Blueberry Muffins

Cervantes once said that "all sorrows are less with bread." What he neglected to add was that all sorrows are even less with blueberry muffins. Sure, bread is lovely, but muffins... warm, moist, a little crumbly, soft with sweetness and spilling with the dark mystery of blueberries... If I may be so bold to interpret the great writer, these little cakes transcend the prosaic. In fact, I hesitate to even call them muffins -- next time, they will be reincarnated as wee little bundt cakes and we will all be much, much happier.

I'm not really sure when my love affair with muffins began. I think it was in high school when the most wonderful bakery opened a few blocks away from my house. One of the chief attractions of this place (besides the absolutely mind-boggling array of muffins -- strawberry, rhubarb, blueberry with streusel top, be still my heart) was the management's penchant for hiring hot bakery boys. This was top notch marketing because after school and on weekends, the shop was crammed with giggling and blushing 16-yr old girls hoping for a glance from the dreamy muffin-dispensing staff. My best friend and I, of course, were too cool for anything but dignified hair-flips at these silly creatures (the girls), but in secret, we had crushes on all the boys who worked there and referred to them (with much creativity) as "Bakery Boy 1, 2 and 3" respectively. Sure, it all seems funny now, but imagine Christian Bale or George Clooney or Antonio Sabato Jr. (google him, just trust me on this one) offering you himself *and* a hot, buttery muffin for dessert? I'm sure there is a way for life to get better than that, but I can't think of one right now.

Blueberry Muffins/Cakes
1/3 cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar, plus 1/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups flour
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup sour cream and 1/2 cup whole milk*
(*OR just 1 cup sour cream)
8-11 oz blueberries
1/4 cup slivered almonds for topping

Preheat oven to 350. In a large mixing bowl, cream together butter and 1 cup of sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, until well blended. Stir in vanilla.

In a separate bowl, whisk together baking powder, baking soda and salt. Add half of the flour mixture to the creamed butter and mix until incorporated. Then, add the sour cream and milk. Mix until incorporated, scraping down the bowl. Add the rest of the flour mixture.

In a separate bowl, mix the blueberries with the 1/4 cup of sugar. Gently fold the blueberries into the batter so that the berries do not break.

Spoon into a muffin pan, either greased or lined with muffin cups, or into a greased mini-bund-cake pan. If making muffins, top with a pinch of slivered almonds.

Bake for about 20-22 minutes or until the tops of the muffins are golden and a toothpick inserted into the middle of the muffin comes out clean. Enjoy with your favorite bakery boy a cup of hot tea.

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Honey-Glazed Salmon & Arugula Salad with Lemon-Pepper Dressing

You know how sometimes, you go shopping and you see in the corner an unassuming little black dress... And you walk away because, well, you already have three of those hanging in your closet and it'll probably be too plain and you wanted something a little jazzier for the summer anyway? And then you notice a little something out of the corner of your eye, and you turn around, and there it is again, sort of... winking at you? So, you sigh and decided to FINE, give it a try, totally expecting it to be meh and blah and whatever. Then, you put it on and turn to the mirror... and the dress just sings in the way it hugs all the right curves and brings out your eyes and puts a little blush into your cheeks, and you think, "hot damn, it works!"

Well. This recipe was something akin to that experience for me. I stared at it for about a month, sort of intrigued but not really inspired enough to give it a go, until one day, I just had all the ingredients together, and I had the recipe, and ... it sort of winked at me. And I said, FINE, I'll try it out, but I was really kind of skeptical about how it's all going to work. I made the salmon. I tasted it - too sweet! I made the salad. I tasted it - too tart! And then... I tasted them TOGETHER, cooled by a sip (or two, or three; ok, by a couple of glasses) of a dry white wine, and kids, I had the sort of "hot damn, it works" revelation that did actually put the blush back in my cheeks (although, maybe the wine had something to do with that).


I don't make salmon very often, mostly because I eat it at restaurants and it's almost always prepared the same way. In this dish, however, the balance of flavors is so perfect -- sweetness offset by tartness, crispness in perfect harmony with creaminess, tender pink salmon blushing next to the emerald arugula leaves -- that it gives this little black dress a whole new twist.

