Clare Fare

When I started this blog, I said I intended the share tales of the boundless generosity of my friends, but nothing prepared me for the extraordinary gift I received this past week from my old college pal, Bill Norton.

It turns out, that while I wasn’t paying attention, Bill became an astounding and renowned pit master, charming his many friends in Charlottesville and beyond with the sumptuous bounty from his smoker.  I’ve looked on, positively drooling, to photos on Facebook of his backyard exploits until I could take it no longer.  When he showed pictures of the tasso ham he’d produced, I could no longer stifle my longings and just let out a resounding, “I want some!”

Sure enough, in no time, the mailman delivered me a box with my very own chunk of tasso: an ingredient I’d long lusted for and never been able to procure which was clearly key to my long-cherished red beans and rice recipe.  Embarrassingly, I have no idea whence my recipe for that New Orleans mainstay came many years ago, I only knew it was good, darn good, and that’s even without the long elusive tasso ham which always before I’d had to omit.

That being said, nothing prepared me for the depth of flavor and profound deliciousness of the red beans and rice I made this weekend with Bill’s incredible present.  I don’t really understand the magic of it all.  I mean, it’s a great recipe which I’ve made successfully many times, but with the addition of that little chunk of tasso, well, words fail me.

I messaged Bill that he was a “doll” for sending me the tasso, which he seemed to think was outlandish.  Now that I’ve eaten the red beans and rice which he made possible, I’m  pleased to proclaim it from the mountaintop.  Bill Norton is a doll, and I’m one lucky red beans and rice addict to have him as my old friend. Thanks, Bill.  You made my week!

Red Beans and Rice

Serves 8

1 pound dried red beans

4 quarts water

2 meaty ham hocks

8 cups beef stock

4 bay leaves

1/2 teaspoon thyme

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 pound andouille sausage

1/4 pound tasso ham, chopped

2 cups chopped onion

1/2 cup chopped celery

1 red bell pepper chopped

1 bunch scallions, chopped

1 tablespoon minced garlic

8 chorizo sausages or other fresh hot sausages

salt & pepper

rice wine vinegar to taste (optional)

4 cups cooked rice

hot pepper sauce to taste

Wash beans and soak overnight.  Wash well under cold running water.  Place beans, ham hocks and stock in an enormous, heavy pot. (Beans covered by 2 -3 inches of liquid.  Bring to a boil, skim any scum that forms, and reduce heat to simmer.  Add bay leaves, thyme, cayenne and pepper.  Simmer for 30 minutes while you prepare the vegetables and sausages.

Chop a quarter of the sausage and fry in  a large skillet to render the fat.  Add the remainder of the sausages and tasso and brown the meat.  Add the onion and celery and cook until soft.  Add the bell pepper, scallions and garlic and cook for 5 minutes more.  Add the contents of the skillet to the red beans and continue to cook until they are soft and begin to break apart, about one hour.

Cook rice per instructions and serve red beans over the hot rice. 

Ah, the best laid plans…

 I woke today, fully intending to blog.  I had given lots of thoughts to what I might be blogging about.  It was most likely going to be about the sumptuous gift of delectable home grown sausage that Kenan gave me a couple of weeks ago.  It was just conceivable it was going to be about a killer batch of red beans and rice I made this week, and not beyond the realm of possibility that it would be about a nifty little brunch dish I created over the weekend, featuring crumpets and poached eggs.

What it was definitely NOT going to be about was flapjacks. You see, not to make a big production about it, but since Christmas, I’ve intentionally baked not a single cookie. Nada.  Not one.  In fact, in our entire almost quarter century of married life, I’ve never, ever gone so long without baking cookies.

I guess it was a variety of things.  Felix left in early January to go on a momentous around-the-world voyage, which meant there wasn’t even the merest chance he’d be dropping by, catching me being not the kind of mother I aspire to be–the kind who has homemade cookies available whenever one should happen by. Plus, I realized it wouldn’t kill Jeff and me to loose a couple of pounds, so ridding the house of the usual cookie stash didn’t seem a bad place to start.

Anyway, fast forward to this week, where  I’ve  had a happy, busy time shooting a video for TimesDispatch.com, polishing next week’s column and rereading Darina Allen’s most wonderful cookbook, Irish Traditional Cooking, just for the sheer joy of it.

