Overworking, with a salad

Well, crap.

Someday, perhaps, my life will be my own again, and I'll be able to do what I want, when I want (at least from time to time). I've finally resorted to the Pomodoro Technique at work, and I've seriously considered bringing it home with me. I'm not quite Type A enough to handle that kind of structure.

That being said, there is an end in sight. Work will may return to some level of normalcy come mid-October, and several other things will be wrapping up before Christmas.

In the meantime, believe it or not, I have been cooking. Not much has been blog-worthy, though. I've got a pudding cake recipe that is about 3 tweaks away from perfect; a chewy whole-wheat chocolate chip cookie that, I hope, I will be perfecting this weekend; and several ideas for tarts and cakes that I haven't even begun to properly plan. For dinners we've eaten scads of pasta (tomato sauce made from our crop has been the high point of the past several weeks), the occasional salad, and anything we could think of to eat with salsa.

This is the time of year when I get confused with the food that's on offer. Late summer produce is still everywhere—tomatoes, corn, grapes, peaches—but we're also getting the first fennel and kohlrabi, the prune plums have already disappeared, and local apples arrived just this week. I'm thrilled with all the options, but it's easy to be overwhelmed. Do I embrace the cool, cloudy evenings and use the foods I've not seen for nine months? Do I ignore those and instead just gorge myself on summer favorites, hoping to help me get through the winter?

Not that it's ever worked—I'll be half-dreaming of tomatoes from the day they turn mealy and sickly pink until they return to some level of quality sometime next spring—but that's been my plan so far. We've still got another dozen or so tomatoes ripening on the patio, so as long as the evil mouse-rat that's already stolen at least 5 pounds doesn't get any more of them, I'll be continuing for a little while longer.

Every season, I find some item that I gorge myself on no matter what the price, and when it's gone, I swear that I'm going to eat even more next year. Just as invariably, when that season comes again, I get distracted by something else. Last summer, it was fresh black-eyed peas. This year, it's been corn, and black-eyed peas are but a distant memory (I ate them once, but it was a lackluster dish that we won't discuss). I've always loved corn, and summers spent at my grandparents house in Oregon always included many dinners of corn on the cob, unnecessarily but deliciously coated in butter and salt. Corn is never as good as it is fresh from the garden—like peas, its sugars start converting to starch the minute it's picked. However, even after a few days in the fridge, the right seasonings and a few minutes in a hot skillet will make a meal that I'd never complain about.

Corn-Feta Salad with Tomatoes

Also like peas, corn freezes extraordinarily well. In the spring, this salad would probably be great with Persian cucumbers instead of tomatoes and some fresh-frozen corn (put it in a very hot skillet without thawing, in a single layer to avoid steaming).

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

½ sweet onion, thinly sliced

3 ears sweet corn, cut off the cob (2 to 2½ cups kernels)

1 large fresh tomato

2 ounces feta cheese

pinch dried oregano

salt & pepper

salad greens (optional)

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add one tablespoon of the olive oil and the sliced onion; sprinkle with salt and cook, stirring well, until tender and beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes. Increase the heat to high and add the corn, mixing well and spreading across the skillet. Cook 2-3 minutes, stirring a few times, until tender; if your pan is hot enough, you'll get some nice caramelized bits on the corn.

Remove from the heat and transfer to a shallow bowl; set aside to cool to barely warm or room temperature.

Chop the tomato and add it to the mixture; crumble the feta over. Add the oregano, some pepper, and the remaining tablespoon of olive oil and gently stir to combine. Adjust seasoning to your taste—depending on your feta, you may or may not need more salt.

Serve over a bed of greens, with crusty bread or crostini (or, for that matter, <i>on</i> crostini as bruschetta).

Serves 3 as a main dish, 4-6 as a side, and I-have-no-idea-how-many as a bruschetta appetizer (8-10, maybe?)

Tart-maggedon

I like to imagine that someday, somewhere, I will have enough land to have a proper garden. Rows of tomatoes, long beanpoles, cucumbers big and small grown for various pickles, a fruit tree or two. Until then, I just have to satisfy myself with my little starter garden on our patio. Every year we try a something new in the spring—it was sweet, oblong French breakfast radishes this year—and spend the summer coaxing as many peppers and tomatoes as we can out of our various containers and small strips of earth.

Yesterday, I decided to pick the tomatoes that were ripe.



I don't think we're doing so badly for an apartment patio.

Perhaps unfortunately, I haven't been doing much of particular interest with the tomatoes. We've eaten at least a half dozen dinners of panzanella; some sandwiches with mayo, tomato, and sharp cheddar cheese; and today we had pasta with the simplest tomato sauce: fresh blanched tomatoes, onion and garlic, olive oil, salt, herbs, and a touch of butter at the end. My favorites may have been the specimens that were sliced and eaten plain, still warm from the sun.

They may only be around, in all their end-of-summer glory, for another month or so, but I'm actually not here to talk about tomatoes. I'm here to talk about a meal that it took me several weeks, no few tears, and a burn scar on my arm to perfect. I'm here to talk about cheese gone bubbly and golden-brown in the oven. I'm here to talk about a mushroom and fontina tart.



Cheese and mushrooms, I'll venture, aren't ever likely to be a bad pair. Years ago, when I was still living in Morocco, I was paging through a borrowed vegetarian cookbook when I saw a recipe for polenta, baked with fontina and topped with mushrooms. In later years, I developed a slight obsession with savory tarts. Chard, beets, tomatoes ... you name it, I'll probably be happy to stick it in a buttery crust.

The first time I made this tart, I planned it days in advance. I read recipes and made notes and made a special trip to the store to get some fontina; I bought mushrooms and scrubbed my kitchen clean.

I should have known early that it wasn't going to work out. As I sliced onions and hummed along to Motown classics, suddenly it came to me: I never made the crust! I abandoned my vegetables, cranked up the oven, and feverishly put together the food processor, shaped my crust, and tossed it in the freezer, and by the time it was ready to go into the oven to blind-bake, it was nearly nine.

Never one to quit, I kept working. My mushrooms were prepped and custard mixed when the par-baked crust came out; the whole thing wasn't out of the oven more than 2 minutes before I popped it back in with its fillings. Then I waited.