Honey-Glazed Salmon and Arugula Salad with Lemon-Pepper Dressing
(Adapted from Bon Appetit, March 2008)
6 6-oz salmon fillets (I had 4 slightly larger pieces)
3 tablespoons plus 2 tsp lemon juice, divided
2 tablespoons of honey
1 tablespoon plus 2 tsp olive oil
1 large shallot, chopped
1 1/2 cups arugula
1 cup creme fraiche or sour cream
2 sprigs of rosemary
6 lemon wedges for garnishing
salt and pepper

Whisk honey, 1 tbsp olive oil, chopped shallots and 2 tbsp lemon juice in a small bowl. Place the salmon fillets in a large dish that will hold all of them in a row, rub rosemary over them, then pour marinade on top and stir to coat. Cover and chill for 15 min - 1 hr, turning salmon fillets occasionally.

Position rack in top third of the oven and preheat to 400F. Line a large baking sheet with foil and brush with olive oil. Transfer salmon fillets with some marinade still clinging, to baking sheet and roast until salmon is opaque in center, about 14-16 min.

Meanwhile, toss the arugula leaves in 2 teaspoons of lemon juice and 2 teaspoons of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. In a small bowl, whisk creme freiche or sour cream with 1 tbsp lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper.

Place 1 salmon fillet on each plate. Place some of the arugula salad next to the salmon and drizzle the salad with the creme fraiche dressing. Garnish with lemon wedges, and pass some additional sauce alongside. Personally, I liked the sauce so much that I just tossed it with the salad, but the presentation isn't as impressive as the drizzling and garnishing bit, so I guess it depends on your audience. My particular audience (pictured digging in above) was just coming from work and very hungry. He grabbed the plate so fast that I was afraid he would take off my arm along with the plate. As you can imagine, the dainty drizzling really wasn't an option here!

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Butternut Squash Soup With Crisp Shallots

"Irene," you will say upon careful reading of the title of this post, "honey, baby, sweetums. Look outside - the sun is shining, the birds and the bees are frolicking and the thermometer has finally crawled up above 60 degrees. What's with the winter vegetable?!" You would be right, of course, but the heart wants what it wants, and my heart wanted squash. And I try not to argue with myself too often - it gets very confusing, if you know what I mean.

Besides, when I was a wee little girl and I hadn't yet figured out that eating vegetables was uncool, my mom roasted squash and then mixed its earthy, rich, slightly smoky innards with a little butter and salt, and I still associate the sweet aroma of roasted squash with childhood and the comfort of my mother's apron-clad embrace.


I think food is funny that way, in terms of how our formative years shape our tastes and preferences for the rest of our lives. I still can't pass by the squash section at the market without stopping for a moment to give their smooth bottoms a surreptitious pat, and in the autumn, I try to roast everything in sight. A., on the other hand, whose mom clearly didn't think much of the pumpkin family, is completely indifferent to any of those vegetables unless they are smothered in sugar and made into a pie. Go figure.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you like squash and its other cousins, this soup will tip you over to the other side of heaven. But if the only pumpkin you've ever had was in pumpkin cheesecake, you might just want to halve the recipe. Even if you are at this moment shaking your head doubtfully and saying, "Squash soup? I really don't know about that...", you will want to make this if only for the awesome cuteness that are the sour cream hearts. Even the most food-cynical and jaded among us will want to take a swipe at these babies with our spoons.



Butternut Squash Soup With Crisp Shallots and Sour Cream Hearts
(Adapted from the Williams-Sonoma Bride and Groom cookbook)
1 butternut squash
1 med. yellow onion, chopped
2 shallots, and butter for frying
2 cups of chicken or vegetable stock
1/2 cup of milk
2 tbsp of sour cream
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 400F. Cut the squash in half (lengthwise) and brush the cut sides with a little olive oil. Arrange in an oven-proof dish and roast for 1 - 1.5 hrs. Check every 10 min after the hour mark because depending on your oven, it could take anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half. The flesh of the squash should be soft and pliable. After it's done roasting, let it cool for 20 minutes. Scoop out the seeds and discard. Then, scoop the flesh out into a bowl.

While the squash is cooling off, chop a medium yellow onion and then sauté in 1 tbsp of butter until soft but not colored (about 5 min). Set onions aside. Thinly slice the shallots and sauté in another 1 tbsp of butter until shallots become soft and are light brown (about 10 min). Spread the shallots thinly over a paper towel; they will crisp up once dried.