While I was reading it yesterday, I stumbled over a recipe for flapjacks, a simple treat that had completely slipped my mind.  The best way to describe them is that Flapjacks are England and Ireland’s answer to rice krispie treats–completely easy and filling that all important niche of giving Mums a quick way to pack a sweet something-or-other in a lunch box.  I noticed them yesterday and thought fondly of flapjacks gone by, and turned the page.

That was, until this morning when Felix rang from South Africa to report on his shark cage adventure.  It seems that, unbeknownst to me, last week there were a couple of  hideous shark cage snafus in Cape Town.  One, in which a great white shark broke into a cage and injured someone seriously, and one which was caught on video in which no one was hurt.  It turns out that Felix’s “official” and long-planned shark cage adventure was cancelled because of it.  Undeterred, (and without telling me), he signed up for another one and went this morning to the very spot where last week’s horrors occurred.  This morning, he recounted (safely from shore) that a 15-foot great white attacked his cage but was unsuccessful in breaking in.  His adventure was, shall I say, very exciting and he couldn’t have been more pleased.

Perhaps you are the mother of an only child as am I, and perhaps your child also informed you after-the-fact that he’d had a close encounter with a great white shark.  If so, it will come as absolutely no surprise to you that immediately, upon hearing the news, you can think of nothing else but racing into the kitchen and, as fast as lightening, setting about making some flapjacks which you haven’t even thought about for 30 years, as though your life depended upon it.  At least, that’s what I did.

So, here is a delicious, easy recipe for flapjacks.  So easy, they shouldn’t really even rise to the level of being blogged about here, however, they get to be featured today, for the very good reason that they just maybe saved me from loosing my mind.

So, the cookie hiatus is over.  Jeff will be happy, and, fingers crossed, it won’t be long until Felix is back home, trolling about to see what delicious cookies are lurking in the familiar green tin.  In the meantime, I’m so glad to have become reacquainted with flapjacks–I just wish it hadn’t taken Felix’s up close and personal encounter with a great white to propel me into the kitchen.  Flapjacks, it turns out, are what jaws are for.

Flapjacks

makes 16

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, melted

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons Sugar in the Raw

 2 1/2 cups Old Fashioned Oats (not instant)

a pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Mix the sugar, oats and salt together, then add the melted butter to the dry ingredients.  Turn the mixture into a 7  x 11-inch baking dish, and smooth the surface.  Stand the dish on a 8 x 12-inch baking sheet in the oven and bake for 30 minutes.

When cooked, let stand for a few minutes, then cut into 16 bars.  Leave in the pan until quite cold, and then store in an air-tight container.

–Adapted from Irish Traditional Cooking by Darina Allen, Kyle booksB

I was stunned to realize the other day that I’ve never posted this dear old friend pasta.  Now that we’re all supposed to be joyously embracing the Mediterranean diet, this almost conforms, bursting with fresh tomatoes, peppery arugula and bright, fresh lemons and garlic.  It iis really only inappropriate because of the heavy cream, oh, and the cheese.  Never mind, it’s SO good and easy for any old weeknight, that at least I always take comfort that there’s no artery clogging meat in it.

My pal Ina came up with this killer recipe in her 2006 cookbook, “Barefoot Contessa at Home”.  The original recipe calls for 2 CUPS of heavy cream, so I’ve amended it to be much more sensible with a scant one cup–still sinful I suppose, but so worth it.

I recommend you make it with whole wheat pasta and comport yourself as though it’s truly healthy in order to, as my mother would say, “draw a veil” over the sordid truth of that cup of cream. I mean really, I’ve seen plenty of Mediterraneans indulge in all sorts of worse things, and goodness knows,  I still love them just as much.

Lemon Fusilli with Arugala

serves 4

1 tablespoon olive oil

3 cloves of garlic, peeled and minced

1 cup heavy cream

2 lemons, rind removed and finely chopped and the juice from those lemons

salt and freshly ground pepper

1 13.25 ounce box of De Cecco whole wheat fusilli

1/2 pound  baby arugula

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesian-Reggiano cheese, and more for passing

1 pint grape tomatoes, halved.

