic elections allow us but every four or five years. A luscious red, white and blue tart, worthy of our finest French pastry shop, worthy of our finest French election period, that brings together my little family of political animals as no election can. Or, well, at least not in quite the same spirit. A sweet pastry crust holds a voluptuously smooth, creamy, cool vanilla custard topped with a choice of berries: red raspberries, blue blueberries and wild blackberries. I prefer using frozen berries for tarts. Why? I find that frozen berries offer a much more intense flavor, sweeter, tarter, fruitier than fresh berries which gives wonderful results when baking. But use fresh berries when you can get full-flavored fruit all summer long.

Once baked and cooled, this tart offers sensational, winning, victorious results: tangy berries, sweet, creamy custard and just the right bite from the perfect crust. No analogies here, just a sublime dessert everyone will love. No matter their political bent or favorite candidate.


I will be adding this to my own April in Paris Monthly Mingle.


BAKED VANILLA CUSTARD BERRY TART

For the Pie Crust:
Or use your own favorite sweet pastry crust.

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; it should be the consistency of slightly damp sand. 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. If needed, add more milk a tablespoon at a time, blending vigorously after each addition, until the all of the dry ingredients are moistened.

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 if the dough is too soft to roll out immediately.

Lightly grease with butter the sides and bottom of a 13 ½ x 4-inch (35 x 10-cm) rectangular baking tin, preferably with removable bottom.

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 into a large rectangle and line the tin by gently lifting in and pressing down the dough. Roll the dough fairly thinly – you can see that mine is just a bit too thick. For a baking tin this size you will have dough left over. Trim the edges. Cover the lined tin 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 tin from the refrigerator and discard the plastic wrap. Prick the pastry 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 large piece of parchment paper over the shell and weigh down the parchment with pastry weights or dried beans, pushing the beans into the corners and up against the sides. Bake for 15 minutes. Remove from the oven, carefully lift out the parchment paper and beans, pressing the bottom of the shell down with your fingertips if puffed up, and prepare the Custard Filling.

For the Vanilla Custard Cream Filling:

3 large egg yolks*
¼ cup + 2 Tbs (75 g) sugar
2 Tbs cornstarch or corn flour
1 cup (250 ml) milk (I used 2% low fat)
¾ cup (200 ml) heavy cream
2 tsp vanilla
1/8 tsp ground nutmeg
1 – 2 Tbs slivered blanched almonds
Powdered/confectioner’s sugar for dusting

* Reserve the whites in a clean jar for Macarons!

Gently whisk the egg yolks with the sugar, cornstarch and the milk in a medium-sized saucepan until blended and smooth. Cook gently over very low heat, whisking constantly, for 5 minutes until thick like custard or pastry cream. Remove from the heat, quickly stir in the cream, the vanilla and the nutmeg; whisk until smooth. Transfer the cream to a bowl or glass/Pyrex measuring cup, cover with plastic wrap, pushing the plastic down to touch the surface, and allow to come to room temperature.

The Berries:

About 1 to 1 ½ cups fresh or frozen berries; I like a combination of blueberries, wild blackberries and raspberries. If using frozen, place the berries in a colander and run very, very quickly under running water to defrost then spread out on paper towels.

Just before baking the tart, place the berries (less any juice that has run off) in a small bowl and toss with 1/8 cup sugar (or slightly more to taste) and a dash of ground cinnamon.

Assemble and Bake the Vanilla Custard Berry Tart:


Once the pastry shell is partially prebaked and cooled and the vanilla custard is prepared and cooled, simply spoon the custard into the shell, spread to smooth and spoon the berries onto the custard. Bake in the 350°F (180°C) hot oven for about 40 to 45 minutes.


Remove from the oven to a cooling rack or wooden board and allow to cool to room temperature. Serve at room temperature or, better still, chilled, dusted with powdered sugar.