And waited. The house was filled with delicious smells and both of us were practically drooling when the timer finally beeped. Perhaps I was starting to bonk and my hands were shaking; perhaps I was just tired, getting ready for dinner at 10 pm. As I took the bubbling, golden tart from the oven, something possessed me to unmold it immediately and without a spatula. As the metal tart ring inevitably slipped and wrapped around my forearm like a bracelet, I yelled, jerked ... and the entire tart fell, face down of course, onto the floor.

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I sat down, surrounded by tart-maggedon, and I cried for a few minutes. Afterward, I got up, iced my arm, helped Mike clean up the mess, and made ramen for dinner.

Tarts were on probation in my house for a few weeks after that. Eventually, though, I was ready to give it another whack, and I'm glad that I did.



As long as you don't wait until 8:30 to start dinner, this tart is totally worth your time. The ingredients may be difficult to find (or a bit expensive) in some places, but they're used in small enough amounts that it's not a wallet-buster. The first time I made it, I used a crumbly tart crust enriched with an egg yolk, but the second time I chose to use an all-butter flaky pastry dough, which was quicker, easier, and better suited to the filling. When making an all-butter crust, I use a method similar to the one on Chez Pim—I use more water and don't roll it nearly as much. While it's blind-baking, the onions and mushrooms have ample time to cook, and while the composed tart is then baking, there's ample time to make a salad—in my case, an incongruous but delicious warm corn salad. Just make sure you unmold it carefully when it's done.




Mushroom and Fontina Tart
You might notice that my pictures look a little bit light on mushrooms; that's because I'm much worse at meal planning (and the shopping that goes along with it) than I would have you believe, and I made the second tart with only about 4.5 ounces of mushrooms

For the pâte brisée:

1 ¼ cups unbleached flour
½ teaspoon salt
4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter, well chilled
¼ cup cold water, plus more if needed

For the tart:

½ onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 tablespoons butter, divided
6-8 ounces assorted mushrooms (I used a mixture of shiitake, maitake, and cremini)
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme, or ½ teaspoon dried
salt and pepper to taste
4 ounces fontina, grated
2 eggs
¾ cup milk, preferably whole
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

To make the crust, mix together the flour and salt in a bowl or on a clean counter or chopping board. Cut the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles very coarse meal. Pour the cold water over the flour and mix until it just holds together; feel free to add more, a teaspoon or so at a time, if necessary. Form the dough into a flattened disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Roll out the dough to 11-12 inches in diameter and transfer to a 10 inch tart pan, gently pressing the crust into the edges; fold the crust under at the edges if it is thin in spots. Trim the edges, cover with foil, and weight with pie weights or some dry beans. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and place in the oven for 15 minutes. Remove the weights and foil and return to the oven until just golden, 8-10 minutes more.

Meanwhile, set a large skillet over medium high heat with the olive oil and one tablespoon of the butter. Sauté the onion with a bit of salt until softened and just beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes; transfer to a medium bowl. Slice all the mushrooms and sauté in two additions, adding one tablespoon of the butter and seasoning with salt and pepper each time; when cooked, transfer to the bowl with the onion. Add the thyme, stir well, and set aside.

Beat the eggs together with the milk and salt; stir in the cheese, leaving a bit out. Spread the mushroom mixture evenly over the tart crust, then carefully pour the custard-cheese mixture over. Sprinkle the reserved cheese over the top.

Return the tart to the oven and bake 45-60 minutes, until golden brown all over and bubbling; if you prod a toothpick in near the middle you will see that the custard has set. Let cool 5-10 minutes before unmolding and serving. Serve hot or warm.

Serves 6 to 8

Seven links

I wasn't the kid who responded to chain letters, but I can't resist a meme, and this one gives me the opportunity to look back at the past 14 or so months of blogging. Sometimes it's easy to get bogged down in day-to-day life, cooking the same meals, scrabbling for blog ideas, and forgetting to think about ideas and recipes from even a few months past. At least a dozen times this summer I've gone to my recipes page, only to see something like stuffed squash or apple caramels and rack my brain to remember when I last made or even thought about a dish.

Reflection, it turns out, has some value. Although tomatoes and corn and plums are reminding me that there's still a little bit of summer left, the beginning of school and chilly evenings are already turning my mind to braises and wintery spices, to squash and applesauce. As I scrolled through earlier posts, I felt a little flutter in my chest that most women my age reserve for Johnny Depp. Black-eyed peas! Pomegranates! Stroganoff! I may have a few more summer posts left, but my unfaithful heart is already scheming fall recipes. Here are some of the things that I'm planning to share:

- Kale Soup
- Braised Pearl Onions (a.k.a. the best Thanksgiving side dish)
- Cheesy Roast Pumpkin "fondue"
- Chili-that-Texans-would-hate
- Bok Choy
- Onion-Stuffed Moroccan bread
- A trio of autumn cookies: Ginger-Orange, Pumpkin-Raisin, and Molasses Spice
- Eggnog Ice Cream
- and hopefully, Spiced Rum Cake with Custard

But first, I'm going to head down memory lane with seven special posts. Thanks to Nicole at the wonderful blog And Baby Cakes Three for inviting me to participate and forcing me to look back.

My most beautiful post:

I suppose it's cheating to choose either of my Alaska posts, but as much as I love food, I don't think it will ever live up to the beauty of my first home. For food, I think some of my prettiest pictures have been on some of my barest posts—I flipped through dozens of posts, and my favorites all had one or two photos each. I finally settled on my Fresh Black-Eyed Peas with Swiss Chard; not only are they fantastic to eat, but I love both of the photos.




My most popular post:

This also kind of qualified as my most surprising post. Half a Cabbage and a Cake was written near the end of two weeks vacation; I was feeling lazy and relaxed, and I had whipped up a simple little cornmeal cake to celebrate the New Year (and the end of my pumpkin pie). While I make plenty of more complicated meals, this is the kind of food I love: simple, rustic, and flavorful.




My most controversial post:

Umm... I don't think anything that I write about is controversial—at least, I can't imagine someone who gets riled up about chocolate spends much time reading food blogs. I suppose for lack of anything else, I will choose this post about souped up ramen (pun totally intended), simply because lots of foodies have no place in their heart for packaged ramen. I make no apologies.


My most helpful post:

I don't think that very many recipes I post on here are outrageously complicated, but perhaps the most helpful post is the one for Cheese and Onion Enchiladas. The process of making a more traditional enchilada isn't familiar to most people I've met, but they're not difficult, just time consuming. In addition, eating enchiladas with a big pile of cold, crunchy vegetables is foreign to almost everyone I know, and it can make a believer out of an enchilada hater.