Bring a large pot of water to boil for the pasta.  While it’s coming to the boil, heat the olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat.  Add the garlic, and cook for a minute and then add the cream, the zest and juice of the 2 lemons and salt and pepper to taste.  Allow to simmer while you cook the pasta and until it starts to thicken.

In a large pasta serving bowl, combine the arugula, tomatoes and the cheese and set it aside.

Cook the fusilli until al dente for 12 minutes.  Reserve a cup of the pasta water and then drain the pasta and return to the pot. Immediately add the cream mixture and cook over medium-low heat for 3 minutes, until the pasta has absorbed most of the sauce, adding a little of the reserved pasta water as necessary to ensure a moist pasta.

Pour the hot pasta over the arugula mixture.  Toss well and serve immediately with additional cheese and a pepper grinder.

–Adapted from “Barefoot Contessa At Home” by Ina Garten

You know what they say: When life hands you a cold, rainy day in February, make Meyer lemon cheesecake.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been happily tripping over Meyer lemons for weeks now at the grocery, so when I spied this recipe the other day on Food 52, I was ready.  Creamy and delicious, not too sweet, but not too tart either, my initial reaction to reading it was that it just might be the perfect way to banish the reality of it still being February and happily, I was right. It came together in a jiff, and the only trauma was waiting for it to cool because the Meyer lemonyness suffusing my kitchen proved to be almost irresistible.  

So whip up one of these bad boys over the weekend and it’ll be March before you know it.  Oh, and one little extra tip, a burned tongue is no fun.

Meyer Lemon Cheesecake

serves 10

for crust:

5 ounces Biscoff Cookies 

1/3 cup sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled

for filling: 

3 8-ounce packages of low fat cream cheese

4 large eggs

1 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon lemon extract

2 Meyer lemons, zest removed, finely chopped  and divided into two equal portions, and the juice from those lemons

1 16-ounce carton low fat sour cream

1 tablespoon sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Prepare a 9-inch springform pan by lining the bottom with parchment paper, and greasing the entire interior of the pan, including the paper.

In a food processor, finely grind the cookies.  Add the sugar and salt and pulse until combined.  Add the melted butter and pulse again until fully mixed.

Press the mixture into the bottom of the pan, and bake for 10 minutes.  Remove and set aside until cooled.

Meanwhile, mix cream cheese with an electric mixer until fluffy.  Add eggs  one at a time, mixing well after each addition.  Add the sugar and half of the lemon zest and mix well. Add the lemon juice and the extracts and continue to mix.  Pour the batter into the crust and place pan on a baking sheet.  Bake for 45 minutes or until cake is just set in the center.

In the meantime, whisk together the sour cream, the 1 tablespoon of sugar and the remaining lemon zest.

When the cake is ready, remove it from the oven but do not turn the oven off.  Spoon the sour cream mixture onto the cheesecake and spread it over the top.  Return the cake to the oven and bake for 10 more minutes.  Remove the cheesecake from the oven and let it cool to room temperature before serving.  Is even better the next day after having been carefully  wrapped and kept in the refrigerator over night.

–adapted from Food 52 who adapted it from Lucy Mercer.

I have been remiss.  It’s not that I haven’t been cooking, or writing, or even photographing.  It’s just that I’ve been up to my nose in other stuff and I haven’t been posting.

In going through my photographs from the last few months, I’m struck by how many lovely things graced our kitchen table that I’ve not shared. I shall do my best to make amends.

And speaking of sharing, just maybe, this is a good time to discuss the saga of “the great pantry debacle” which may provide some comfort, or at least amusement to you, my equally fraught fellow home cooks.

Over the holidays  when I was in a frenzy (just like you) doing a million things, I had to produce two columns for The Richmond Times Dispatch in quick succession.  The second one was entitled “Culinary Resolutions” and described things I intended to do better in the New Year.  One of those things was organize my pantry which, just let me assure you, was in parlous state having had things hurled in its general direction sans any organization whatsoever since, well, probably, Halloween.  Suffice it to say, it was a raging disaster.  Anyway, my friendly photographer Joe, while shooting the story, ran to the pantry, quick as a bunny, and shot it without my knowing.  I had intended to edit it slightly (read tidy it)so that it wouldn’t appear to be such complete mayhem, but I didn’t get around to it, and then Joe took the photograph before I knew what was what. C’est la Vie.  