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CLASSIC FRENCH BEEF AND CARROTS à la mode

BOEUF À LA MODE* AUX CAROTTES FOR THE CHANGES IN OUR LIVES


The call came Friday afternoon as things were winding down for the day, heading towards dinnertime, melting into the weekend. We had truly put it as far out of our minds as it was humanly possible to forget something one loves, missing something one has never possessed as we did. I was in the bedroom, French doors flung open to the cool breeze, sunshine washing over me, making the bed, smoothing down crisp, fresh sheets when I heard the telephone ring. JP answered as he usually does now that the phone is his work tool. My heart jumped when I heard the lilting cheer sweep through his words, normally so businesslike and efficient, heard him mention “my wife and I just spoke about it yesterday”! My heart skipped a beat as I listened to his cheerful half of a conversation, pulling me into his enthusiasm. There was only one thing he could be talking about, one person with whom he could be having this particular conversation.

So much activity, so much excitement has kept me from my kitchen these past few weeks. My insatiable appetite for adventure has surely been sated by now, or so one would think. An explosive week in New York proved to be both exhausting and inspiring. New connections and relationships leading to new projects have my nose stuck firmly to the grindstone. The flurry of a son applying to university, putting together a portfolio, learning to draw, growing up in leaps and bounds before our very eyes. And now this… in the course of our hurried, frantic search for a new home, we had both fallen in love with an apartment…correction: we had both fallen in love with a set of law offices, seeing in every room the makings of a cozy home, the perfect love nest. We had sent in a bid the very same day of our unique visit only to learn that someone else had done the same but earlier. Our hopes dashed, we hung our heads, tried not to think of what we had loved and lost without ever having possessed it, and continued on our search.


Yet, here was the call we had been praying for. That deal fell through and we could, with just one simple word, be the proud owners of this new, our future home. “Yes!”

We analyze the price of real estate past, present and future, our hopes rising and falling with the numbers across the charts, calculating our purchase price against provisions for a future sale. We walk briskly into town, slowing down as we arrive at the foot of the building in which our possible future home nestles behind pale walls. We look up, up, craning our necks as we count the number of windows up and over, scrutinizing the brightness of the sunlight as it hits the apartment, listening to the noise as the tram rumbles past. We nod in the direction of our former boulanger, boucher, traiteur of years past and whisper “welcome back, us!” as we prepare to return to our old neighborhood.

We excitedly list all that needs to be done in the months to come, the phone, the gas, the parking garage, as we flip through catalogues, choosing a new kitchen, bathroom, colors of paint which will grace and brighten the walls of a future livingroom and bedroom. We’ve surely been through much, much worse! Our first apartment in Nantes was twice as large, twice as deteriorated, had been twice as costly to renovate. Yes, that one had a bathroom albeit an ancient relic from the early 1950’s, and a kitchen sink, although not much else, whereas this apartment has neither, but little facts like this never dissuaded us before. We love ourselves a little adventure!


And so, as the excitement mounts, as we prepare for this new phase of our life, it is ever so appropriate that JP made Boeuf aux Carottes. I often laud my husband’s cooking, extol his talent in the kitchen, his genius in taking whatever is huddled in the back of the refrigerator threatening to die a lonely, smelly death or his expertise in purchasing only the most seasonal at the market and with a few flicks of his wrist, a wave of his hand, a flourish and a mere embellishment or two, creating a sensational meal. But his Boeuf aux Carottes, Beef with Carrots, may have been the best thing he has ever cooked for me. The last time he made this, I had just arrived home from the airport, weary, exhausted and feeling terribly despondent. I had just returned from New York and my last visit with my brother. And when JP ushered me through our front door after that interminable flight and a sleepless night, as he set down my luggage in the livingroom and guided me into the kitchen, he placed a plate of Boeuf aux Carottes in front of me. Fragrant steam rose and curled around my head, satisfying and luscious, at once lifting up my spirits and awakening an appetite long gone. Although rarely in the mood to eat after a long voyage and even less inclined now after such a sad trip, his Beef with Carrots soothed my soul, each mouthful of meltingly tender beef and sweet carrots in a rich wine sauce simply made me feel loved, safe and home.


Sharp changes in our lives are mellowed by good food, the bumps and doubts softened by a wonderful homecooked meal. JP’s Boeuf aux Carottes is one of those dishes that will ever be associated with those times in my own life when changes have disrupted a daily routine or threatened to turn everything ordinary on its head; a wonderful dish infused with the goodness of so many generations of loving mamans yet ennobled with the old JP magic, elevated to extraordinary by his own wonderful, modern twist on something homey and comforting. His Boeuf aux Carottes lies somewhere between a Boeuf Bourguingon and Boeuf Mode yet capturing his recipe to write down in black and white and transmit it to you is difficult. This is a recipe best made au pif, by instinct, by feel, to taste. But so worth the effort! Here is a simple guideline to follow to adjust as you see fit: adjust the quantities of meat, wine, carrots and seasoning, serve over pasta or add potatoes into the stew alongside the carrots, cooking until tender.