In a blender or a food processor, combine 1 cup stock, 1/4 cup milk, 1/2 of the onions and 1/2 of the roasted squash and process until very smooth. Pour the mixture into a medium, heavy bottomed sauce pan. Do the same thing with the other half of the ingredients and also pour into the sauce pan. At this time, you can add more broth or milk to get the desired consistency. Over medium-low heat, bring the soup to a simmer and season it with salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for a couple of minutes until hot and the seasoning is incorporated, then distribute among soup bowls.

Mix the sour cream in a small bowl until very smooth. If you are using thick sour cream (like I did), you can thin it out with a teaspoon or two of warm water. Drop five pea-sized dollops of sour cream in a circle, about an inch apart, on top of the soup. Take a knife and swirl it so that it goes through each dollop of sour cream (that'll give it the heart shape). I had to... erm... get rid of the evidence of several failed attempts, so don't worry if it doesn't work out the first time. Put a pinch of crisp shallots in the middle (not obscuring the hearts, clearly, duh). Voila! This makes about 4 bowls of soup.

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Creamy Penne with Mushrooms and Goat Cheese

How can you forget those Nike "Just Do It" commercials? Swoosh! Check, done, yes! Wham, bam, just do it, it's done! It remains, in my opinion, of the greatest advertising slogans of all time, and it works so well precisely because it taps into our hidden frustrations. You know what I'm talking about. It's that lady in front of you at the deli who can't make up her mind whether she wants pastrami or egg salad. The guy on the freeway who just can't take that decisive step of pressing his gas pedal. The person at work who asks a million follow up questions about the simplest assignment without doing a minute of work. Even your favorite sports team, when they toss the ball to each other and never seem to get around to scoring. At home, at work, to your husband and your kids, we've all yelled "JUST DO IT." But because we live in a PC, polite society (or try to), we can't just go around yelling "just do it" to anyone and everyone, so we just grrrrrr it out in our minds, using our "inside voice," as one of my friends says. Besides, you know that no one would listen to you anyway, and that lady would take three times as long to pick out her sandwich (smoked turkey breast, tomatoes and avocado, for the curious). That's why when it comes to doing things myself, it's almost a relief to say "Just Do It" to someone (me) who will actually listen (to myself). Makes sense? No? Oh, I'm a Gemini, didn't I tell you? I talk to myself all the time, it's totally normal.

Anyway, here's the thing. Last week, while y'all were snug and cozy, like little maraschino cherries in a smooth, glass jar, anxiously anticipating my return, I made a pasta so stupendously delicious, that I will throw my polite society "inside voice" rules to the wind and tell you to JUST DO IT. Put away the tart pans for a moment (yes, I really just said that) and let a little penne, mushrooms and goat cheese take you to rich, creamy, dreamy pasta heaven. Now, I'll be the first to admit that this isn't one of those delicate-nibble-champagne-and-caviar sort of dishes. It's bold, it's rich, it's a shamelessly-reach-for-seconds-if-you're-still-standing kind of pasta. It can happily hang out in the oven for an additional 15 minutes if you need it to, and if you have any leftovers -- and you won't -- they are even better the next day. I imagine serving it to a bunch of good friends with a glass of red wine (sacrebleu, she said red wine with pasta!) and an arugula salad, and watching them all fall back into their chairs with a happy pasta and cheese hangover. Oh yeah, this is the life.



The recipe originally comes from Lisa's Kitchen, but I futzed around with it a little, so here's my own version of it.

Creamy, Dreamy Penne with Mushrooms
1 lb penne pasta (or rigatoni, but I like penne for this)
1 lb chopped mushrooms (I used white button mushrooms, but you can make it fancy with shiitake, portobello or porcini mushrooms, whatever's under hand)
1/4 cup of unsalted butter
1/4 cup of all purpose flour
2 cups milk
4 oz goat cheese or feta cheese
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 large onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup finely chopped flat leaf parsley
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp dried oregano
salt and pepper to taste


Cook the pasta according to the directions on the package until al dente. Drain, douse with cold water to stop the cooking and set aside.