Well, I knew something was wrong when Jeff handed me the newspaper on January 2 and said, “You’ve really gone too far this time!”  In horror I surveyed the front of the food section and there, front and center, for the whole world to see, was my pantry in all of its chaotic glory. Shelves and shelves of falling over boxes of pasta, willy nilly bags of nuts and chocolate, spices on top of olive oil on top of flour on top of…well, you get the idea.  I was mortified!

What I was also, was completely unprepared for the public hue and cry.  They wrote, they called, they stopped me in the grocery store–all to tell me that they loved it!  One writer summed it up thus:

“Jerry and I had a great discussion of whose pantry was worse, yours or mine. He thinks mine is but I think yours may be. At any rate, you were a great sport to let the world see… Your pantry made me feel much better about you. Your food photos always look so professional and your recipes so sophisticated that, I am totally intimidated. Your pantry relieved me a lot.”

So there it is.  It never occurred to me that my cooking was intimidating and surely, anyone who has ever actually met me is completely aware of my vast limitations as a cook, as a pantry organizer, as, well, as everything!  So, if intimidation in any way stops you from trying one of my recipes, then worry not, everyone now knows I’m a disaster, but a disaster who soldiers on cooking regardless, and you can too.

The reason I bring this up now, is that the contents of  my pantry are apropos in the making of this wonderful soup.  I have all sorts of obscure things in there which you may not have, in this case, I’m talking about Gentleman’s Relish and really great Stilton.  If you don’t (and really, why should you?) then perhaps substitute a dab of anchovy paste for the Gentleman’s Relish, and some other deeply flavorful cheese that you have at hand.  It will still be perfectly delicious and worth the effort to make it.

However, if it doesn’t work out, and for some reason is a complete disaster, I’m sorry to say, strangers are unlikely to stop you in the street to tell you how much more they like you because of it.  That is a joy that’s clearly reserved just for me.

Cauliflower Cheese Soup

serves 8

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons olive oil

6 slices thick, center cut bacon, thinly sliced

2 large onions, finely chopped

1 teaspoon Gentleman’s Relish

2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves

2 teaspoons  chopped fresh sage leaves

1 large cauliflower

salt and pepper

8 cups chicken stock

1 loaf, rustic sourdough bread cut into 1/2 ” slices

Fresh rosemary

1/2 pound Stilton cheese

Put a large pan on medium heat.  Add butter and olive oil.  Add bacon to the pan and cook until slightly brown.  Add onions, Gentleman’s Relish, thyme and sage leaves.  Stir.

Cut the cauliflower in half, then cut the florets off and set them aside.  Finely slice the stalk and leaves and add to the pan with salt and pepper, and perhaps a little bit of water if it seems dry.  Place lid on pan, and cook over a medium low heat, stirring occasionally for 40 minutes until cauliflower is very soft. Mash it a bit with the back of your spoon to thicken it slightly. Add the cauliflower florets and stock, bring to a boil, then cover and reduce to a simmer for 10 to 15 minutes or until the cauliflower florets are cooked through.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Make toast from the bread and place it upright in a rack so it won’t get soggy.  In a very  large, deep casserole dish start to make the three layers of soup consisting of soup, toast and cheese.  Add a third of the soup, then lay on a third of the toast and a third of the crumbled cheese followed by a good sprinkle of the rosemary leaves.  Repeat the layers twice more, finishing with a final layer of toast and cheese  and rosemary leaves.

Place in the oven for around 25 minutes or until golden and bubbling.  You will get a crispy, gooey top, layered on top of softer chunks of bread and cauliflower soup underneath, not dissimilar to French onion soup.

–adapted from”Jamie Oliver’s Great Britain” by Jamie Oliver.

As the old saw goes, when the world hands you candied bacon, make buttermilk waffles.

At least that’s what I told myself this evening, after an intense but wonderful three-hour performance of Death of a Salesman, when somehow, a midst the pudding-like fog of a chilly December night, suddenly no food on earth could be possibly more appealing than a bout of what Felix once, so adroitly, dubbed “Brinner.”