A post that surprised me with its success:

Once I discount the Blueberry-Lemon Cornmeal Cake above, this one's easy: Aloo Simla Mirch. Curried potatoes and bell peppers, made with a simple homemade masala, is one of my favorite Indian dishes when bell peppers are at their best (and one that I will probably be making again this week). However, in my experience most people are more interested in getting Indian food at restaurants than making it at home—perhaps due to the initial outlay to buy spices that Western-centric cooks often don't have—I credit Liana at Pie and Beer, who linked back to it shortly after I posted it.




A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved:

I had a hard time with this one—since my life crashed down around my ears and my posts became so infrequent this summer, I can't really blame anyone but myself for some of the posts that haven't gotten much attention. The internet wave just keeps on rolling no matter what is going on in real life. However, I think it's a real shame that more people didn't get a chance to check out this simple Pea Purée. Not only is it easy to make and delicious—I recently discovered that it's fantastic thinned with a little bit of water and tossed with pasta—but it also embraces the inherent starchiness of peas that haven't just been rushed in from the garden.




The post that I am most proud of:

The posts that I tend to be most proud of are the ones where I have the much longed-for combination of good recipe, photos, writing, and story. While I often have three of those four (sometimes I may be more terse and not have a story at all; more often, my pictures are altogether lacking), putting all four together is always an accomplishment. What could be more simple than oatmeal cookies? Without raisins, chocolate, or some other accompaniment, the recipe has to be spot-on. My Perfectly Simple Oatmeal Cookies are chewy and flavorful; the pictures, monochromatic though they may necessarily be, are better composed than most; and the story reminds me fondly of family and friends.




Wow. I think I'm exhausted. I'm going to cheat and not tag specific people for this. How about this: if you are interested in joining in here, send a message and let me know.

I'm off for the day, but that promised mushroom tart will be making an appearance before the end of the weekend—with (wonder of wonders) a dessert! I haven't had a dessert on here in ages, it seems, but that will change soon.

It's a start

I've managed, in the past several days, to work my way from lying prone on the couch, sipping soup and running through entire boxes of tissue to having some ability to put together coherent thoughts, interrupted only by the occasional three-minute coughing fit. I guess I'll call it progress—on the bright side, a hacking cough provides a fantastic ab workout. Amazingly, I've actually been cooking. My favorite sick foods are not exactly blog-worthy (eggs poached in milk, served over toast, ramen noodles, and tomato-rice soup with cinnamon), but I didn't entirely lose my sense of taste, so once my throat had recovered a bit, I decided to take advantage.



Shortly after returning from my trip, I went to the farmer's market to find that summer had finally taken hold: piles of peppers, boxes of beautiful (and horribly overpriced) heirloom tomatoes, great heaps of fragrant basil. On my own little patio, habañeros are beginning to turn orange, tomatoes are ripening almost as fast as we can eat them, and a sunflower kindly planted by one of our local songbirds is swiveling from east to west each day.



I came home with a shock of sweet Italian basil, a big bag of red peppers, and a plan. Particularly in California, bell peppers seem to be forgotten around the summertime. Eggplant are everywhere, towers of corn stack up on tables and in grocery stores, and boxes of watermelon and cantaloupe loom like bodyguards at store entrances. But bell peppers? Eh, you can get those any old time.

True? Perhaps. But deeply colored peppers, small and firm, with sweet and lightly acidic flavor—those are harder to find. Red peppers (or their orange and yellow siblings) are all right raw, I suppose, diced with some red onion and a tangy vinagrette or used as a vehicle for hummus or some other sort of dip, but their flavor deepens when cooked. They pair well with spicy Indian flavors and are delicious blended into a nutty sauce, but they are at their most simple and versatile when roasted.

Every summer, I try to find a big bag of super-ripe red peppers on the cheap. Sometimes they are beginning to wrinkle with age, or they're strangely wrinkled and collapsed on themselves, or even beginning to bruise and turn brown. No matter—a hot, hot oven or grill wipes away all those sins. A bonus? Tuck them away in your freezer, and you can add color to soups and stews, or grill up crusty panini, all winter long.



I adore toasted sandwiches. Nearly anyone who is passionate about food would agree that texture and mouthfeel are integral parts of any meal, and for me, any proper sandwich has to have some good crunch. If it doesn't have lettuce, or cucumber, or maybe even some potato chips when the time is right, it's gotta be toasted. (That is not to say that some sandwiches don't require toast and a crunchy filling ... I don't want any soft bread on my BLTs.) A griddle and some melted butter will make a fine toasted sandwich, but the rippled, crusty ridges are what make panini really special. You don't need any special apparatus, although the panini presses look pretty cool; you don't even need one of those special cast-iron grill lids. Any heavy pot that fits into your grill pan or will balance on a flat grill will work fine. I use a 10-inch cast iron skillet that nests into my 10 inch grill pan, but any dish - even a plate weighed down with a bag of beans or a foil-wrapped brick will do.




Roasted Red Pepper Panini
To be honest, I usually make these with goat cheese instead of fresh mozzarella (it's less fussy, as the goat cheese doesn't get as gooey when it melts); just sub the goat cheese and spread it a little farther on your sandwich.

4 slices, about ⅜ inch thick, rustic country-style white bread (like a ciabatta loaf), or 2 individual ciabatta rolls
4 ounces fresh mozzarella
roasted red pepper, about one medium pepper total (see below)
8-10 fres basil leaves
salt & pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

To make roasted red peppers, preheat your broiler or grill. Rinse red peppers (I can get about a dozen in my oven at once); arrange on a baking sheet and place near the top of the oven or pile them in a single layer on the grill. Cook until the skin is blackened, turning with tongs as needed until tender and mostly blackened all over. Place the peppers in a paper bag or a lidded container and set aside to steam and cool for a few minutes. When cool enough to handle, peel away the skin and remove the stem and seeds; discard all but the flesh. To freeze, you can either set little puddles on a baking sheet, then transfer to a bag when frozen, or stuff them into an ice cube tray and do the same.

To make the panini, heat a heavy, ridged grill pan over medium-high or high heat (because the mozzarella melts quickly, make sure it's higher than you would usually use for a sandwich); have ready an unheated matching skillet or a heat-resistant dish (with weights if needed).