In a saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Whisk in the flour and cook for a minute, then pour in the milk and bring to a boil, whisking continuously. Reduce the heat and simmer for 5 min or so to thicken, whisking once in a while to prevent lumps. Season with salt and pepper.

With a little olive oil, sauté the onions and garlic in a large pan over medium-high heat until softened, for about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms, thyme and oregano and cook for a couple of minutes until the mushrooms give off liquid. Add the parsley and lemon juice and season with salt and pepper.


Preheat the oven to 350F and oil an 8x8 baking dish. Stir the sauce and the mushroom/onion/parsley mixture into the pasta until well incorporated. Crumble the goat cheese and stir gently into the pasta (don't overmix if you want to retain little creamy nuggets of warm goat cheese in the finished pasta). Layer 1/2 of the pasta in the baking dish, then sprinkle with 1/2 of the parmesan. Pile on the rest and sprinkle with the rest of the parmesan. Bake for 25 minutes or until lightly browned on top. If you're going to bake it longer, just cover with foil so that it doesn't get too brown.

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Moments

I know, I know. It's been over a week, and I've been MIA. Believe me, it wasn't by choice - things like real life, and job and non-food related events have conspired to keep me away and I haven't felt much like being adventurous lately.

Have you ever had one of those defining moments when you see your parents as if from a third person's perspective? When you look, and for a brief second, you are as unconnected to them as if they were complete strangers? It took me almost twenty nine years to have such a moment, but when it finally happened, it shocked me. I saw my mother as others must see her, and she was so breathtakingly beautiful, that I couldn't imagine actually being related to her. She seemed to light up the room with her energy, her passion, her kindness, her strength and the force of her character. At that moment, she was the center of the universe, and paradoxically, I felt less like her daughter than I'd ever felt before. I wondered if she was happy with the role of being my mom. I wondered if she ever wished I was more like her, or less like her, or whether I even knew who she really was, blinded as I had been by the self-centeredness inherent in being someone's child. It was a disconcerting revelation, to say the least. I waited for my world to settle back into its familiar pattern, but I'm beginning to think it isn't going to. Maybe it's just a part of growing up. I can't tell yet whether I like it or not, and maybe that's an integral part of it as well. I almost wish I could go back to the time when I was five and my mother was my sole property, but then again, I don't really because then, I would never have discovered what I had today. Shrek says that ogres are like onions because they have layers. I guess mothers are like onions too, and not only because they make you cry sometimes.

I promise, back to food tomorrow. Thanks for being patient with me.

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Marbled Butter Cake

The Greeks did it in public places. The Romans did it with their politicians. The Italians… they did it a lot, with everyone, and they were very good at it. Now, we mostly do it in kitchens and bathrooms, and yesterday, I did it for the first time with a cake. I’m talking about marbling, of course – what were you thinking?



Ever since I saw Ivonne's Marbled Cake, I had dreams and visions of this marbled beauty. It nagged and nagged at me until I was forced (forced, I tell you!) to submit to my inner voice and attempt this cake. Even though marbling cakes had me quaking in my boots for years (it's not a reasonable phobia, I know), this cake looked so full of softness and sweetness and luscious curves, I had to see for myself what this marbling thing was all about.


Since this was an adventurous recipe for me to attempt, feeling footloose and fancy-free, I decided to forego my usual procedure of measuring out all the ingredients beforehand. I wanted to be reckless and throw caution to the wind (well, as much as is possible while still standing in your own kitchen, anyway). Hm... I'll spare you the suspense and just tell you right now that this strategy didn't work out so well (note to self: leave spontaneity for -- ehem -- other pursuits). When I had creamed the butter and cracked the eggs into it, and it was time to add flour and milk... I found out that I didn't have milk. Not a single drop. Nor cream, nor sour cream, nor plain yogurt. I only had (*sob*) a little carton of Yoplait vanilla yogurt, which I only buy for my husband, as I think it's kind of icky. I tell you guys, it was with a heavy heart that I emptied the yogurt carton into my future cake.