Last night, in contrast, was the height of festivity around here when Jeff and I held our annual shindig for his colleagues on the politics beat at the newspaper.  As has now become our ritual, in addition to all sorts of other delicacies,  I inevitably make them candied bacon.  Why? Because it’s easy as can be, and more importantly, they adore it.  Being as I’m all about rituals, and, as it was a celebration of Olympia’s impending nuptials, not to mention Wes’ promotion to the editor’s desk, candied bacon in hitherto unheard of quantities was my goal.  So, in short, I made more than they could conceivably, possibly, polish off, try though they valiantly might. Into the fridge went the crunchy remains.

By the way, the bacon is the easiest thing in the world to make, though a tiny bit messy.  First preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line a couple of rimmed baking sheets (no, I said baking sheets, not bacon sheets) with parchment paper.  Then lay out thick-cut bacon flat in one layer on each sheet.  Cover the bacon with a thick layer of Turbinado sugar, trying not to get it on the paper between the slices, as it will burn.  Turn them over and sugar the other side, again trying to avoid as much sugar on the bare paper as possible, although don’t drive yourself mad, as a little bit of burn is kind of good too, just not too much.

Bake in the oven for about 25 minutes until it is really quite brown, but not burned. Take it out and place it on a rack balanced on top of another baking sheet or paper towels to drain. That, as you will learn in no time, is the messy part.  Anyway, do NOT be tempted to sidestep the cooling on the rack because it is the most important step!  Without cooling it properly it will be limp, soggy and really kind of yucky.  WITH the cooling process, it will become hard and crunchy and you can stand it up vertically in a glass which makes a fun presentation, and everyone feels like they’re eating a bacon candy bar which is festive in its own way.  I mean, you wouldn’t want to do it every day, but once a year won’t kill you–at least that’s my theory– but if the entire Times Dispatch political team is wiped out as of tomorrow, you‘ll know what happened.

Anyway, I am the proud owner of an ancient waffle iron.  So ancient, in fact, that I remember purchasing it at the downtown Thalhimer’s department store where it was an exciting purchase for me replacing one that I’d found at a yard sale in the early 80′s and that, while functional, was minus one of its all important legs.   Since dear old Thalhimer’s has been gone since 1992, my waffle iron is no longer, how shall I say, as sprightly as one you may well have in your cupboard. Ah well, it works just fine in my book, and I still get a thrill as I’m getting a hot, moist face full of  vanillay, steamy waffle merely because it isn’t lopsided like my old one.

So I made these wonderful waffles, and I zapped the bacon for a minute and it was reborn. It was a most splendid brinner and seemed to make everything in the world come back into sharp, happy focus.  Poor old Willy Loman…I can’t help think if he’d just had a couple of brinners of waffles and candied bacon instead of that old cheese sandwich, things might have really looked up for him.

Buttermilk Waffles

makes 6 large waffles

3 large eggs

1/2 cup sugar

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Butter and warm real maple syrup for serving

Whisk eggs, sugar and melted  butter in a medium bowl until blended.  Add flour, baking powder and salt and mix gently.  Add buttermilk and vanilla and mix well.

Bake in a waffle iron until cooked, according to directions.  Keep warm in a 200 degree oven until ready to serve.

Serve with butter and maple syrup and candied bacon.

I’m laid up and loving it.  That is to say, I appear to be faux-laid-up having, to my total embarrassment, perpetrated an elaborate fraud on my nearest and dearest.

I had a wee bit of oral surgery yesterday which I thought had the potential to be a whole big palaver.  So, readiness being all, I made provisions.  Lots of provisions.  Parsnip bisque. Check.  Boat-loads of good Greek yogurt. Check.  Lovely stone ground grits prepared with lashings of cream.  Check.

Not to mention a brand new shiny copy of the new Tom Wolfe book, and, to be on the safe side, the new Ian McEwan too. Plus. lots of saved up (it’s not nice to call me a hoarder, now is it?) fluffy sections of the New York Times and the weekend Wall Street Journal, all safely staged at bed-side.

Yes, I do admit that I mentioned it to a couple of people in advance, well, maybe several people, but I wasn’t looking for pity.  No, really,  I assure you that I was not.  

