CHERRY RICOTTA CHEESECAKE VERRINES

SUMMER FUN

Life is just a bowl of cherries, don't take it serious, its mysterious. 

Life is just a bowl of cherries, so live and laugh and laugh at love, 

love a laugh, laugh and love. 

– Bob Fosse 

Summer was a series of random thoughts, urges unencumbered by parental restrictions. We were left to our own devices, basketball in the driveway, hopscotch on the sidewalk, dodge ball in the grass and kickball in the street were the order of the day, every day. Innocent pleasures, our games were simple, back then in the olden days, energy bursting forth with the daylight, children exploding from houses up and down the block to gather in the street and decide what the day would bring. Maybe a bike ride to the public swimming pool or over to the library, Barbies in someone’s living room or board games at the kitchen table. There was order to our summer days, an order only we as children understood, from breakfast until a series of moms stuck their heads out of a row of backdoors to call us all in for dinner, a universal order understood and responded to immediately by each one of us.

Summers of childhood echo throughout the years; the searing white heat of the afternoons, the scorching pavement biting at bare feet, so different from the gentle, temperate summers of Nantes. Those long-ago days of sunshine so bright, white light bouncing off of sidewalks, broken only by the gathering darkness, thunder rumbling in the distance rolling quickly closer, the blackness wrapping her arms around us in a chilly cloak. Children scattering, dashing into various houses to wait out the thunderstorm until, as it does every afternoon at 3:00 like clockwork, the black clouds disperse and the sun breaks through the heavens in a glorious choir of chattering children.

Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life. 

- Mark Twain 

Summers are no longer rambunctious, carefree affairs, days divided between games, punctuated by chilled glasses of Goofy Grape or Yahoos, highlighted by peanut butter sandwiches eaten sitting in the crooked branches of a favourite tree. We are adults now and as adults we have our most serious of responsibilities, families to care for, healthy meals to be served punctually three times a day. Our children run free, building forts in the backyard when there was one, or building forts fit for imaginary kings and queens on the bare floor of their bedroom, while waiting for Papa to return home in the evening from work. Or later, much later, sons organize their own vacations, getaways with friends while we, he and I, work, planning a short weekend here or there with friends when time permits.

Working from home changes the dynamics of summer vacation. No distinct separation between office, suits and meetings and beaches, mountains and swimsuits. No great summer divide, no anticipated break when we slip into shorts and tees and organize that grand getaway. No, when the whole family works from home, winter slides into spring into summer easily, thoughtlessly, noiselessly. And we wake up one day and June is nearing its end and we are surprised to find ourselves deep into summer. No plans have been made, no exciting voyage awaits, no suitcase stands next to the front door in anticipation. We work all morning, break for a quiet lunch together, gathering the boys if at home and out of bed, and then back to work we go only to meet up once again for a relaxing evening in. Long walks in the late afternoon or longer walks in the forest on weekends, a few hours spent at the cinema and the summer passes, the time flowing imperceptibly by. Our days and weeks at home are calm and relaxing, surrounded by books and daily trips to the market, a vacation in and of itself.

No, nothing signals that most important change of season, not least the weather. The hot weather has yet to set in, and summer has been mostly cool and gray with only intermittent eruptions of brilliance and heat. I pad barefoot around the house, a habit I have not lost since my Florida childhood, much to the bewilderment of my husband, bundled up against the chill now, then stripped down to tank top and fanning myself against the occasional spray of heat. When a ray bursts forth, we shove our feet into sneakers and dash outside for a long walk up the river and back again, maybe stopping for an ice cream before heading back to the cool calm of the apartment. And then the rain sets in once more and we curl up on the sofa, turn on the tv, allowing ourselves to grumble and complain and wonder why we don’t just get in the car and head south for a while. We bide our time and put off making plans in the hopes we will soon get the signal that we can begin planning our move. And then we each head back to our own work.

Cherries are flooding the market and we so needed something bright, fruity and cool to remind us of what summer could and should be. I recently saw a dessert in Marie-Claire Idées summer recipe issue that called my name. A cheesecake in a glass, or at least something like it. I decided to take the basic premise: a cookie “crust” topped with cooked cherries and all topped with a cheesecake-style cream. I am not a cream cheese cheesecake lover and so opted for a ricotta and whipped cream combination, but the ricotta could just as easily be replaced with either cream cheese or mascarpone. The cookie base, which is just crushed cookies, can be equally intriguing using speculoos, as suggested in the original recipe, chocolate wafers or crumbly palets Bretons, as I used. No cherries? Replace with slightly crushed strawberries or other fresh, ripe berries, maybe even with a splash of rum, Grand Marnier o Limoncello added with the sugar. The quantities can be changed easily depending upon how many individual portions you require and how much of each layer you like.

Here are the Ricotta Cherry Cheesecake Verrines my way with the basic proportions for about 8 servings. This is, like my wonderful Strawberry Mascarpone Whipped Cream Tart, one of those desserts so easily adaptable, changeable, an ad-lib dessert; you can easily change ingredients, quantities and proportions to fit your own taste as well as the number of servings you desire. All the rage these days is for desserts in jars, but I prefer to have mine in glasses.

RICOTTA CHERRY CHEESECAKE VERRINES or GLASSES 

For 8 individual glasses/servings

A scant pound (400 – 500 g) fresh cherries
2 Tbs granulated brown sugar

3.5 oz (100 g) chocolate wafers or chocolate or vanilla Palets Bretons or speculoos

1 cup (250 g) ricotta, chilled * 
1 cup (250 ml) heavy whipped cream, chilled
2 Tbs or more powdered/confectioner’s sugar, to taste
½ tsp vanilla extract
Finely grated zest and the juice of one lemon, optional**

* The ricotta can be replaced with mascarpone; the ratio of cheese to whipping cream 1 to 1. If replacing the ricotta with cream cheese, begin with half the amount cream cheese to whipping cream, adding more to taste. You can also use less ricotta for a purer whipped cream flavour.