Just as my pulse was coming back to normal, I discovered another disaster lurking in the shadows. I was out of cocoa powder! And... I was out of chocolate. The only thing that was remotely chocolaty in my pantry was a small bag of milk chocolate powder for hot chocolate. How did it get there? It's a mystery. I surrendered to fate and made the cake with it. And you know what? It still turned out so fantastic that a girl at work told me I was first in line to make her wedding cake. I think this is more of a testament to how great the recipe is than to my own technique, but I was flattered. Come on, who wouldn't have been? The recipe (the way I made it) is after the jump, but I think you should use milk instead of the yogurt, as is in the original recipe linked above. And real cocoa powder (this should go without saying - the milk chocolate stuff was weak, like a too-nice boyfriend that would make a good husband for *somebody else*). Oh, and my marbling didn't turn out as terribly as I'd anticipated, so yay. :)



Marbled Butter Cake
(from Cream Puffs in Venice)

3/4 cup (1.5 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 cup yogurt (please use whole milk instead)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
3 tbsp. cocoa powder
confectioner's sugar for decoration

Preheat the oven to 350F. Butter and flour a standard-sized bundt cake pan.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream together the butter and the sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, and beat until each egg is well incorporated. Scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the vanilla extract and mix well.

In a separate bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder. Add half the flour mixture to the batter; mix well. Add the milk; mix well. Now, add the rest of the flour mixture and mix until the batter is smooth and all the ingredients are well incorporated.

Remove half the batter and place in another bowl. To the batter that’s still in the mixer bowl, add the cocoa powder. Mix until well combined.

Take your prepared cake pan and dollop spoonfuls of the vanilla batter into the bottom of the pan. Then take the chocolate batter and dollop spoonfuls over the vanilla batter. Repeat until all the batter has been used.

Take a knife and dip it into the batter, all the way to the bottom of the pan. Gently begin swirling the batter with the knife, working your way all around the pan.

Bake the cake on the middle rack for 50 minutes, checking to see if it’s done with a cake tester or toothpick. If it’s done, the tester will come out clean after piercing the cake. The cake will also spring back if you touch it lightly. If it’s not done, bake for an additional 5 to 10 minutes.

Let the cake cool in the pan before unmolding it. Dust with icing sugar and serve.

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A Fish Called Wanda, or "Darling, you're what's for dinner"

Ever since the sushi-making party two weeks ago, I've been fascinated with the similarities and differences in languages. It's so boring to be called "sweetheart" or "my love" or "dear" or some other cliché tender little thing, don't you think? Years and years of that would drive me up the wall. I'd much rather be called "ma petite chou" (my little cabbage, French) or "minha batatinha" (my little potato, Portuguese). Of course, I'd draw the line at "ma petite puce" (my little flea, Fr. - no, really). I knew a Persian girl once whose name was Mozhgan - translated as "eyelash." I'm guessing her parents thought it was nice at some point in time (why? oh, why?!) And as I make fun of my mom for calling kids "kurochka," which means little chicken in Russian, I remember that my own husband sometimes calls me "ribka" - a FISH (remind me to have a wee bit of a chat with him about that). Because fish are so -- erm -- cute... and sweet? No, just no. Except that Nemo kid, he was ok, even if the little guy was a bit too excitable.

Because I loved the moment in Shrek where a cutesy little bird explodes and Fiona just shrugs and makes omelette out of the eggs, the "fish" endearment made me think of my darling little tilapia fillets just sitting in my freezer and awaiting their turn on the dinner menu. And if you are already going to call fish "darling," and then promptly eat it, you may as well make the remainder of its existence a little sweeter and pair it with sweet peppers. Ha! Oh, the cruel irony. I'm sure the tilapia hadn't appreciated it, but we certainly did, in more ways than one.

So tell me, and don't be shy -- what are the strangest endearments that you've ever been called?



Tilapia With Sweet Peppers
(Williams & Sonoma recipe)
4 tilapia fillets (boneless)
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 tsp paprika
3 red, orange or yellow bell peppers, seeded and sliced
1 large garlic clove, sliced
1/4 tsp dried oregano
1/4 cup chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp sherry vinegar or balsamic vinegar
salt and pepper to taste


In a deep fry pan over medium heat, warm 1 tbsp of olive oil. Add the bell peppers and cook, stirring frequently, for 2 minutes. Add the garlic and oregano. Sautee for about a minute, until the garlic is fragrant. Add stock, a pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper. Cover and cook until peppers are tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, about 20 minutes.