So the day dawned, and perhaps, best of all, a calendar relentlessly cleared for three whole days.

What can I say? The procedure went beautifully, I took the requisite medicine and took to my bed where, after a brief nap, and much fawning over me by the aforementioned loved ones, I woke up feeling fit as a fiddle!  No pain, no swelling, no nothing but severe horror at my new status–that of a confirmed drama queen.

However, drama queen or no, it’s given me the opportunity to catch up on my reading, have some long cozy chats with pals all over the globe and, from the picturesque comfort of my bed,  tap into a cultural zeitgeist and notice that what we all want is clearly chicken pot pie.

First I had a long talk to beloved Peter in California who was full of all sorts of news, but who took a little break from imparting it, to opine on my apparently much loved and missed, chicken pot pie.

Next I read a very disheartening article in yesterday’s Style section of the New York Times which mourned the loss of dinner parties.  (Perhaps in New York, but they seem to be alive and well here, though that is a conversation for another time.)  Anyway,  Guy Trebay reiterated one of my most heartfelt beliefs which is, that dinner party guests really don’t need and, more importantly don’t want, over-the-top fancy food.  What they want is compelling conversation, some nice libation, and something homemade and comforting to eat–in short, chicken pot pie.

Now chicken pot pie, at least my version, is the easiest thing in the world to make and make well, given a few, well, givens.  One given is that you have stowed in your freezer a couple of balls of my no-fail pie crust.  If so, move them to the fridge to thaw.  Secondly, you have made a salt-encrusted roast chicken as discussed in a previous post, made some gravy from the drippings and giblets, have eaten most of a breast of it and put all of the rest in the fridge to await its next iteration.

 And truthfully, even those givens aren’t absolute.  You could make this with any old roast chicken, even (don’t tell anyone) a couple of rotisserie chickens you’ve denuded and the evidence of which you’ve carefully buried. Plus, if you don’t have the dough in the freezer, just go on and make it now.  It will take you precisely five minutes and make you feel better about the rotisserie chickens.

If you don’t have any gravy, after you’ve compiled the “guts” of the pot pie, simply sprinkle a little flour over the top of the amalgam, cook for a couple of minutes to dispense of the raw taste of the flour, and then add chicken stock a little at a time, stirring constantly, until it makes it’s own gravy.  Add some poultry seasoning, and some of that great all natural “Better than Bouillon” reduced sodium chicken base you can find next to the chicken stock at a decent grocery.(Which, by the way, you should have anyway as it’s magic chicken elixir imparting its essential self to any chicken dish.)

Anyway, do make this chicken pot pie and have a dinner party.  You’ll be thrilled.  Everyone will be thrilled, and you’ll be doing your part to save a grand cultural institution for future generations.  Now I must go–Tom Wolfe is calling  me.

Chicken Pot Pie

serves 8

6 slices of thick-cut bacon, cut into 1 ” dice

2 medium onions, peeled and coarsely chopped

3 ribs of celery, coarsely chopped

4 carrots, peeled and coarsely chopped

1 red bell pepper, seeds removed and coarsely chopped

2 bulbs of fennel, fronds and hearts removed, flesh coarsely chopped

1 lb mushrooms, brushed (not washed!) and  chopped

Chicken picked from one large cooked roasting chicken or two rotisserie chickens, skin and bones discarded

Gravy from that roasted chicken (see above text for alternative)

1 teaspoon poultry seasoning

3 sage leaves, finely chopped

1 package frozen peas

 1 large or two small balls of Clare’s no-fail pie crust

1 egg beaten with a little milk for a pastry wash

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a very large pan, saute bacon until fat starts to render.  Add onions, celery, carrots, red pepper and fennel and saute until slightly brown, around 10 minutes. Add mushrooms and continue sauteing until most of the mushroom’s fluid has cooked off and it’s all slightly browned.  Add chicken and gravy (or if there’s no gravy, make gravy as above), poultry seasoning and sage and stir until nicely warmed through.  Add frozen peas and continue to cook, stirring for two minutes.  Remove from the heat.  This comprises the “guts” of the chicken pot pie. Place the “guts” into a large shallow baking dish which will allow space at the top for the pastry crust.