** I did not add lemon.

Place a medium-sized bowl, glass or metal, in the refrigerator along with the beaters of a hand mixer to chill for at least 10 minutes.

Rinse the cherries; remove and discard the stems and pit. Slice each cherry in half and place in a saucepan with the 2 tablespoons brown sugar. Cook over low heat for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and allow to cool.

Place the cookies in a large plastic sandwich or freezer bag and, using a rolling pin, crush.

Place the heavy whipping cream in the chilled bowl and attach the chilled beaters to the hand mixer. Whip the cream until soft peaks form; sift the sugar onto the cream and continue beating until stiff peaks hold. Beat in the ricotta cheese about a third at a time until thick and creamy. Beat in the vanilla and then taste, adding more powdered sugar to taste. Keep in mind that the whipped cream will be eaten with the cooked cherries and cookies so you may not want the cream too sweet.

Place about ¾ inch of crushed cookies in the bottom of each serving glass. Top with about ¾ inch or so of cooked cherries allowing for a little of the juice to soak down into the cookie crumbs. Spoon or pipe, as I did, the Whipped Ricotta Cream on top of the cherries to fill the glass, or as much or as little as desired, depending upon the height and size of your glasses. Again, you can decide how much of each to add to the glass. You can see from my photos how I chose to do it and I felt that the proportions were excellent. Serve immediately or after allowing the juices to soak a little into the cookie crumbs. If there are cooked cherries left over or if you make more, place a teaspoonful on top of the cream before serving.

Take a bigger bite ...

CHARD, FENNEL AND FETA PIE

A HEALTHY MEAL AS EASY AS PIE

“If you knew how to cook, maybe I would eat," Jace muttered. 

Isabelle froze, her spoon poised dangerously. "What did you say?" 

Jace edged toward the fridge. "I said I'm going to look for a snack to eat." 

"That's what I thought you said." Isabelle turned her attention to the soup. 

- Cassandra Clare, City of Bones, 2007 

There is a lot of chatter these days around the food blogosphere about from-scratch cooking. The discussion centers mostly around whether or not we, as food bloggers, should be encouraging our readers to try it, should offer recipes simple enough for the inexperienced cook, should expect more than just our fellow food bloggers to want to cook with more than just the canned, boxed or ready-made. Some say that cooking from scratch is expensive, others say it is out of reach of the average home cook, while others say that the concept itself simply scares many inexperienced cooks away. I say it can be as easy as pie.

I grew up on an odd mix of the pre-packaged, boxed, canned and frozen convenience food of the Sixties and Seventies and home cooking reminiscent of the Old Country. Neither of which prepared me in any way, shape or form for cooking for my own family. By the time we were teens, we often prepared our own meals. And onto college and young adulthood where, as someone who loved food and loved to eat, I experimented with this and that, often very simple, basic fare. But at least I was cooking and eating lots of fresh vegetables. But soon that would all change. No more convenience foods and no more simple cooking for one. I would marry a man who not only was an excellent cook but a man who loved to cook. Weekends, holidays and vacations, whenever he could, he would be the one shopping, in the kitchen, in front of the stove. And he cooked real meals: couscous and brandade, moules marinière and beef stew, poached fish and lasagne. And he taught me to cook. And for twenty some years, I cooked.

“I am more modest now, but I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world.” 

- M.F.K. Fisher 

From-scratch meals were the only thing that ever found its way onto our table and for several very good reasons. JP would never even consider serving food that wasn’t homemade; it was just what he grew up with and what mealtime was. I took pleasure in chopping and stirring, simmering and baking, and adored bringing the family together around the table for a good, warming meal and talk. And for many years, both in France and in Italy, ready-made or packaged food was scarce. So from scratch it was. But lately, these past couple of years since we moved into this apartment and since the boys have grown up everything has changed. I’ve been complacent – lazy is such a harsh word, isn’t it? – about cooking proper meals what with my husband working from home and doing more and more of the meal preparation and the sons coming and going and never letting us know ahead of time if lunching or dining with us is on the schedule.

Dinner has been pared down, too often becoming last-minute affairs. These days, we’ll toss together a salad, sometimes simply lettuce and tomato, sometimes a bit jazzier with avocado, rocket, endive, corn and beans added, maybe feta or a can of tuna thrown in, whatever is on hand, and serve it as is with cold cuts (French charcuterie or Italian salumi, if you please), a cheese platter, fresh baguette and a bottle of wine and call it a meal. Or homemade pizza, which we seem to be eating rather often, I have to admit (with a tremble in my voice). “Homemade pizza?” you ask? “Isn’t that rather time-consuming what with the yeast dough and all? How it this simple?” Well, it is my “I can’t think of anything to cook and you all are clamouring for a hot meal” meal. Easy peasy and I can throw together fresh pizza dough with my eyes closed. The rest, I will avow, is jarred sauce, pre-grated mozzarella and whatever anyone wants thrown on top.

“Oh, I adore to cook. It makes me feel so mindless in a worthwhile way."