When the peppers are nearly done, turn to the fish. Season both sides of the tilapia fillets with salt, a dash of pepper and paprika. Lightly dredge each fillet in the flour, shaking off the extra. Heat 1 tbsp of olive oil in a fry pan over medium heat. Add the fillets to the pan and cook until golden brown, about 3 minutes per side.

At this point, the peppers should be done. Turn off the heat, stir in the vinegar and taste to adjust seasoning. Transfer the fillets to individual plates and spoon the peppers over each fillet. As always, a nice arugula salad and a glass of chilled white wine (mmmm... a crisp Sauvignon Blanc) just hits the spot with this dish. I've made this for weeknight meals (it only takes 1/2 hr to make, it's easy, tasty and actually good for you), and I've served it for lunch/brunch to guests, all with equally good results.

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Leeks and Spinach Tart

Before I go any further with this blogging thing, I feel that I should formally introduce all of you to an integral part of the "Confessions of a Tart" team. This behind the scenes person who keeps the talent happy is my fearless and easy on the eyes test-taster, upper-shelf-reacher, wine-pourer and emergency-fire-extinguisher husband A., who gets to bear the brunt of all my culinary successes and failures. And as what happens in the kitchen is so often synonymous for life in general, well... you get the idea; in other words, he's a trooper.

I am often amazed at how food reflects the innermost depths of a person. Someone who can seem scattered and haphazard on the surface (erm, me) can actually be very organized and all Poirot-order-and-method-and-little-grey-cells underneath all the confusion. Before I cook, I measure my ingredients and set them out in little bowls on the counter. I won't go on to the next step until I've completed the previous one. If the recipe says "chill," I'll chill (and then realize that it probably referred to the dough and not to myself or to my glass of white wine... *sigh* I blame it on the language barrier). A., however, is completely the opposite. At first glance, he looks like a guy who would dot all the i's and cross all the t's. Oy. No, no no no. His process is what is often described as "creative" (that's the diplomatic way of putting it, and since I'm not known for diplomacy, I just call it pandemonium). Which means, in practice, that when I get home and he's cooked something, I can usually tell by the way my kitchen looks like a hurricane swept through it, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction in its wake. The end result is always great (how he manages to turn it out, I don't know), but the method leaves me wishing we'd just ordered out (hey, I'm the one who gets to clean it all up!).

Whatever your own approach to cooking is, though, I am sure you will love the ease of preparation and the sheer yumminess of this Leek and Spinach Tart. It should be no surprise that both A. and I could eat it once a week and be very happy (after all, this is, ehem, confessions of a tart...). The recipe was originally from the Smitten Kitchen and involved Swiss Chard (which, in my complete ignorance, I thought at first was cheese... yeah, laugh it up, people). But because I had some spinach singing a little inviting operetta in my refrigerator, I decided to give it the starring role this time. And boy, did it deliver.

Leek and Spinach Tart
(My adaptation of it)
1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed (or your basic pate brisee for an 11" tart)
2 tbsp butter
3 large leeks (white and pale green parts only), sliced
1 tsp dried thyme

2 cups of spinach leaves, coarsely chopped
1 1/4 cup of whole milk
3 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground black pepper

Roll out the pastry on a floured work surfac to a 12" square. Transfer to a tart pan or a 9" glass pie dish (this is what I used). Fold overhang under and crimp edges. Chill until ready to use.

Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Add leeks and thyme. Season with salt and pepper and sautee, stirring often, until leeks are very tender but haven't begun to brown yet (7-10 min). Add spinach and saute for a couple of minutes until it's wilted. Remove from heat and set aside until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425F. In a large bowl, whisk milk, eggs, yolks, salt and pepper. Mix in the cooled leeks and spinach. Pour filling into the crust.

Bake for 15 min on 425F. Reduce heat to 350F and bake for 10-15 min longer until filling is puffed and completely set in the center. I find that it's best at room temperature with a little bit of grated cheese on top (Gruyere, I'm looking at you).

I wish I could tell you that there were leftovers for lunch today. But no, there were not. In fact, seeing the empty dish, A. told me laughingly that I should post the picture of the "remnants of old glory." So here it is. The evidence speaks for itself. :)

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Sunday Night Blues, or Girls With Toys

I don't know about you, but I get this thing on Sunday nights that I call the Sunday Night Blues. It's this strange feeling that the weekend is almost over (but not yet), the start of a new week is almost here (but not yet), and you're meandering listlessly somewhere in between. Stuck in a sort of blah-limbo where everything is grey and undefined and you really don't know what to do with yourself except open a bottle of wine and whittle the hours away (oh, wait, is that just me?).