On a floured surface, roll out the pastry to roughly cover the pot pie.  Do not attempt to make it perfect and beautiful!  You want it to look homemade so everyone will appreciate how wonderful it is! Place it on top of the guts.  Cut a few slashes in the pastry with a sharp knife which will serve as vents, and, with a pastry brush, brush the wash over the top which will make it shiny.

Bake for about 45 minutes, keeping an eye on it, removing it when the “guts” are nicely bubbling and the crust is brown and shiny.  Serve immediately with Brussels sprouts and roasted potatoes.

Here’s what I was in the throes of doing today, and heaven forbid I would wreck someone’s Thanksgiving over something as sad as a lost recipe,  so here, due to heartfelt reader requests, is my cranberry conserve recipe which first appeared in the Richmond Times Dispatch two years ago.

It’s not actually mine, coming from my beloved mother-in-law, Dilly,  so it’s a bona fide Schapiro family recipe.  It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving around here without it, and once you try it, you’ll find that it’s that way in your house too.  It takes a little bit of time, but it’s happy, contemplative time, and your house will smell enchantingly like Thanksgiving so I would leap in and do it.  You’ll be happy you did!

Cranberry Conserve

(This recipe is easily doubled and since it keeps beautifully in the freezer, why not make extra for roast chicken later?)

serves 12 as a garnish

1/2 cup cider vinegar

2 1/2 cups firmly packed dark-brown sugar

3/4 teaspoon curry powder

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

1/4 teaspoon ground allspice

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 lemons, peeled with peel chopped and set aside. Pith removed and lemons divided into sections

2 navel oranges, peeled with their peel chopped and set aside.  Pith removed and oranges divided into sections

1 Granny Smith apple, peeled and coarsely chopped

3 packages of fresh cranberries

1/2 cup of golden raisins

1/2 cup dried apricots, chopped coarsely

1/2 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped

Boil cider, sugar, curry powder, ginger, cloves, allspice and cinnamon until the sugar dissolves.

Add lemons, chopped lemon peel, oranges, chopped orange peel, and apple and simmer for ten minutes.

Add 1 1/2 packages of cranberries, golden raisins and apricots and simmer for half an hour or until thickened.

Add remaining 1 1/2 packages of cranberries and chopped walnuts and simmer for another 15 minutes.  Cool and refrigerate overnight and serve.  Keep refrigerated or frozen.

The proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow this week, was, in a moment of sheer desperation, opening the fridge and finding a bottle of buttermilk there, twinkling away, on the shelf.

It’s been a harried week around here, with my friendly house-painter, Tim, in residence (it feels like) removing the wallpaper and painting the stair hallway right outside my study door.  That means three stories of plaster dust and chaos,  and the incredible cacophony of his blaring music which, I’m sure while very nice is, how shall I say, different from my music.

And if that isn’t stressful enough, I decided to go through my library and part with many ancient volumes, spurred on by the library’s drive-through book drive which happens tomorrow.  Fair warning, strong backs will be necessary for my donation of ten hefty boxes on the Richmond Public Library’s loading deck tomorrow.

But how is it– that even with mayhem erupting, the phone ringing incessantly, Briggs having a feline nervous breakdown from the noise, trying to wend my way like some crazed hoarder through a biblio-maze of my own demented creation, Tim drinking the last cup of coffee to which I had so been looking forward–at the end of the day, Jeff is going to walk in the door having tangling with feisty politicians for the day,  expecting that something resembling a relaxing and delicious dinner is going to appear in a timely fashion?

That’s where I stop to give grateful thanks to my past-self who apparently reached into the dairy case last week and fished out a bottle of buttermilk (that wasn’t even on the grocery list) and thought to herself, “Buttermilk, that’s sure to be useful somehow.”

With an hour to go, I whipped up this bread and bunged it in the oven.  I found that I’d laid in some really good cheeses, and the makings for a great improvised chicken and wild rice soup.  As the appointed dinner hour arrived, even though it was a soup, bread and cheese dinner, it was a great one, and with jewel -toned zinnias on the table, and soothing jazz on the stereo,  I don’t think anyone would even know what I’d been through, I was such a calm, cool customer.  That is, until it was brought to my attention that I was covered head-to-toe with plaster dust.