This classic French dish will be shared as part of my Monthly Mingle (an event created by my friend Meeta) April in Paris. Please join me by cooking or baking something French or French-inspired – please follow the rules on my April in Paris Monthly Mingle post… Bon Appétit!


* Pot Roast

BEEF AND CARROTS
JP’s Boeuf à la Mode aux Carottes* for 4 people


28 oz (800 g) beef for stew, cut into 5 or 6 large pieces
2 medium yellow onions, peeled, cut in quarters and sliced
3 or 4 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed or coarsely chopped
3 to 4 Tbs (45 to 60 g) margarine
Handful – or about 1 heaping Tbs (30 g) – flour
1 bottle dry red wine (about 2 cups/500 ml for cooking and the rest for drinking with the meal)
Scant cup (200 ml) tomato coulis or purée
Bouquet garni or loose dried herbs (thyme and bay leaf)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
One bouquet or bunch baby carrots or about 1 ½ lbs (750 g), peeled and sliced into coins

1 lb (500 g) fresh or dried pasta, preferably something thick or shaped to help scoop up the sauce

-or- about 1 – 1 1/5 lbs (500 to 750 g) fingerling potatoes

In a large heavy pot or Dutch oven, melt the margarine. Add the chunks of meat and brown on all sides. Add the onions, the garlic and the handful of flour and continue cooking, stirring and tossing until the onions are tender and the floured meat golden.

Add about 2 cups of red wine or until the liquid covers the meat not more than about halfway. Heat just to the boil. Add the tomato coulis or purée, the thyme and bay leaf, salt and pepper and then add enough water just to cover the meat. Bring to a boil then lower the heat to a simmer, cover and cook for 1 hour 30 minutes.

At the end of the first 1 hour 30 minutes, add the carrot coins and continue to cook for another 45 minutes to an hour, adding water only as needed. The meat and the carrots should be beautifully tender and the wine, water and juices should have formed a nice thick sauce. Add more water to thin out if desired. Taste and adjust the seasonings.

We make the Boeuf aux Carottes early in the morning for lunch (or even for dinner), counting on finishing the cooking about an hour before lunch is served, then removing it from the heat and allowing it to rest and the flavors to develop. When you put your water for the pasta, turn the heat under the Beef and Carrots to low or medium low to gently and slowly heat up and heat through.

If reheating any leftovers just add water to keep the sauce and meat from burning and to make sure there is plenty of sauce.

Serve over pasta.



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IACP CONFERENCE NYC

HOW I PREPARED FOR & SUCCEEDED AT IACP NYC

How can I describe the perfect conference? A revelation? An inspiration? An epiphany? Grand words, highfalutin ideas for just a conference. But how does one, how do I, describe the sensation of having arrived in New York on a Tuesday feeling like a blogger and leaving one short week later assuming the full force of being a writer? Yes, I know, I am already a writer, you argue. But sometimes we each need some kind of concrete affirmation of our own belief in ourselves, a mise en oeuvre, the validation of our own self-regard. Am I a writer because I feel a writer in every bone of my body? Because sitting at a computer or with a pencil in my hand in front of a blank sheet of paper is exhilarating? Because I revel in the flow of words from my mind and coursing out of my fingertips as they clatter across the keyboard, words that I then shape and mold into a story, infusing sentences with emotions, paragraphs with sentiments, pages with meaning? Or is one a writer only when one is recognized as a writer by the movers and shakers in the professional milieu? Can one simple conference be responsible for this transformation?

Bits and pieces of an extraordinary conference,
interspersed with hints on how to prepare for IACP San Francisco:

1. I swept through the revolving doors into the Millenium Broadway Hotel in New York City as Alice through the looking glass, into a world at once real and imaginary. I felt both large and clumsy, as if every set of eyes was turned upon me, as if all of those random people littering the entry would laugh at my utter aloneness, and small and insignificant, completely ignored, as my own eyes swept the lobby anxiously searching for the first familiar face. I half expected to stumble upon a table with slices of cake labelled Eat Me! or tiny teacups begging Drink Me!