- Truman Capote, Summer Crossing, 1943 

And there are times, too many to admit to in public, when I simply snip off the top of a box of ready-made soup (yes, box here in France) and heat it stovetop for two or microwave for one. My husband is happy standing up in the kitchen or plopped down on the sofa in front of the news with bread, cheese and a banana. Oh, and a glass of wine, s’il te plaît. When he does, I’ll grab whatever leftovers there are or toss myself a salad or mix a bowl of yogurt, fruit and muesli. We are simple folk and as we get older we are only getting simpler. Sons are old enough and particular enough to grab whatever they want, hot or cold, tossing themselves a salad or boiling a pot of spaghetti. Leaving me only with the dishes.

And you notice that I am avoiding all questions concerning kabob-frites… rumor, I tell you! Just a bad, sick rumor…

But then it all implodes. Or explodes, if you listen to my sons raise their collective voice and begin to harangue me, a long (long-winded?) diatribe on my motherly neglect, my laxity in the face of all responsibility, my thoughtless unconcern for the feelings, expectations and, yes, hunger of others. Wow! Well, I admit to myself that I did indeed used to cook a meal almost every night. So, yes, I have been neglectful of my motherly duties, so to speak. And so once in a while I tie on the apron, clear the countertops and sink of dishes and make that grand decision to cook! Oh, you know I am often in the kitchen, yes I am! I bake, bake and bake some more and happy they are with the cakes, cookies, puddings and pies but gladly would they trade half of my production for a savory dish, a one-meat-two-veg meal, a homey casserole, a hearty stew, a steak-salad-potato.

And so, once in a while I do. I find a recipe that turns me on, I make a list and head to the market. I fill my basket, head home and spend half the day chopping, stirring, simmering and baking. And I love it and I wonder why I don’t do it more often. For, yes, it may be more time consuming than a quick salad, but with the right recipe it is as easy as pie. And everyone is happy.

I’ve written about my love affair with The Vegetarian Epicure before, two tattered, battered, well-used and well-loved copies, pages stained and torn, brittle and fallen from their binding. I explained about how my husband, knowing just how much I love and use my Vegetarian Epicure book one and book two, had decided to have them rebound yet in the end decided to purchase Anna Thomas’ newest tome instead and offer it to me as a gift of love. All three volumes are filled with luscious, heart-warming, delicious dishes and each and every one I have prepared – many over and over again – arrive at the table perfect. Anna Thomas’ cookbooks are inspiring, trustworthy, reliable and much loved in my kitchen. This recipe is from her latest, The New Vegetarian Epicure. Reminiscent of a spinach and feta Spanikopita, this Chard, Fennel & Feta pie is heartier thanks to a wonderful yeast-bread crust, delicate on the inside, crispy on the top, feather light. Spinach is replaced with chard or kale and lots of onions, garlic and fennel, cooked down and caramelized to a wonderful, smokey, oniony flavour, balancing out beautifully with the tangy, salty feta cheese. I made a few slight changes, which I will give below. Although I made the pie in a rectangular baking dish, I will definitely recommend it being made in a round gratin dish. This way each slice or wedge has the same amount of crust to filling, just the perfect amount; a rectangular dish means some pieces have too much crust and others not enough.

I am sending this scrumptious casserole to Susan at Wild Yeast for Yeastspotting!! If you love yeast baking or want to learn and improve, then you must visit Susan's blog: she is amazing!

This is my second pie for Pie Party 2012. Visit the Pie Party 2012 Facebook page to see all the incredible pies made for the party! With my insouciant Dessert First philosophy, I already made a luscious Lemon Chiffon Pie for Pie Day.

Here are a few other savory pies and tarts I have made that you will love:

Roasted Cherry Tomato, Feta & Rocket Quiche

Zucchini Ricotta Feta Tart

Mushroom & Caramelized Onion Quiche

Potato, Mushroom & Caramelized Onion Pierogi




CHARD FENNEL AND FETA PIE
From The New Vegetarian Epicure by Anna Thomas

You will need a 13- or 14-inch round gratin dish (deeper than a pie plate); I used a 12 ½ x 8 x 2 ½ - inch gratin dish (pyrex baking dish).

For the dough:

1 ½ tsp dry yeast
1 tsp sugar
¼ cup warm water
3 cups flour
1 tsp salt
1 large egg
2/3 cup low-fat milk
1 Tbs olive oil

For the filling:

3 lbs Swiss chard/kale
2 medium yellow onions, approximately but not more than 2 cups chopped
1 to 1 ¼ cup sliced green onions
2 – 3 cloves garlic, depending upon the size
1 medium fennel bulb
2 Tbs olive oil
1 Tbs cider vinegar
2 Tbs chopped fresh fennel greens
½ cup chopped flat-leaf parsley or coriander (I used coriander)
Pinch of salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 large eggs
½ cup milk
10 oz feta cheese
3 Tbs uncooked white rice (I used basmati rice)

Prepare the dough:

Dissolve the yeast and the sugar in the warm water in a small bowl; allow 15 to 20 minutes until it foams and has a thick frothy head. Meanwhile, put 2 ¾ cups of the flour into a large mixing bowl and stir in the salt. Whisk together the egg, milk and olive oil. Once the yeast is activated, stir it into the egg mixture and then mix the liquid into the flour/salt until all of the dry is moistened and begins to pull together into a dough.

Spread the remaining flour onto the work surface and scrape the dough onto it. Knead it gently, turning often at first to keep it coated in flour, until it is smooth and elastic, 4 to 6 minutes. Form the dough into a ball and place in a clean, lightly oiled bowl, turning the dough until it is lightly coated in the oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and then a towel and set it aside in a warm place to double in size, about 45 minutes to an hour. (I left mine for much longer and it really puffed up but it made no difference; the finished crust was perfect, light with just the right crispy top.)