If using individual rolls, cut a thin slice from the top of each roll, then cut crosswise into two ⅜ inch slices. Arrange the bread slices on a plate; if using the rolls, face the cut side down.

Thinly slice the fresh mozzarella and pat dry with a paper towel; if it is very fresh and juicy, you may want to press a little bit to remove a bit more whey. Arrange over two slices of bread, leaving a half-inch clear around the edges. Pat the red pepper pieces dry as well and arrange over the cheese. Scatter basil leaves over, season with salt and papper, and top each sandwich with the other slices of bread.

Melt the butter in a little bowl and mix it with the oil. Brush about half of the mixture over the tops of the sandwiches, then flip the bread, cheese side up, into the grill pan. Set your weight over the top, pressing down if needed to force the bread into the ridges.

Toast 2-3 minutes, until golden brown and crispy. Remove the weight, brush the tops with the butter mixture, and carefully flip. Note: if your pan was too cool or your fillings too juicy, you may have some pepper- or cheese-juice drip into the pan; if so, don't panic - just hold them over a plate to catch the drips before flipping them.

Press on the toasted side just briefly, then remove the weight to finish cooking. If necessary, use your spatula to poke any errant cheese back into the sandwich.

Toast until golden, 2-3 minutes more. Remove to a cutting board to firm up for 1-2 minutes, then cut and serve.

Makes 2 sandwiches

Jiggedy-jog

There's something to be said for simultaneous refreshment and frustration. After a fantastic 10 days visiting my parents (and an old friend from high school), I returned home, only to contract a nasty virus on the plane ride home. I limped my way through the short week at work and am sniffling, coughing, and sneezing my way through the weekend. Alaska, as always, was a blast. We climbed mountains.














We saw ice ...












 ... and water ...

 

 ... and quite a few animals.







 (That's a porcupine, by the way, but he was on the move.)






 We also ate a lot of good food, but I didn't take any pictures. Halibut tacos; pea purée (this time with mushrooms, as a topping for pasta); seared coho salmon; and the best fried chicken I've ever made, if I do say so myself. We introduced Mike to zucchini patties and my mom to Swiss chard; we ate spring rolls, crusty pizza, and other hometown favorites; and we made three quarts of ice cream with cherries and dark chocolate stracciatella for my dad. It was fun—in some ways, I could have stayed much longer. Given that they had record-breaking rainfall the two days after we left, though, I suppose it was time.




 Coming soon: red pepper panini, and the mushroom tart-that-almost-wasn't.

No regrets

It's that time of year again. The time when I make big batches of pesto, fill my freezer with fish and blueberries, stock my pantry with canned peaches and (if I'm lucky) tomatoes, and consequently, find myself trying desperately to use the last of the previous summer's precious haul.

Most recently, it's been blueberries. Good berries are hard to come by, and in my opinion, you've never really eaten a blueberry if you haven't had one from Alaska. Juneau may be rainy and cool, but the fertile soil and wet weather makes for the best blueberries I've ever had; even frozen for nearly a year, these little guys are incredible.

I'm not sentimental—childhood toys and never-looked at photos don't hold much appeal for me—but nothing brings out my inner hoarder like a treasured stash of delicious (and hard-to-find) food. If I find and splurge on a real Spanish chorizo, my meal portions become pauper-like. Bring me a jar of homemade jam, and I'll be spreading it over toast and biscuits for months. With a big freezer bag full of blueberries, I found myself making Blueberry-Maple Syrup (for our now-regular Sunday brunch of pancakes) and little else.

Finally, a year after I picked them, I really needed to make room in the freezer. But what to make? I had an odd desire for blueberry coffee cake, but I also had a half-cup of Meyer lemon sugar languishing in the fridge. However, I was worried about trying something new: wasting a few cups of flour on a failed dish is expected from time to time, but what if I had to throw away—or worse yet, eat and not enjoy—a dessert studded with those carefully picked and lovingly saved blueberries? Quelle horreur!

I googled; I paged through cookbooks. I scribbled little notes and peered into the pantry, agonizing over blog postings and measurements. Eventually, Blueberry-Lemon Cheesecake Bars were born, and I have no regrets.



I initially was going to make an actual cheesecake, but despite my husband's endless love for it, it's usually a little too much for me. Cheesecakes are always too rich and too massive—perhaps I should invest in a 6 inch springform, but as it is, I need a special occasion to start working with that much cream cheese at once.

Instead, I decided to take it a bit easy. These bars are like cheesecake on Valium; there's the rich, lemony cheese custard swirled with violet fruit, but the amounts are nearly equal, and the crumbly tart-like almond crust is around half the thickness of the topping. The result is the kind of harmony I expect, but never experience, with cheesecake. Each bite has a little bit of everything and too much of nothing.





Blueberry-Lemon Cheesecake Bars
Note: Meyer lemons are long gone here, but whenever I come across a recipe that calls for juicing (but not zesting) a Meyer lemon, I make lemon sugar. Zest 1 Meyer lemon into ½ cup granulated sugar, distributing the oils with your fingers, then cover well, label the amount of sugar, and refrigerate or freeze. It will last almost forever—though the sugar will go rock-hard—and it saves you throwing away that lovely lemon zest.

For the crust:

¼ cup unbleached flour
¼ cup sugar
pinch salt
1 ½ cup almonds (I usually use raw, but I had a surplus of slivered and used those instead)
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter

For the blueberry mixture:

1 ½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries (use the best you can find)
1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch or arrowroot (I've been using the latter lately and preferring it for unknown reasons)
For the cheesecake:

12 ounces full-fat cream cheese, room temperature (I find that low-fat or Neufchâtel don't set up properly, but feel free to experiment)
2 eggs
½ cup (Meyer) lemon sugar (see above, or substitute ½ cup sugar with zest of one lemon)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line an 8 inch baking pan with foil and butter well; set aside. In a food processor, combine all crust ingredients save the butter and pulse until it resembles coarse meal. Cut the butter into 5 or 6 pieces and add to the mixture. Pulse in 10-15 second increments until the dough holds together well with few crumbs. Press into the buttered foil evenly (this will make a nice thick crust of a scant centimeter; leave some out if you prefer a thinner crust) and bake 15-18 minutes, or until beginning to puff all over and turn golden. Remove from the heat and press the puffed parts down with the curved part of a spoon; set aside to cool.