And then, lo and behold, I peered into the shadowed darkness of the bar and saw Domenica Marchetti huddled behind a drink, masked behind dark glasses, all alone. Daring to dare, I accosted her and my heart jumped with delight as her face lit up. I sat down and we began chatting away like old, old friends and I knew that everything was fated to turn out all right.

Dinner at Barbuto with a few friends

2. The weeks running up to the conference, I often felt as if I was filling up a dance card: “you Friday at 3:00, you at 3:30, you Saturday for breakfast, uh, no, sorry, taken. How about a late lunch?” Popular was I? Not so much popular as simply knowing that this was my one chance, just at this time in my life and at this point in my career, to be surrounded by so many great and influential people, to meet them, to introduce myself and to make that important face-to-face connection. One chance.

3. Business cards. Mucho business cards. To hand out right and left as a famous star of stage and screen passes out air kisses to adoring fans. Sweep into a room and begin the dance. And a calendar, a schedule carefully typed up and printed out, now smeared and hazy with pencil scratchings up and down the margins, filled with back-to-back sessions interspersed with meeting this person or that, breakfasts, lunches, coffees and dinners all perfectly aligned and ordered. I had to arrive in New York, at this conference, absolutely and completely prepared. And if that meant pre-arranging meet ups, making dates ahead of time, daring to email requests and invitations and scheduling in must-attend sessions whether I was signed up or only on the waiting list, then come hell or high water I would do it!

And I did it.

4) Opening panel presentation: The Fashion of Food. I didn’t particularly care for the whole Food as Fashion argument defended and raised to glory by the few albeit distinguished superstars who spoke to us all as one. Yes, food trends allowing for discovery and adventure, cultural mergings, new ideas, I will give you that, yet the love affair with the new and the hot began to turn sour, their enthusiasm a bit over the top. Except, I will add, for Marcus Samuelsson, whose cultural roots showed through his thoughtful points. My question asking when does fashion become fad, requesting the chosen few to come down off of the pedestal of glorifying food trends and discuss it in a more cultural light, discuss the dangers of food as fad, was brushed off as frivolous and unimportant. And for the rest of the weekend I was met with “Aren’t you the one who asked that great question that they refused to answer?” Ah, yes. Me.

When I wasn’t “Oh, you’re that Huff Post girl, right? The one who wrote that article?” Yep. Again, me.

5) Inspiring, motivating, sensationally informative panels. Dynamic presenters, personal one-on-one sessions or open to group give-and-take, questions and answers, I gathered so much information that I felt newly armed against a tough career choice, prepared to face hurdles, make bold decisions and allow my creativity to bloom and merge with something more pragmatic. Yes, we have heard it all before but possibly the fact that these panellists were speaking to professionals rather than bloggers, they added layers of inspiration, more precise information, went above and beyond mere talking points and facts. Was this conference for bloggers wishing to focus entirely on and make a success of their blog? Probably not. Was this a conference for those whose blog is merely a steppingstone to a professional career in any branch of the culinary business? Absolutely! The information culled from the sessions, the opportunity to network, discuss, ask questions, create professional relationships is beyond measure.

My favorite panels? Building a Winning Proposal, How to Turn Your Freelance Work into a Career, Oxford Gastronomica’s How a Food Can Make a City Famous and, of course, Mix and Mentor: Okay Writers, Here’s What We Want! And one hint: you want to attend a panel or session that you are only waitlisted for? Show up a tad early and just walk in, head held high as if you belong, and slide into a seat. Works. And thank heavens it did! Big things happen when you are bold!

6) Liberté, égalité, fraternité (oh, sorry, I got caught up there in the French elections for a second.) Availability. Accessibility. Equality. I was absolutely taken by the ambiance at this conference. The utter availability of every attendee and speaker, no matter their professional status, was truly extraordinary and mind-boggling (for a first timer); we all had come as equals. Each fellow IACPer was approachable. The welcoming smiles were palpable. We were all attending this conference to network, and how easy and natural it was to simply walk up to someone, anyone, introduce yourself, trade business cards and discuss projects, not only welcome but expected. Sit down next to anyone at breakfast, turn to your neighbor in a session, stop someone in the hallway. It was as easy as that. Interest, encouragement, camaraderie was the spirit of the conference.