Prepare the filling:

Rinse the chard until thoroughly clean; shake off excess water and pat the leaves dry with a clean towel. Cut off and discard the thick parts of the stems and then coarsely chop the leaves and tender white. Peel and chop the onions. Trim and chop the garlic and the fennel and place them together in a bowl; these will be added to the onion together after the onion has already cooked a bit. Pull off the feathery fennel greens and chop. Chop the coriander or parsley.

Heat the olive oil in a large pot or Dutch oven; she recommends a very large skillet but I suspect that would be too shallow – you need the deepness of a pot. Add the chopped onion and green onions, stir to coat everything with the oil and sauté over medium heat, stirring almost constantly to keep from burning. When the onions are tender and translucent, about 3 to 5 minutes, add the garlic and fennel. Continue cooking and stirring until all the vegetables are tender and golden, beginning to caramelize. The kitchen should stop smelling like onion and start smelling most definitely of caramel!

Add the chard to the pot, handful by handful, stirring in each addition until the chard is coated in the onions and starting to wilt. Once it is all in the pan and starting too wilt, add the cider vinegar, the fennel greens and the coriander or parsley, a grinding of pepper and a dash of salt (don’t forget that the feta is salty; you can adjust the seasoning later). Continue cooking until the chard is much reduced and the excess liquid is gone.

Remove the pan from the heat and allow the mixture to cool somewhat. Once the chard is cooled, separate one of the eggs, reserving the yolk in a small bowl for the glaze, then add the 3 remaining eggs to the white and whisk with the milk. Put the feta in a large mixing bowl and break and crumble it up with a fork. Add the cooled vegetables, the uncooked rice and the egg mixture, blending everything together well. Adjust the salt and pepper if needed.

Assemble and bake:

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Oil the gratin dish.

Scrape the risen dough onto a lightly floured work surface and punch it down. Divide the dough into two parts, one slightly larger than the other (the larger piece will fit the bottom and sides of the gratin dish, the smaller piece only the top.) Roll the larger piece of dough out to the size of the gratin dish + the sides with a slight overhang and carefully fit into the oiled dish being careful not to rip the dough.

Spread the filling inside the dough.

Roll out the smaller piece of dough just the size of the dish. Place on top of the filling, fold the overhanging dough over the top dough, pinch them together to seal and crimp or decorate the edge if you like. Using a sharp knife, make a few slashes in the dough carefully; or you can simply poke some holes in the dough with a fork. Stir the remaining yolk with 1 tablespoon water and brush the glaze over the pie. Bake the pie for about 45 minutes or until the crust is a deep golden brown. Cool the pie slightly before cutting into wedges or squares and serving.

Take a bigger bite ...

LEMON CHIFFON PIE

RETRO GOES MODERN

 My father planted a lone lemon tree in the backyard. This was about the time that he went on his homegrown produce kick and had planted a small vegetable patch at the side of the house, which boasted big fat red tomatoes and long, slim chili peppers. He worked long and hard on that 6 x 2-foot kitchen garden, hacking at the hard, dry sand until it gave way, dragging carloads of manure from the horse stables on the other side of the river to feed the soil and keeping up a valiant but losing battle with the mole who dug trenches through the yard, playing his own game of whack-a-mole with a shovel. What could possibly have inspired this serious man to try and master the unforgiving wasteland that is Florida dirt? What would influence and embolden this man to spend weekends out under the harsh Florida sun in order to cultivate and ultimately harvest a couple of dozen splotchy tomatoes that his children were afraid to eat or strings of chili peppers that hung forlornly if somewhat decoratively in the kitchen over the sink, untouched, for years on end?

 The house

My father was a patient man, taking on projects and sticking diligently to each and every one in the face of the mocking and teasing laughter of his wife and the worried head shaking of his children. His long, constant war against weeds and the barrenness of the arid ground rarely produced more than a short spell of green grass in the front yard, grass thick, scratchy and tough, and a desert spread out before us behind the house full of burrs that hid among the twining spines of whatever grew hard against the ground, burrs that stuck and clung to bare feet and clothes. He had lovingly planted two heady, fragrant gardenia bushes just in front of the house that held up against the tropical heat and humidity, and produced beautiful, voluptuously plump white flowers year after year. Yet he hung on and forged ahead, his patience and persistence, both signs of the engineer, trumping whatever Mother Nature threw in his path to trip him up.

 The backyard

His passion was phenomenal and admirable, indeed, one had to – and did – give him that. His joy at digging in the dirt, the sheer pleasure in producing one beautiful flower or a bag of tomatoes was wonderful to behold. This man who spent all day, five days a week in the confines of a job and office, ticking numbers off in his head, doing outrageous unimaginable mathematical gymnastics, sending men to the moon, loved nothing more than spending his weekends doing the most simple, basic things life had to offer: taking his children to the swimming pool, tinkering under the hood of a car and gardening.

So when he dragged home and planted that lemon tree – there may also have been, at one time or another, a grapefruit tree as well – we smiled and nodded our heads in understanding, eye-rolling kept discreetly behind his back. (Okay, there may also have been a bit of excitement at the romantic idea of being able to step out into the yard and pull a fresh lemon off of one’s own tree.) By then, this may have been the early Seventies, the yard was barren, the sandy brown dirt brazenly having taken over the entire area, much to our chagrin. Nothing living could or would survive that nuclear wilderness. And anyway, we (his excruciatingly pragmatic children) reasoned, we could just drive across the river to the citrus groves and bring home sacks full of lemons for a pittance. But, no, nothing would ever sway dad from his resolve. Especially where growing was concerned.
 