Lower oven heat to 325°F.

Meanwhile, combine the berries and lemon juice in a small saucepan and set over medium heat. Stir together the sugar and starch and add to the mixture. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the berries have completely thawed (if frozen) and are getting bubbly, about 10 minutes (fresh berries will heat faster but take longer to break down a bit, so the time will probably be about the same, fresh or frozen). Remove from the heat and set aside, partially covered, to cool.

Combine all the cheesecake ingredients in a large bowl - make sure the cream cheese is fully softened or you might end up with lumpy cheesecake. Whisk all ingredients together well to combine.

Make sure that the crust is no longer too hot to touch (it needn't be room temperature). Scrape the Cheesecake mixture over the crust, spreading it evenly to the edges. Spoon the berry mixture, now barely warm, over the surface. Using a knife or your spatula, gently swirl the berries and cheesecake together a bit.

Bake 40-50 minutes, until cheesecake is set and beginning to turn golden at the edges, but just a little bit wobbly still in the center. Transfer to a rack to cool completely, then cover with plastic wrap and transfer to the refrigerator. For best results, refrigerate overnight before cutting.

To cut clean slices, remove the cheesecake from the pan with the foil and set on a cutting board. Cut into squares by heating a long, sharp knife under running water and drying it before cutting; rinse the knife between cuts.

Makes 16 cheesecake bites

Devilish

Stop reading.

No, really. Turn off your computer, put on your shoes, and go to the store to buy some eggplant. You know you want to.

Eggplants are like reverse ugly ducklings. Find a farmer with several varieties of eggplant, you might well be overwhelmed: small, pea-sized green ones; big, nearly black American ones; skinny eggplants in shades of violet and fuschia, sometimes streaked with green or white; pristine white ones that finally explain how they might have gotten their name. Once cooked down to that velvety texture I love, however, even the prettiest specimen has faded to an unappealing grey-brown. Unless you take great pains to keep its shape, it will also slump into almost a paste. Luckily, it's much more delicious than it looks (and sounds).

I eat a lot of eggplant, especially in the hotter summer months, but it almost inevitably becomes baingan bharta. Smoky, creamy eggplant spiked with spices and cooled with mint and yoghurt is delicious, but what about the delicious but oh-so-unfashionable eggplant parmesan? What about Greek-style egpplant sandwiches, and ratatouille, and all the other recipes that I always forget about?

Just over a year ago, I saw a recipe that looked just about perfect. Francis Lam, food writer extraordinaire, fantastic chef, and person whose wisdom I'd very much like to tap, reposted a Gourmet article about eggplant pasta.



It was devilishly simple. Salt some eggplant, then cook it with olive oil and garlic until velvety soft. Mash it, toss it with sun-dried tomatoes and basil, and toss it with some spaghetti. It sounded delicious ... but still, when eggplants came into my home, I made more Indian food.

I may be a year late—as with so many aspects of my life, I am unfailingly uncool in the food world—but better late than never. I left Francis behind while I flipped through pages of Marcella and Giuliano Hazan's respective cookbooks, took a look in my refrigerator and my little patio garden, and came up with my own version. This pasta is relatively fast (I think it took me 45 minutes; with proper mise en place it would have been scarcely more than 30) and very forgiving; it would be good with any number of herbs, and even eggplant that's going slightly leathery in the crisper will make a fine meal.




Eggplant Pasta
Adapted from Francis Lam and Marcella Hazan

1 lb eggplant (I prefer a couple smaller Italian eggplants, but any variety will work)
½ sweet onion, thinly sliced
4 cloves garlic
¼ cup olive oil
1 cup water
2 plum tomatoes (peeled if desired)
pinch crushed red pepper
8 ounces spaghetti or linguine, or some similar skinny pasta
salt and pepper
a small handful parsley, chopped

If you don't like eggplant skin, peel half or all of the eggplants—although with this very soft recipe, I never bother. Slice the eggplant into ½ inch medallions and salt each layer; stack them up and set aside for about fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, pour most of the olive oil into a 10-12 inch skillet. Add the sliced onion and peeled garlic and set over low heat until fragrant and just beginning to sizzle.

Squeeze the eggplant to expel some of the excess liquid (I do this sloppily, with my hands—it's just going to be mashed up anyway); chop the eggplant into medium chunks. Add it to the pan, stir well to coat, and increase the heat to medium-high. Chop up the tomatoes and add them to the mixture with the crushed red pepper. When the mixture is sizzling happily, add the water and bring to a boil; reduce heat to medium and partially cover; ignore for about 20 minutes.

After about 10 minutes, set a pot of water to boil. Salt it and add the pasta. Cook until 1-2 minutes shy of al dente; drain, reserving ½ cup cooking water, then cover and set aside.

Return to you pasta. Using a fork, wooden spoon, or potato masher, bash it all up into a coarse purée; note that it will look kind of like baby food. If your pot is big enough, toss in the pasta; otherwise, toss the pasta and sauce in the pasta pot. Add about half of the pasta cooking water and toss it all together to coat the noodles; if it's very dry, add more water.

Serve topped with parsley (which does minimize the baby-food effect, if you care).

Serves 3 as a main or 4 as a side

A real love affair

We were spared the heat dome that covered most of the country (and the news) last week—in fact, it's been unseasonably cool in Southern California, with the overcast mornings and cool evenings more expected in the Pacific Northwest.

However, when I saw a recipe for cold noodles with sesame sauce, I couldn't help myself. I just so happened to have some prawns in the fridge and a bag of green beans that needed to be used. I seem to be having a real love affair with sesame seeds these days, and who can blame me? The dry nuttiness is well suited to most vegetables, and when mixed with the salty-sour-sweet ingredients and a big pile of cold noodles, it makes the perfect summer meal.

Despite a few foibles, like forgetting to allow time to let the meal be well chilled—resulting in a colander full of pasta and ice cubes—and adding a bit too much water to the sauce, this meal was fast and easy. My beloved blender recently broke, so I used an immersion blender for the sauce; the resulting mixture was not perfectly smooth, but had lots of whole sesame seeds studded throughout.