7) Networking and recognition. How did I fare? With my suitcase and pockets overflowing with foodstuff and business cards, notes and hand outs, I left the conference so much more knowledgeable about how things work in the world of professional writing and publishing. I was offered a peek into the workings of Saveur magazine, spoke endlessly with fellow writers and published authors, understood the importance of networking via internet and in person, the delicate balancing act of humility and confidence, of give and take. I put myself, my work and my ideas forward, discussed my projects and my professional goals, seizing every chance to speak to those who could offer valid information and guidance and those holding keys to my future.

As an American blogger and writer living overseas, far off in my dark hole of isolation, my own private island where it is terribly difficult to gauge my place in the sphere of American food writing, this trip and this conference afforded me the opportunity to understand where I stood, to know how widely my words are read and to receive feedback on my work. I reinforced and solidified working relationships that had begun in cyberspace and created new associations and professional connections. This conference was indeed a steppingstone in my career and I now have so many projects awaiting my complete, constant and immediate attention. So, as the French say, “Au boulot!”

With Domenica Marchetti

I do want to thank: Dianne Jacob, Jackie Gordon, Ken Leung, Robin Zachary, Dana Bowen, Renee Schettler, Nancie McDermott, Jayne Cohen, Nancy Baggett, Giuliano Hazan, Domenica Marchetti, Denise Vivaldo, Abby Dodge, Bruce Shaw and Adam Salomone.

With Giuliano Hazan

So happy to have seen and/or met: David Leite (and The One), Kathleen Flinn, Melissa Clark, Martha Hopkins, Maria Speck, Cathy Barrows, Margarent Chen Doughney, June Jacobs, Heather Jones, Virginia Willis, Michelle Jaffee, David Dadekian, Lora the Mad Hausfrau, Jessica Lee Binder, Brian Samuels, Sara Hafiz, Winnie Abramson, Mardi Michaels, Karen Covey, Warren Brobow, Gina Stipo, Grace Young, Chef Jonathan Forgash and Amanda Hesser.


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2 DAYS IN NEW YORK

BEFORE IACP

I arrive at JFK exhausted yet somehow invigorated. I am back in New York where I am greeted by brilliant sunshine and a cool breeze whipping my hair. “Wake up!” the city seems to be crying, “There is so much to do! No rest for the weary, no time to waste! Excitement awaits!” Dragging my heavy bags behind me I slide through the large glass panes and out into a bustling, noisy, galvanizing city. The taxi glides along roads that I know so well; sights, neighborhoods stream by that I have seen dozens of times. Yet I am headed into a New York that is completely new to me, one seen through my eyes as a writer and not as a sister or mother. I left New York three years ago in tears having hugged my brother goodbye for the last time. I left New York three years ago feeling lost and empty, helpless in the face of a tragedy that would haunt me every single day since. I now had to pull myself together and move ahead, gather my forces and become someone that I longed to be, confident and strong, able to move around the City That Never Sleeps on my own. I had to quickly replace this overpowering feeling of loneliness and self doubt with one of enthusiasm and determination. A forty-minute cab ride and the transformation is complete: cool self-reliance steps out of that yellow cab and into a new world.

I had two full days in front of me before my true destination, the IACP – International Association of Culinary Professionals – conference exploded in a fury of activity, demanding my full attention, fiery, non-stop energy and every single minute of the following four days. I had time to catch my breath and relax a bit, recharge and realign both body and mind to New York City time. I needed to shake out my stiff limbs and abandon myself to the whims and frivolity that I rarely allow myself the time and luxury to enjoy. Happily, I had others to organize these two days for me and all I needed to do was smile and follow in their wake. Jackie and Ken, Robin, Abby and Gail, Dianne had all arranged meals and adventures and I was now raring to go!