We suspect to this day that when he was a child in Brooklyn his mother may have had a vegetable patch. We do know that she grew grapes strung up on elegant little trellised arbors and dad would occasionally, wistfully mention in passing that he dreamed of having grapevines in the back yard like his mother had. I can only imagine the scene, the beautiful, gracious mother surrounded by a brood of doting, handsome children, six of them, as she planted, explaining each step, gently guiding their little hands as they helped. And here was dad, as gentle as I imagine his mother to have been, curiously passionate about his own bit of dirt, concentrated on growing what he could.

I can’t even remember if we ever saw a lemon grow on that tree. But it stood there proudly, all alone, in that backyard, the backyard that never saw either the swimming pool or the tennis court or, years later, the guest room or workshed that he talked about and planned for us. But that tree must have, over the years, witnessed excited, chattering children as they kicked a ball back and forth or built tents against the hedges out of old sheets and clothespins or huddled together taking turns peering through the binoculars up towards the sky as another rocket took off from NASA where dad was at work, making history happen, quietly, modestly, just like dad.

Dad the dad

There is something so nostalgic about chiffon pies. Images and memories of diners and cafeterias, dad standing at the counter, store-bought piecrust nestled in an aluminum dish at the ready, folding Cool Whip into pudding until thick and creamy before piling it into the pastry shell. Yet there is something so amazingly sexy about chiffon pies, stirring up images of lace-edged silk chiffon dressing gowns on blond black & white film goddesses shimmering as they walk, floating around slender legs. Pale lemon cream thickens lazily until smooth as silken custard; egg whites thick and thicker, glossy and voluptuous; fold them, delicately lace the two textures together to create a luxurious mélange, whipped up light as air, cool and creamy. Gently pile the lemon-suffused chiffon into a baked sweet pastry crust and chill. And serve with something oh-so feminine as plump strawberries, blushingly sweet, and heavenly whipped cream.

Dad the engineer

This is a classic recipe straight out of the 1950’s, its delicate pastel yellow color and light frothy texture reminiscent of our grandmother’s kitchen or Sunday lunch at the neighborhood diner. Or, in my case, my dad’s kitchen and baked treats. I found the identical recipe in Abigail Serves, a United Order of True Sisters community cookbook from Albany, New York, circa 1956 which my great-aunt Mae co-chaired, and my mother’s old copy of Reader’s Digest Secrets of Better Cooking, 1973. A simple recipe, one at home and perfect for the table every day, although one may certainly want to keep this for a very special occasion.

The texture once chilled overnight is ethereal, a wisp of coolness on the tongue, a hint of lemon lingering behind, a tart that literally melts in the mouth. Cool and clean, this beautiful pie is the perfect dessert after either a heavy meal or light summer fare when all that is needed, all that is desired is a kiss of sweetness and citrus tang.

The Lemon Chiffon Pie was made for Pie Day 2012, a group pie party organized by Justin Schwartz, Garrett McCord, Shauna Ahern and Ashley Baron Rodriguez. Check out the Pie Party 2012 Facebook page to see all of the other fantastic pies made and served for this event!

Other favourite pies and tarts that I’ve prepared that I know you will love!

Strawberry Mascarpone Whipped Cream Tart









Whipped Lime Cream Tart
Mixed Berry Pie with Lattice Crust

Baked Chocolate Tartlets






Blackberry Raspberry Cream Tart 
Chocolate Truffle Tart with whipped cream and strawberries

Portuguese Cream Tartlets







Best Lemon Tart
Chocolate Chiffon Pie

LUSCIOUS LEMON CHIFFON PIE A RETRO CLASSIC

Pre-baked 9- or 10-inch Sweet Pastry Crust (find the recipe and instructions here)

1 envelope (about 1 ¾ tsp) powdered gelatin
¼ cup cold water
½ cup granulated sugar
¼ tsp salt
4 large eggs, separated
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
Grated zest of 1 lemon
½ cup super fine sugar

To serve: freshly whipped cream and fresh, ripe strawberries

Pre-bake the Sweet Pastry Crust ahead of time to allow it to cool completely: Line your pie plate with the pastry and trim. Refrigerate for 20 to 30 minutes until chilled while you preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). Lightly prick the shell with a fork. Place a large piece of parchment (ovenproof) paper in the shell and fill with pastry weights or dried beans. Bake in the preheated oven for 6 minutes and then carefully remove the pie plate to a cooling rack, gently lift out the parchment with the beans (reserve the beans for another use, discard the parchment), and return the pie shell to the oven for an additional 10 minutes or so or until baked and golden. Remove from the oven (you can turn off the oven as you won’t be using it again) and allow the pastry shell to cool completely before filling.

Prepare the Lemon Chiffon Filling and Tart:

Sprinkle the gelatine over the cold water and allow to soften for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, separate the eggs, placing the yolks in a large heatproof mixing bowl; place the whites in a perfectly clean bowl (preferably plastic or metal) with a drop or 2 of lemon juice and a small pinch of salt.

Whisk the granulated sugar and the salt into the yolks and place the bowl over a pan of gently simmering (not boiling) water. Continue to whisk until just slightly thickened and pour in the lemon juice. Continue whisking for about 6 to 8 minutes or until the mixture thickens to the consistency of a custard. Add the softened gelatine and the lemon zest and whisk to blend then continue to whisk for an additional 3 minutes or so until the gelatine melts.