Cold Sesame Noodles with Green Beans

Adapted from a recipe at Dispatches from Whitcomb Street

For the sauce (have more of the first four ingredients to adjust flavors):

2 tablespoons good soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar

2 tablespoons mirin

1 tablespoon sugar

a small lump of ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped (about 1 tablespoon)

1 clove garlic

2 tablespoons sesame seeds.

For the noodles:

12 ounces green beans

8 ounces wide Asian wheat noodles

¼ small sweet or red onion

2 small carrots

6-8 ounces peeled prawns, preferably butterflied

2-3 tablespoons cilantro, plus additional for garnish

Place the sauce ingredients in a medium bowl and blend with an immersion blender until well blended but with plenty of whole seeds—use a stand blender if you prefer a smoother sauce. Taste the sauce and adjust to your desire; I added a bit more mirin and soy sauce. Thin the sauce a bit with 1-2 tablespoons water; set aside in the fridge.

Bring a big pot of salted water to boil; meanwhile, snap the ends of the green beans and break them into 2 inch pieces. Boil the green beans just until tender, 4-6 minutes. Fish the beans out and transfer to a large bowl of cold water. 

Return the pot of water to the boil, add the noodles, and cook until a bit shy of al dente, probably 4-6 minutes. Meanwhile, sliver the onion and julienne the carrots. Drain the green beans and add the other vegetables to the bowl.

Toss the prawns into the pasta water for the last 1 minute of cooking; when the prawns are opaque throughout and the noodles are al dente, drain the works and rinse well in cold water. When cooled, add to the vegetables and pour about half the sauce over. Toss until the noodles are completely coated in sauce; chill until cold.

Before serving, chop the cilantro and mix it in, adding additional sauce as desired. Serve cold.

Serves 4

Wild America

Los Angeles has much more wildlife than most people (even Angelenos) would believe. I see raptors at least a couple times a week on light poles overlooking the freeways; deer, rabbits, and rattlesnakes are commonplace in the hills; raccoons wander along the sidewalks at night; I once even saw a brief glimpse of a coyote slinking through the trees by the side of the road.

This, though, was nothing short of exceptional.



Mike's photo isn't the best, to be sure; that's what happens when shooting through a screen door in need of a wash. That, viewers, is a full-grown Red-tailed Hawk ... sitting on our fence, not 8 feet from the door. Presumably he decided that our bird feeder, which draws dozens of songbirds throughout the day, was a good little snack bar for him—and personally, I'd be happy to lose a few finches if I got to see a hawk up close more often.

In food news, I'm still scouring the market every week for ever-elusive Blenheim apricots (I still haven't made any jam this summer), and quite possibly eating my weight in pasta.

A couple months back, two of my favorite bloggers proclaimed a shared dislike for macaroni and cheese. Everyone's tastes differ, to be sure—after all, I won't get within ten feet of any cooked broccoli if I can possibly avoid it—but what shocked me more than anything was their shared complaint about how greasy macaroni and cheese is. Setting aside the terrible, junky, non-greasy wonder that is Velveeta mac 'n' cheese, and politely ignoring the terrifying Tang-colored powder that accompanies the boxed stuff, I've been making homemade macaroni and cheese for years without a spoonful of grease in sight.



I may have a place in my heart for cheap boxed macaroni (along with ramen noodles, probably my favorite junk food), but for years I had wanted a good homemade recipe: something to make when going to a barbecue or craving bubbling brown cheese. When flipping through an issue of Bon Appétit several years back, I found a possible candidate, but I decided to make some changes.

Several months later (after all, how often can a person make macaroni and cheese?) I proclaimed it finished. The base is simple enough—provolone and sharp cheddar cheeses blended into a roux flavored with onions and garlic—but a dash of Spanish smoked paprika and a handful of chipotle chiles add a smoky, spicy kick. I like to top it with fresh buttered bread crumbs, but it's equally good (and crustier, to boot) when naked on top. No matter what you do, you won't have any puddles of grease.




Smoky Chipotle Macaroni and Cheese
Adapted from Bon Appétit's recipe here

As is, the recipe is not particularly spicy; if you like spice, note that a vinegar-based hot sauce (we like Secret Aardvark's habañero sauce) is fantastic stirred into the served pasta.

Also, this makes a pretty big batch; if I'm not making this to take to a party, I use one 8 inch square dish and two small-ish soufflé dishes, freezing the smaller dishes unbaked and without bread crumbs. When you're ready to eat them, they can be baked as below, increasing the baking time as needed.


1 pound elbow macaroni
2 cups chopped green onions, lightly packed
2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, divided
1 very large or 2 medium onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
½ cup flour
4 cups whole milk
1 pound extra-sharp cheddar, grated
8 ounces provolone, grated
2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon pimentón de la vera (Spanish smoked paprika)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3-4 chipotle chiles in adobo, minced (from one small can; I use Embasa, a readily available brand)
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or to taste; optional)
1 ½ cups fresh bread crumbs (optional)

Cook the macaroni in boiling salted water until just barely al dente; drain and mix with the green onions and fresh oregano in a very large bowl; set aside, loosely covered.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Using the same large pot, heat 6 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat. Add the onions and garlic and cook, stirring often, until softened but not browned, 6-8 minutes.

Add the flour and cook, stirring constantly, 2-3 minutes more. Gradually whisk in the milk. Increase the heat and whisk constantly until boiling. Reduce heat again and simmer until slightly thickened, 2-5 minutes - be sure to stir regularly to avoid letting the milk burn. Add the cheeses, seasonings, and chipotles; stir well and cook until cheese is all melted, 2-3 minutes. Adjust seasonings to taste.

Pour the sauce over the pasta and mix well. Mound into on 9x13x2 pan or one 8" square pan and two approximately five inch soufflé dishes.

If covering with bread crumbs, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Toss the bread crumbs until uniformly coated with butter, then sprinkle over pasta (note: if freezing, I recommend leaving off the bread crumbs). If freezing, wrap the dish(es) with plastic wrap, then foil.

Bake, uncovered, until heated through and brown & bubbly on top (about 1 hour; 1.5 hours if frozen).

Serves at least 12

Then and now

When I was growing up, my family spent every summer visiting my grandparents in Washington and Oregon. Growing up in Alaska, the quality of our produce relied on the vagaries of the few airlines that came into the city. The Pacific Northwest, however, benefits from abundant winter rains and long hours of sun (or at least daylight) in the summer months.