Two days filled with excitement, laughter, great food (and not so great food) and excellent friends. A lovely morning at Petrossian in the company of Jackie, Ken and Jessica and shared with Alexandre Petrossian, his wife Hélène and Cynthia Brody, PR for Petrossian, a dynamic, informative, engaging woman. A beautiful breakfast laid out for us in a private dining room, sharing fabulous baked goods, Petrossian Café’s latest yet-to-be-unveiled treats: Lemon Thyme Muffins (delicate yet striking savory-sweet flavor and the perfect delicate, light yet moist crumb), savory Parmesan and Rosemary Biscuits and gorgeous Parmesan, Black Pepper and Fennel cookies, another savory treat with a slight sweetness. Tasting each delicacy as an expert, snapping pictures and discovering, much to my delight, a selection of jams created for Petrossian by my lovely friend Wendy of Sunchowder's Emporia, a proud and delightful sponsor of our own Plate to Page workshops!

Thank you, Alexandre Petrossian and everyone at Petrossian Café!

Doing what we do best: schmoozing through cookware shops!

Lunch!

A long chat with Mark Bello of Pizza A Casa pizza school!

Weaving in and out of the city, across town, in and out of shops and food boutiques, nibbling on Chinese dumplings and donuts, ogling baking supplies and feminine paper muffin cups, the thrill of spotting friends’ cookbooks for sale in this store or that, the day passed in a bustle and a flutter, ending with a lovely, relaxed dinner with friends old and new, adding in Mitch and Margaret and finally, finally meeting David Leite and The One. My pleasure!

photo courtesy of Ken Leung

Day two began calm and cool sipping perfect café au lait and sharing oatmeal in a tiny Chelsea café with Robin. So New York! Ah, I understood then and there that I could so easily live in this city, popping out for breakfast in one’s quaint neighborhood café where the waiters know you, your table is always waiting and the sun shines warmly against your skin as you spoon up creamy, soothing porridge with just the right amount of sugar and plump sweet raisins, just the way you made for yourself when you were a kid. Breakfast metamorphosed into lunch with my girls Abby and Gail, laughter and gossip resonated wildly throughout Co. Pane as we scooped up slices of perfect pizza pie and dug into salads that brought back memories of the freshest vegetables in my Italian market in Milan, homemade ricotta and chilled glasses of white all making for one of the most perfect meals had. We shared our own stories, traded the latest news and the hottest gossip and wished we lived close enough together to meet once a week for a girl’s day out.

photos courtesy of Abby Dodge

Popping by the hotel to register for the conference, focusing my mind and preparing mentally to be all businesslike and serious, I spied Domenica hiding behind dark glasses in the bar like in some mysterious old film noir, chin down, collar pulled up around her ears. I hesitated but briefly and called her name. Her head snapped up and she recognized me with something of relief as if afraid to be seen before having had the chance to, yes, indeed, gussy herself up after her long train voyage. Well, I shrugged, it’s only me. Long chat and far-away, long-distance friends now have fitted a face, a personality, a being to the name and the words left helter skelter across Twitter and Facebook pages, long sometimes rambling comments left after blog posts.

Dianne and I have been lucky enough to see each other twice in one year and it already seems to be our own tradition to slip away and grab a few hours together discovering a city and getting to know each other just a bit better. Dinner out – a disco-like ambiance the only drawback of an otherwise delicious meal, a quick Mr. Softee soft serve ice cream eaten with all the joy and exuberance of kids following the tinny music down the street, coins clutched in their hands, tongues snatching at the cold chocolate sweetness. And finally, the cherry on top, an electric evening on Broadway! The perfect ending to two perfect days.

photo courtesy of Dianne Jacob and snapped by Jamie Tiampo

So much activity, so much eating, savoring, enjoying, friendship wrapped in laughter and knowing glances, building up the excitement to a conference that might have otherwise been started on a footing of shyness and uncertainty. It says something…no, it says quite a lot about this community that we have formed, individuals brought together by their passionate, obsessive love of food. We write, we style, we photograph, we taste and try, we comment and critique, we create and invent and inspire. And at the base of it all, at the end of the day, whatever magic spark brought us to internet has ignited a truly phenomenal alliance, a society of like-minded souls. These first two days in New York have washed the sadness from my heart; laughter dances on my lips as I snuggle down between clean, cool sheets and snap off the light. I belong here, I think, these are my people.

And the conference was about to begin….

Take a bigger bite ...