Remove the bowl from the heat and allow to cool for about 10 minutes, whisking occasionally, and then place the bowl in the refrigerator to chill until cold and thickened, 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove the bowl from the refrigerator. Using very clean beaters, beat the whites until opaque and just beginning to hold soft peaks. Gradually add the superfine sugar as you beat the whites on high speed until very glossy and a very thick, stiff meringue. Quickly beat the lemon custard to loosen and then, using a rubber or silicone spatula, fold the meringue into the custard in thirds or fourths until perfectly blended and very thick, creamy and luxurious. Mound the lemon chiffon cream into the prepared pie shell and, with a very light hand, spread the cream evenly in the shell.

Place the pie in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight to set.

Garnish the Lemon Chiffon Pie with freshly, lightly sweetened whipped cream and berries.

Take a bigger bite ...

GLUTEN-FREE CHOCOLATE MACADAMIA NUT BROWNIES

AN IDEAL FATHER

There is a story of a man that I’ve told before, a man whose one wish was to become a father. “I’ve sown my wild oats, I’ve travelled far and wide and I’ve done it all. Now that is all behind me, chapter closed, and I am ready to settle down and have children,” he said, staring into her eyes, squeezing her hand in his. “And,” he continued, face aglow, “I want to have them with you.” “Ah,” she exclaimed, eyes demurely turned toward the sidewalk, her heart beating just a little quicker, smile playing on her lips, “Ah, but I’m a nice Jewish girl! I must be married before I have children.” He pulled her closer and laughed “Anything you want!” And married they were.

And by the end of one year a child was born. And during that year even before becoming Papa, he was already preparing for his best role ever. He catered to her every whim, taking her for couscous each and every time the craving swept over her; he pampered her, filling the tub with bubbles and making sure she was always comfortable. And as the time approached, his excitement escalated and he would poke her every now and then trying to see if it was time, trying to make it happen just a little more quickly. And the morning she awoke with the first hint of contractions, he was ready and waiting at the door, her suitcase in hand, begging her to allow him to take her to the hospital, even more excited than she. Although, if he had had his druthers, he would have kept her at home, all to himself, and delivered his son on his own.

Two sons later and he was still in Seventh Heaven. Holding his tiny infants was so natural for him and while she was afraid to drop or break the delicate little beings, he was always so comfortable with them in his arms. “They’re only little animals!” He would exclaim, laughing. He carried them around fearlessly, bathed and changed them, fed them when she allowed. And he watched them joyously, joyfully, as they grew from babies to boys.

He was the ideal father, spending every free moment with his sons, his little family, taking them everywhere, an exciting outing every weekend: museums and parks, finding adventure in both city and country. And oh the discoveries they made, the animals, the artwork, things growing, things invented; he offered the excitement of the world to his two young sons. Doors opened wide, he offered them languages and countries and cultures, new lands, new landscapes; Paris, Milan, New York; the beaches of Florida, the desert of Morocco, the monuments of Italy, the Brittany coast and the French countryside. He told them stories, tales of pirates and kings, ancient worlds and distant lands, he fed them on history and instilled his own passion in the hearts of those little boys. He showed them how to plant things, taught them all about animals and fish and insects and birds and he made them brave and curious. The world was their oyster and he would wield the knife, crack open the hard, cruel shell and find the shimmering, glorious pearl for those two boys.

And the years passed and it continued, the bond growing even when tried, even through the turbulent teen years, those years when monsters are created. Arguments and threats, challenges and defiance, through bad grades and good, growing pains suffered by one and all. But on he pushed, forging ahead with this fatherhood thing, this weighty, grave responsibility, trying to guide and teach, inspire by example. Arms waving and voice raised, or joking banter and silliness, he snuck in lessons, offered information, tried to impress upon them the importance of knowledge, education and good conduct by any means possible.

And, yes, the mother suffered as only mothers can. She shielded one from the other and back again, soothed the bumps, calmed the fears and offered cake and hot meals. That odd and special father-son relationship punctuated by slammed doors and long chummy walks in the woods, afternoons watching rugby or garbage bags stuffed with clothes and tossed out onto the doorstep, each of them suffered growing pains, two boys learning to be men, one man learning the lessons of fatherhood.

And here we are. Those two beautiful babies are now men and perched on the edge of adulthood and wending their way out into the world. They have, we do admit, grown into two generous, smart, funny, intelligent people. Fatherhood doesn’t end here, and it has been a long, uphill road from that day his declaration was made, his wish whispered while standing on that storefront sidewalk. And what measure success? How does one know or understand if it has been a success when it is not yet over and done with? As far as she is concerned, he has been and still is….

Happy Father's Day.

Without white chocolate drizzle and with chopped pecans.

GLUTEN-FREE BROWNIES WITH CHICKPEA FLOUR & MACADAMIA NUTS
A Lucullian Delights recipe from my friend Ilva with slight flavor changes

10 ½ Tbs (150 g) unsalted butter
3.5 oz (100 g) dark quality chocolate
1/2 cup + 2 Tbs (80 g) chickpea flour
1 pinch (about 1/8 tsp) salt
2 - 3 Tbs dark, unsweetened cocoa powder
3 large eggs
1 cup (200 g) sugar
½ tsp vanilla extract, I use Nielsen-Massey fine vanilla extract *
½ tsp coffee extract, I use Nielsen-Massey fine coffee extract *
3.5 oz (100 g) whole blanched macadamia nuts
White chocolate for decoration, optional

* Both the vanilla and coffee extracts are optional.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C) and grease a 9-inch (25 cm) square brownie or cake pan, bottom and sides.