What's even worse is that sometimes, when the weather outside is gloomy and very un-California-like (Um, rain? I really don't think so), my Sunday Night Blues start somewhere around lunch-time, and the sense of anticipation is often worse than the event itself. Even watching a shirtless David Beckham (!) train in Hawaii (!!) didn't do anything for me. Yeah, that's how bad it was. Fortunately, I have friend, Shushana, who is almost telepathically connected to me -- which I'm sure has been a great source of annoyance to her over the years -- and she decided to be a trooper and undertake the Herculian task of cheering me up.



After years and years of wanting to, Shushana, that brave soul, is finally indulging her passion by opening her own online home and kitchenware business. When she heard my gloom-and-doom voice over the phone, she knew that drastic measures were needed. She invited me to play with her toys. Squee! Oh my... Can you imagine rows and rows of neatly packaged pots and pans, spatulas and colanders, dinner plates and teacups? I mean, if that doesn't alleviate the Sunday Night Blues, I really don't know what would!



After walking around her stockroom for half an hour and touching all the samples (I didn't even break anything, that's how pretty it all was), I finally picked out a gleaming pot and pan set. Then, to celebrate, we fired up the stove and decided to send my new toys on their maiden voyage. We cracked her beautiful yet sadly neglected Persian cookbook and an hour later, we had a dish that was so tasty, tender, colorful and full of flavor, that my bad mood disappeared along with the last traces of the chicken (which we didn't fight over because we are both too ladylike, of course... *cough*).

Peach Khoresh (Persian stew with chicken and peaches)
(Adapted from "New Food of Life" by Najmieh Batmanglij)
1 large onion, sliced thinly
4 chicken breasts
3 tbsp olive oil
2 tsp Persian spice mix (see below)*
3/4 cup water
1/4 cup fresh lemon or lime juice
1 tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp ground saffron dissolved in 1 tbsp hot water
3 firm peaches
salt and pepper to taste

In a Dutch oven (or a medium, heavy pot) heat 2 tbsp of oil. Brown the onions and the chicken together, about 3 min per each side of the chicken. Add salt, pepper and the Persian spice mix. Pour in 3/4 cup of water. Cover and simmer on low heat for 30 minutes.

Mix together the lemon or lime juice, sugar and saffron water and stir the mixture into the chicken. Cover and simmer for 5 minutes.

While simmering, heat 1 tbsp oil in a medium fry pan on moderate heat. Remove pits and cut the peaches into 1/2 inch wedges. Brown the peaches until golden, about 4/5 minutes. Add to the chicken, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes longer.

Serve right away with white Basmati rice. Oh yeah.

*Persian spice mix
These spices add a lot of tenderness and flavor to any chicken or meat dish. You can find them in any Persian market or buy them online.
2 tbsp ground dried rose petals (I couldn't find these anywhere, so I was forced to skip this beautiful sounding ingredient)
1 1/2 tbsp cinnamon
1 tbsp dried Persian lime powder
1 tsp ground cardamom
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
2 tsp ground angelica
1 tsp ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground coriander seeds
1 tsp ground cumin

Throw it all together and give it a good shake. Store in a dry place with other spices.

By the way, I was asked recently if I get paid for anything that I talk about in my blog. The answer is: no. If I use a product and I like it, I write about it. I don't make any money and I don't get freebies (sad, but true, though I wouldn't say no to a Kitchenaid stand mixer - Cobalt Blue, please, if anyone is listening).

Continued after the jump...

Lemon Meringue Tart

Lessons Learned From Baking Today's Lemon Meringue Tart (a.k.a. A Comedy Of Errors):

1. There comes a time in every baker's life when the thought of using TWO sticks of butter in one recipe for tart dough won't send you into a dark corner to cry in a fetal position. Sometimes, you need to recognize that such a time has not yet arrived and stop fighting mental battles with yourself that make you seem like the crazy lady on the corner because you mutter butter measurements under your breath half the day.