Weeks were whiled away at my grandparents' house in Eugene, watching enough television at night to last my sister and I through the rest of the year, and passing the day having water fights, playing in the sprinklers, and being put to work by my grandma in the garden.

Even as a small child, I loved working (or, to my mind, playing) in the garden. My grandma took advantage of her large yard, growing an abundance of vegetables&mdash;for every tomato or zucchini plant that was planted each spring, she would experiment with something new. Romanesco was tried and added to the regular rotation; eggplants were discarded as not worth the effort. While I loved shoveling up potatoes and plucking crimson tomatoes from their vines, not everything was fun&mdash;I developed an irrational fear of artichokes for years after several ants crawled out of one onto my hand. Without a doubt, my favorite time to visit was late June, when both strawberries and green beans would be coming into season.

Eating as many strawberries as I could stomach was fun; making the rest into jam or tart fruit leather was like a special treat. None of that could compare, gardener protégé that I was, to snapping and canning green beans. My grandma must have canned 50 quarts of green beans every summer, all from one row of the garden, and if we had come to visit, we were all put to work.

I would go outside with the big stock pot, picking beans until my back ached and my neck was sunburnt. The pot brimming, we would lug it up to the patio. Three generations, my grandma and mom in chairs, my sister and I on the steps, would sit around the pot, grabbing handfuls of beans and snapping them with that satisfying "pop" into an even bigger bowl. I would take a few tentative bites of the raw bean&mdash;even now, when I can use that bite to gauge the freshness and ripeness of a bean, I still don't particularly enjoy it. The quarts would be packed and set in the pressure canner (still not something I've ventured to play with on my own), then set in rows along the kitchen counter to cool. Without room to work in the kitchen, our dinner that night would be cooked by my grandpa out on the grill&mdash;with green beans, of course, on the side.

For years green beans were my exception to the rule&mdash;I preferred them soft and cooked nearly into oblivion (or "Southern-style", as I was told once), like they were when canned, then reheated on the stove months later. However, in recent years, I have begun cooking my green beans quickly. My most common method is from Marcella Hazan: the beans are tipped, then boiled in salted water until just tender throughout, 3-5 minutes; they are then drained, spread out to cool quickly, and tossed immediately in olive oil with lemon juice, salt, and some coarsely ground pepper.

Last night I decided to do something different. I had thawed a Sockeye salmon fillet the night before, and I suddenly decided that I wanted to do a broiled, miso-glazed salmon instead of my typical nearly-naked salmon, seared with nothing more than salt and pepper. That inspiration encouraged me to do a quick google search, and half an hour later, I sat down to salmon, rice, and toasted sesame green beans.

Toasted Sesame Green Beans

Inspired by several recipes, including these two.

1 tablespoon white sesame seeds

1 lb green beans, preferably Blue Lake

2 teaspoons mirin (Japanese sweet rice wine)

2 teaspoons soy sauce

1 teaspoon vegetable oil

2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

In a dry wok, toast the sesame seeds over medium heat, stirring regularly, until very fragrant and golden-brown, about 4-5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl or mortar and let cool.

Set a large pot of water to boil. Meanwhile, rinse the beans and snap the tips off; if the beans are very large, break into two pieces. When the water is boiling, salt it and carefully add the beans. Cook until just nearly tender, about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, set aside a pinch of seeds for garnish and crush the rest into a rough paste with a pestle or wooden spoon. Transfer to a small bowl and add the mirin and soy sauce and stir well to blend.

When the beans are cooked, drain them and soak briefly in cold water to stop the cooking; drain. Reheat the wok over medium-high heat and add the two oils. When the wok is hot but not quite smoking, add the drained beans. Cook 2-3 minutes, stirring regularly, until hot all the way through. Add the sesame paste mixture, stir well to blend, and cook 1-2 minutes more&mdash;the beans should be cooked through but still a little bit crunchy. Sprinkle with the reserved sesame seeds and serve hot (or at room temperature, some people say, but I'm not okay with that).

Serves 3-4

When all else fails

It's depressing to spend as many hours in the kitchen as I have in the past week with nothing to show for it, but it's been a week of failures.

Last weekend, I carefully planned out a savory tart. There were mushrooms, there was cheese, there was a buttery crust and rich custardy base. After an hour in the oven, the tart was puffed up, golden-brown, and smelling of heaven. I'd forgotten to parbake my crust earlier in the evening, and the clock was creeping steadily to a time even the most traditional European would find absurd, so I was hungry, excited, and hurried—a bit too hurried.

I would have taken a picture for you if I hadn't sat down on the floor and wept when the entire tart fell to the ground, upside-down of course, onto a freshly cleaned floor. I'm usually one to curse at food failures rather than cry, but facing a 9:30 dinner smeared across the kitchen floor was just too much.

You will forgive me, I hope, for spending putting my kitchen in time out for a day or two—save cobbled-together lunches and pasta or sandwiches for dinner, it took me nearly half a week to get the fortitude to start cooking again.

Perhaps I was still a bit frustrated, because kneading bread was the most appealing thing I could think of when I returned to the kitchen. I made chapati to go with Indian food (the chapati didn't puff), and made my own phyllo dough for spanakopita (not a failure, necessarily, but no better than storebought and definitely not worth the aching arms I have today).



When all else fails in the kitchen, I make eggs. Eggs are one of the world's perfect foods, and they're pretty hard to mess up. Granted, I've made my share of egg disasters—boiled eggs forgotten on the stove for 30 minutes, fried eggs put in a too-hot pan, soft boiled eggs taken off the heat too early—but on the whole, I can rely on eggs in a pinch to make a great meal.

I swear, I could work for the American Egg Board—I love them cooked just about every way, and I'm a big proponent of eggs-for-meals-other-than-breakfast. A fried or poached egg on braised cabbage or kale is one of the great pleasures in life; a boiled egg with a bright yellow yolk tops pickled asparagus for a delicious (and beautiful) appetizer; swirled into nearly any brothy soup just before serving makes a filling and rich meal.

While I normally prefer my breakfast eggs fried or soft boiled (or really, any way that offers a runny egg for satisfactory toast-dipping), my favorite way to eat scrambled eggs is akuri. I first discovered akuri when browsing through My Bombay Kitchen, a fantastic cookbook (and fascinating read) by Niloufer Ichaporia King. The book focuses on traditional Parsi dishes, and within a day of buying the book, I was searching through it to find something I could make without going to the store. My eyes caught the words "scrambled eggs", and I headed to the kitchen.