Melt the butter and chocolate together in a small pan or in a bain-marie (place in a heatproof bowl set over a small pan of an inch of gently simmering water) over low heat, stirring until melted. Remove from the heat and allow to cool a bit.

Whisk or stir together the chickpea flour, the salt and the cocoa powder in a small bowl and set aside.

Place the eggs and the sugar in a large mixing bowl and whisk briskly for a few minutes until fluffy (this is very easily done by hand). Whisk in the butter and chocolate in a steady stream until blended.

Add the dry ingredients to the batter and stir or whisk until well blended. Fold in the macadamia nuts.

Pour the brownie batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 25 minutes until the surface is matte and the center of the brownies just set. A toothpick or tester inserted in the center should come out damp but not coated with raw batter.

Remove the pan from the oven and allow to cool on a rack before drizzling with melted and slightly cooled white chocolate, cutting and serving.

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CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE LAYER CAKE WITH CHERRIES

FIRST MEAL AND A LIFETIME IN PARIS 

Il n’y a que deux endroits au monde où l’on puisse vivre heureux:  

chez soi et à Paris.

There are only two places in the world where we can live happy:  

at home and in Paris.

- Ernest Hemingway

We were living in that tiny studio apartment – one room with a long wooden table pushed up against one wall under the window, the double bed mattress cleverly perched above on a mezzanine. The shower stood formidably in the center of the living room, odd man out, daring someone to question his presence. A tiny corner nook consisted of tiny refrigerator and sink, a poor excuse for a kitchen but perfect for our first summer in Paris. Light flooded into that long-ago space all day, warming us, soothing us even as we worried where we would move to once the real occupant of the apartment returned from summer vacation.

She may not have been counting her pennies but I certainly was and a restaurant meal was a rare treat. But half the fun of being in Paris – ah, yes, we were living in Paris! – was marketing in the morning, basket hooked reassuringly on my arm, marketing just like une vraie parisienne. The bustling market of the Rue Mouffetard was just around the corner and what fun to test out our high school French while filling our basket with summer peaches and nectarines, a bundle of deep red cherries and whatever else we thought, in all of our wide-eyed American innocence we believed to be a real French meal. Pop into the corner boulangerie – doesn’t that sound so romantic? – for that all-important, mythical baguette, add the American girl’s romantic vision of a raspberry tart or two and skip home for a cold repast. We could have practically been living in an artist’s garret for the storybook dream we were living. But for now, if only for a short while, we were in heaven in the Fifth Arrondissement.

Or breakfast! In Paris! Slip out into the street and follow the scent of freshly baked bread, that wonderful yeasty fragrance touched by just a hint of chocolate, to the source of magic where we would purchase two pains au chocolat and a slender Viennoise, a tender brioche shaped like a baguette but fooling no one, and hurry home so they could be eaten while still warm. We would throw open the windows to a gorgeous July morning and place a heavy pot on the one lone burner of the hot plate and heat up milk, stirring in a tablespoon or three of instant coffee, Nescafé, the Parisian’s morning elixir, and wait patiently for it to gently begin to steam. Our pains au chocolat would leave a trail of delicate crumbs across the table, spilling over onto laps, that we would then pick up with the tip of our index finger, not wanting to lose one single smidgen of the buttery flakes, as thin and fragile as glass. A morning ritual, as sacred as one’s first stroll through the Louvre or picnicking on a jambon beurre along the Seine.

And finally, that first restaurant meal. One’s first steak frites (for, of course, that’s what it has to be) sitting in a café, huddled around a table much too small for three what with the white ceramic plates, all of the cutlery and heavy, mismatched water glasses pressed together, jostling for space, on nubbly white paper placemats with une carafe d’eau, s’il vous plaît and the ubiquitous trio of sel-poivre-moutarde, three tiny jars clutched together in their metallic frame, balanced in the center of it all. Out on the sidewalk (for where else would you dine in Paris in July?), I chatter with my lunch companions, two Americans visiting for the summer that I met as only Americans do while in a foreign land: randomly, happily, outside standing in a line for some museum or other. Three steak frites and something to drink and we wait for our first meal while a table of chic young men at the next table stare at us, feeling absolutely no embarrassment or even mildly apologetic for the intrusion. Finally, our food comes and we dig in: fork in left hand, knife in right, cut off a slice of steak and, as if on cue, in perfection synchronization, we all three switchover fork to right hand, knife to left and scoop up that bit of meat on the fork and roaring laughter ensues and high fives and Voilà je t’avais dit! Américains! ring out from the young Frenchman at the next table! That dreaded cultural cutlery switchover gave us away!

Off we trot to Paris, confident in our few years of high school and college French, feeling armed to take on any market vender or restaurant waiter, any salesgirl or museum ticket seller. Off we fly to Paris convinced that we are not one of those Americans, the ones who can be spotted and labelled by the shoes we wear or that tell tale accent. We will not commit one faux pas from that long dictionary list of unmistakable mistakes young Americans make on their first trip to Paris. No, indeed! We are as chic as the chicest parisienne, our accent is right out of Gigi, more Leslie Caron than Stan Laurel! We are worldly yes indeed we are, comfortable anywhere but heavens! especially in Paris! Why, we may never have visited the City of Lights before but we feel as if we already belong.

And then we make that first trip to the market, all agog at the splendour stretching out before us: stalls spread out in front of us as far as the eye can see! And the boulangerie at the corner! And we stumble rather hesitantly up to the burly man on the other side of the ramshackle wooden stall spilling over with gorgeous summer fruit and….our mind goes blank. How does one ask for two peaches? A pound of cherries? The first true test after years of reciting “Je vais à la piscine. Avec qui? Avec Sylvie.” and «Je suis dans le salon. Je regarde la télévision.” And we stand, mouth open, sweating just a little under the hot sun and, holding up two fingers with one hand we point to the pile of peaches with the other and mumble “Deux.” We slink away from the stall and head to the bakery and, pointing at the gorgeous, golden croissants behind the glass, hold up two fingers and mumble “Deux!”