Get the buttermilk.Make this bread. Save the day.

Whole Wheat Soda Bread

makes 1 8-inch round loaf

Pam spray for baking sheet

2 cups all purpose flour

2 cups whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 to 2 cups buttermilk

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.  Coat a baking sheet evenly with the spray.

Sift the flours, soda and salt together.  Gradually add 1 1/2 cups of the buttermilk beating constantly with a large spoon until the dough is firm enough to be gathered into a ball.  If the dough crumbles, beat up to a half cup more buttermilk into it by the tablespoon until the particles adhere. 

Place the dough on a slightly floured board, and pat and shape in into a flat circular loaf about 8 inches by 1 1/2 inches thick.  Set the loaf on the baking sheet.  Cut a 1/2 inch deep X dividing it into quarters.  Bake for 45 minutes or until the top is brown.

Serve immediately with butter and  cheese.  After the initial serving, it’s great toasted with butter and jam.

Here I am after a long summer bursting with trips and frivolity.  Best of all, beside the distinct pleasure of being home and trying to create some semblance of order in my chaotically overgrown garden and, heck, well, life, Felix is home for a brief visit before heading back to college.

Our trip to Greece was, well, dreamy, and future postings will delve into everything Jeff and I saw, learned and ate.  This time however, I thought I’d go for a gentle reentry into ClareFare with what turned out to be a lovely, gentle reentry into cooking dinner again.  

Being together with Felix, comparing notes and hearing the gory details of his ten week sojourn in D.C.and our empty nest shenanigans has been interesting, at times raucous and sometimes even nerve-wracking.  We all made it through in fine shape, in fact, much better than we started,  and we’re all energized and looking forward to whatever the autumn has in store.

I will say, that as we’ve been swapping tales over long stints at the dinner table, I’ve been grateful that some of what I’ve heard has been offered up over good ole’ comfort food.  Not that it’s been bad–it hasn’t–but there’s something about looking at your kid and realizing there’s not too much little boy left and that a grown man has sprung up in his place.  

Fortunately, it’s a grown man who is endlessly interesting, funny and sweet.  Furthermore, he can spin a tale that has you alternately hanging onto the edge of your seat, and then falling off it with unbridled laughter.  When faced with a dinner like that,  it’s good to have a great bowl of soup and a grilled pimento cheese sandwich at hand to ground you, or at least to make it worth your while to pick yourself up off the floor.

Roasted Corn and Tomato Bisque

serves 8

3 ripe but firm tomatoes

kernels from 5 ears of corn

1 red bell pepper

1 yellow bell pepper

1 yellow onion, chopped

1 red onion, chopped

4 garlic cloves, peeled and minced

about 4 cups of chicken stock

1/2 teaspoon chili powder

2 teaspoons salt

1 cup heavy cream

sliced avocado and smoked paprika for garnish

Preheat oven to 375

Put tomatoes in a lightly greased glass baking dish.  Place in oven roast until the skins crack and the tomatoes are softened, about 30 minutes.  At the same time, put the corn on a baking sheet and roast in the same oven until the edges begin to turn brown, about 20 minutes.

Remove both pans and allow to cool.  When the tomatoes are cool enough to handle, peel of f the skins and discard, saving the flesh and any juices that have collected in the baking dish.

Place the peppers on the grates of your stove (you’ll have to have a gas stove to do this, otherwise it can be accomplished under the broiler) and turn to medium high.  Allow the peppers skins to get blackened all over and then put them in a paper bag and seal it tightly.  Let it stand for about 10 minutes at which point the charred skins of the peppers should slip right off.  Remove their core and seeds and discard.

In a soup pot, combine the tomatoes, bell peppers, both onions, garlic and the corn, reserving a handful of the roasted corn for a garnish.  Add the broth and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to medium and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes.  Stir in the chili powder and salt and, using your trusty immersion blender (or a blender, but be very careful not to overfill it because hot soup in a blender can REALLY burn you!), blend to a chunky consistency.  Add cream and mix well.  Garnish each portion with some of the reserved corn, a slice of avocado and a sprinkle of smoked paprika.  Serve hot.

–adapted from This is a cookbook, by Max Sussman and Eli Sussman