Like any dish, from pasta with tomato sauce to green beans, there are as many different ways to make akuri as there are people to argue that their method is the best one. Some people may add tomatoes, others turmeric, still others garam masala or cumin. I've made it a dozen different ways, but eventually I settled on this method as my favorite.




Akuri, or Parsi-style scrambled eggs
Adapted from My Bombay Kitchen

I usually eat eggs alone (how sad!), so this recipe is just for one—it scales up easily: just use a bigger pan and allow more cooking time. Also, the original recipe called for ginger-garlic paste, a staple of Parsi cuisine, but I rarely have it made; if I'm making a big meal, I'll make some, but for breakfast I just mince them together as below.

2 large eggs
2-3 teaspoons heavy cream
salt
½ tablespoon butter or ghee
3-4 tablespoons finely chopped onion
1 clove garlic
1 small knob ginger
1 small serrano chile
1 ½ tablespoons chopped cilantro

Beat the eggs very well with the cream and a generous pinch of salt; set aside.

Heat a small pan over medium heat. Melt the butter, then add the onion. Let cook, stirring occasionally, until softened but not browned, 4-5 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel and finely mince the garlic (I use enough to make nearly a teaspoon). Peel and mince the ginger, making sure that you have about the same amount of ginger as garlic. Quickly mince the ginger and garlic together, crushing them lightly with the side of the knife to release the juices and make a coarse paste (some salt helps; also, a mortar makes quick work of this if you don't mine the additional dishes); set aside. Mince the chile, first removing the seeds if you like less spice. Chop the cilantro and set aside.

When the onion is cooked, reduce the heat to low and add the ginger-garlic paste and the chile. Stir well and let cook until very fragrant but not sizzling loudly, 1-2 minutes more. Briefly beat the eggs again and add them to the pan with the cilantro. Cook slowly, stirring often, until the eggs are softly set and very creamy.

Serve immediately with some sort of bread—I'm partial to buttered wheat toast, but it's also great wrapped in a piece of chapati or naan.

Serves one, but can easily be scaled up - just use a bigger pan and allow more cooking time

Not going to wait

Spring seemed oddly short this year. It seems that I only made asparagus a half-dozen times before they became thick and woody, and shelling peas were wrinkled and sad almost before they were good enough to buy, and my beloved fava beans were huge and starchy before June came along.

Now, though, is the time for green beans and the end of cherry season, for the first baby zucchini and sweet stone fruit. After several weeks of Southern California's famous June Gloom, strawberries are still lingering, and while the tomatoes on my patio garden are blooming and showing small fruit, the specimens at the markets are getting fatter, redder, and sweeter.

A rainy spring in the plum and apricot Mecca north of L.A. has made for an uncertain apricot season; my preferred Blenheim variety was almost nonexistent last summer, so I'm not going to wait and see what July brings.



After getting home from the market last week, I looked at my fruit selection and wondered what the heck I was going to do with it all. Stone fruit, strawberries, tomatoes and cheese are my unabashed food splurges—while my husband is left sputtering at the price, I happily fill my bags with aromatic apricots and unblemished nectarines, controlled only by the limited amount of cash that I bring and a strong aversion to food waste. However profligate I may be while at the market, I always try to plan my meals to avoid the (sometimes inevitable) bag of who-knows-what from who-knows-when that we all ignore in the bottom of the crisper drawer.

Good intentions and careful meal planning aside, I got home last week with six beautiful apricots and a vague idea for some sort of cake. I flipped through my cookbooks and clicked on countless blogs; I thought about making my apricot yoghurt cake, which I discarded as uninteresting, or this fantastic almond torte with apricots, which was rejected because I'm hoarding my almonds for another purpose. While rifling through my pantry searching for ingredients, I saw a bag of walnut halves and remembered my husband's half-jesting request that I make walnut cake once a week for the rest of eternity.



It made sense—we see dried apricots and walnuts used together quite often, but fresh apricots are more often paired with almonds. A little more research, a few tweaks to the cake recipe, and Apricot-Walnut Upside-Down Cake was born.

The first version was good - the walnut cake was dense and moist, with an almost pudding-like texture where the apricot juices and caramel had soaked in. At the same time, my taste for less-sweet desserts didn't do this cake any favors; when I cut the amount of caramel, the tart apricots were a bit too harsh. A second trip to the market and second batch of apricots later, I doubled the amount of caramel and tried again.



Perfection. The apricots are tart but flavorful, an appropriate contrast to the sweet cake. The cake is delicious with whipped cream, but it stands alone.


Apricot-Walnut Upside-Down Cake
Inspired by multiple recipes, not least Ruch Reichl's Apricot Upside-Down Cake

I used Lorna apricots for this cake, a large variety that is slightly bland and also a bit crunchy when raw; after cooking, they hold their shape well, and the flavors develop but don't overwhelm the nutty cake.

For the caramel:

4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
⅓ cup brown sugar, packed
3 tablespoons granulated sugar

For the cake:

3-4 large or 6-8 small apricots
¾ cup ground walnuts, lightly packed (from one scant cup walnut halves or pieces)
1¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup brown sugar, packed
1½ teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 large egg, room temperature
¾ cup milk (I used whole), room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Lightly butter an 8 inch round pan with at least 2 inch sides; set aside.

To make the caramel, melt the butter in a skillet over moderate heat. Add the sugars and stir gently; let cook 3 minutes; the butter will bubble but the sugars will not be completely dissolved. Pour the mixture into the baking pan and quickly spread it across the bottom. Cut the apricots into pieces and arrange them over the caramel; large apricots can be cut into eigths, while smaller apricots can be cut into quarters or halves; set aside.

Grind the walnuts in a food processor until the consistency of coarse meal; mix in a large bowl with flour, sugars, baking powder and salt. Beat the egg together with the milk and add to the dry ingredients. Stir until barely combined, then add the melted butter and stir until smooth.

Pour the batter gently over the apricots and transfer to the oven. Bake about one hour, or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from the oven, hold an inverted plate tightly over the pan, and carefully flip. Gently and slowly remove the cake pan away from the plate—hot caramel will drip down the sides, and some of the edges may crumble a bit. Let the cake cool, then replace any dislodged pieces of apricot.

Serve plain, or with whipped cream or ice cream.

Serves about 8