And don’t even talk about the café!

And twenty-five years later here I am still, none the worse for wear. My French is fairly fluent and although my trace of an accent belies my foreignness I finally feel rather at home. The market no longer scares me, the only Nescafé that finds itself in our home is strictly used for baking and I can deal with any table of ogling Frenchman with swiftness, ease and confidence. Years have passed and many of the memories of those first years have slipped from my mind, some willingly forgotten, others disappearing much to my chagrin. But one never really forgets that first meal, that first croissant or pain au chocolat, that first attempt at speaking French and realizing that we aren’t as clever as all of those years of French class made us believe. And I now have my own houseful of Frenchmen who tease me and mock my accent and my American ways but I can deal with them, too. And I do.

For all the drama, my family still prefers a good old-fashioned American dessert and a chocolate layer cake is at the top of the list. My son, Clem, of The World’s Best Tiramisu fame, offered me Jane Hornby’s What to Cook & How to Cook It two years ago – this book because it was the only cookbook in the bookstore that was in English that Christmas Eve. I bookmarked several recipes and I love looking through the book, but have yet to actually cook or bake anything from it, much to my son’s disappointment. A new round of nagging: “Mom, I offer you all these cookbooks and you never make anything from them!” had me finally selecting a few recipes, purchasing the ingredients and diving in.

First, a chocolate cake recipe…. which I decided to make in three smaller 7-inch layers instead of two larger 8-inch layers. I prepared the chocolate frosting and added layers of whipped cream and cherries between two of the layers, reserving the chocolate frosting for the top. I added a dash of Nielsen-Massey Coffee Extract and used Halen Môn Smoked Sea Salt in place of the regular flake sea salt in the recipe. Thank you to two fabulous Plate to Page sponsors! The cake did indeed come out with a truffle-like quality: dark and very dense, not light and fluffy. The barely-sweetened whipped cream was the perfect balance, adding a light creamy touch to the sweet chocolate of the cake. The frosting is light and frothy; overnight in the fridge it becomes fudgier.

Disclosure: for all intents and purposes, there are sweet, plump, tender sour cherries between the layers, nestled into the whipped cream. But my persnickety men, purists all, would not even consider eating a chocolate cake with cherries so I must wait until the next recipe to use the cherries. But just think how good this cake would be with cherries!

CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE LAYER CAKE
With Whipped Cream and Cherries and Chocolate Frosting
From What to Cook & How to Cook It by Jane Hornby
8 oz (225 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature, divided
11 oz (300 g) dark semi-sweet chocolate, 70% cocoa, divided
11 oz (300 g) golden caster/granulated sugar
4 large eggs
¼ pint (150 ml) buttermilk or mild natural yoghurt (I used part buttermilk, part 0% fat fromage frais)
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ tsp coffee extract, optional
5 oz (150 g) self-rising flour
½ tsp flaky sea salt, smoked if possible
½ tsp baking powder
1 oz (25 g) cocoa powder
2 oz (50 g) icing sugar (powdered or confectioner’s sugar)
¼ pint (150 ml) double or heavy cream

Optional: ¼ pint (150 ml) chilled heavy whipping cream for between the layers, lightly sweetened with about 1 Tbs icing sugar. Layered with lots of jarred sour cherries or cherries simmered and softened in syrup.

 Preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C). Lightly butter the bottom and sides of either 3 x 7-inch (18 cm) or 2 x 8-inch (20 cm) baking tins then line the bottoms with a round of parchment paper.

Break 7 oz (200 g) of the chocolate into squares and place in a heatproof bowl; gently melt the chocolate either over a pan of just simmering water or in the microwave on high for 1 ½ minutes. The chocolate should be removed from the bain marie or from the microwave just before it is completely melted; stir vigorously with a spoon until the rest of the chocolate melts and it is smooth and creamy. Set aside.

Put 7 oz (200 g) of the softened butter in a large mixing bowl. Add the caster/granulated sugar, the eggs, buttermilk or yoghurt, vanilla, coffee extract if using, flour, salt and baking powder. Sift in the cocoa powder.

Using a handheld mixer, beat everything together until smooth and creamy, scraping down the sides as necessary. Don’t worry about having tiny lumps of butter, they will melt when the warm chocolate is folded in. Pour the melted chocolate in the bowl and beat again briefly just until everything is well blended and smooth.

Divide the batter between the pans and bake in the preheated oven for 25 – 30 minutes for the smaller pans, 30 – 35 minutes for the larger pans or until the center of the cake is set and just starts to pull away from the sides.

Remove the tins from the oven onto cooling racks and allow to cool for about 10 minutes. Run a thin-bladed sharp knife around the edges to loosen and turn out onto racks, invert upright and allow to cool completely before frosting.

CHOCOLATE FROSTING
This makes enough to frost both the top and middle layers if making a two-layer cake.

Place the remaining chocolate and butter in a heatproof bowl and melt either over a pan of gently simmering water or in the microwave on high for 45 seconds to 1 minute. Stir until completely melted and smooth. Sift the icing sugar into the bowl and add the cream. Using the handheld mixer, beat briefly until well blended, smooth and creamy. Allow to cool and thicken before spreading on the cake or between the layers.

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