2. Never, ever say snottily that your pate sucree never shrinks. First off, half the people won't understand what the heck "pate sucree" is, and secondly, you will have offended some sort of baking gods because the very next time you try to make a tart, your pate sucree will indeed slide down the sides of your tart pan and smirk at you from those lows, just to spite you.

3. Lemons are tart. Very tart. Also, they tend to squirt straight at you if you aren't paying attention while hand-squeezing the juice.

4. While whipped egg-whites aren't tart, they too tend to squirt all over the place if you carelessly spoon them into a pastry bag and squeeze without making sure all the air has gone out of the bag first.

5. Don't overload your tart with the lemon curd and then give it a good shove into the oven so that the lemon curd spills and drips into the most hard to clean places (are we seeing a pattern here?)

6. Clean up is a b***h, especially when it involves lemon juice, lemon curd and sticky meringue in big dollops all over your kitchen.

7. If you can't make your egg whites stand up hard and tall, it's the fault of your technique and not of the egg whites (*snicker*).

8. Even after everything goes incredibly wrong almost every step of the way, it is still possible that in the end, it will turn out oh, so right (at least this time).

I'm not going to tell you how delicious this tart was (and I say was because I have a feeling its life-span is going to be shorter than a fruit fly's). No, I'm not even going to mention what the subtle crunch of the almonds in the crust and the silky smooth tartness of the lemon curd did for our taste buds. I won't describe the clouds and clouds of light, sweet meringue. You simply have to make it and see for yourself because some things in life just defy description.

Lemon Meringue Tart*

For the pate sucree:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup finely ground almonds
4 1/2 tsp granulated sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 stick (8 tbsp) cold butter, cut into small pieces
1 large egg yolk
2 tbsp ice water

For the lemon curd:
3/4 cup granulated sugar (less if you like more tartness)
2 tbs all-purpose flour
pinch of salt
3 eggs, at room temperature
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
3 tbsp heavy cream

For the meringue:
4 egg whites, at room temperature
1/2 tsp cream of tartar
pinch of salt
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup granulated sugar

First make the crust. It's important here that all ingredients are kept as cold as possible so that the crust is nice and flaky, so if you aren't using something, put it in the refrigerator until you need it. Whisk flour, sugar and salt until combined. Cut the butter into the flour mixture with a pastry cutter until mixture resembles coarse meal.

Lightly beat the yolk with ice water, and add this in a steady stream to the dough, incorporating with a fork until dough just holds together. If the dough is too dry, add one teaspoon at a time more of iced water, sprinkling it in until the dough just holds together. Turn out onto a work surface, shape into a disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least an hour (or up to 2 days). After an hour, take the dough out and roll it on a floured surface to the desired shape, making it a little larger than your tart pan(s). This recipe yields 1 standard sized crust or 4 smaller crusts.


Butter the tart pan(s) and gently press the crust into them, sealing the cracks. If you are afraid of shrinkage (*snicker*), make sure the dough ends a little higher than your tart pan's edge. Bake at 350F for 20-22 min or until the crust is golden. Cool completely.

Make the lemon curd. In a bowl, whisk together the sugar, flour and salt. Add the eggs, lemon juice and cream and whisk until just blended. Carefully pour the mixture over the baked crust.


Make the meringue. In a very dry and clean bowl, beat the egg whites with the cream of tartar, salt and vanilla extract until soft peaks form. Add the sugar a little at a time, beating until it forms stiff, glossy peaks. Put big dollops over the tart making sure it covers the edge of the crust (so the crust doesn't burn, and also so you can cover up any shrinking that has gone on despite you very best efforts to prevent it, gah). Bake for about 20-25 minutes or until meringue is golden. The filling won't be completely set at this point - you will need to bring the tart to room temperature and then let it chill in the refrigerator for a couple of hours.




*For this tart, I adapted several different recipes from all over the place (Martha Stewart, Williams-Sonoma, my own imagination, etc.). The only thing I would do differently next time is to completely pre-bake the crust (I only partially baked it) and also to make the meringue a wee bit less sweet. The lemon curd here is tart and sweet (if you like you can reduce the amount of sugar in the lemon curd also), so I would have wanted the meringue to be more about softness and texture than sweetness. I wrote the instructions according to how I would do it next time, but if you like, you can add an extra 1/4 cup of sugar to the meringue to make it sweeter.

Continued after the jump...