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Rhubarb Shortbread Bars

05.22.2016 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

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Mother’s Day arrives, and with it, a tray full of breakfast and gifts: Coffee, an egg sandwich, and a set of oval measuring spoons, the kind that fit into tiny spice jars. The coffee is very strong, the egg sandwich is mostly ham, but the measuring spoons are just right – something I mentioned a long time ago would be nice to have, then promptly forgot about.

The Child wants to know what I want to do for Mother’s Day, and my answer is simple. Nothing. After months of meetings with doctors and therapists and school administrators and social workers, I want a day filled with nothing.

I receive one, and, eventually, find my way into the back yard, where the untended garden overflows with weeds and whatever chard the slugs and leaf miners have left behind, but also a large, healthy rosemary plant, strawberry plants covered with blossoms, and a vast, leafy rhubarb plant offering an abundance of green stalks.

I don’t want muffins, and definitely not cake or pie. I want little nibbles, cookies, while The Child announces she will be happy with anything I make from the rhubarb.

A bit of looking turns up several recipes involving rhubarb and cardamom, which supposedly  complement each other as nicely as rhubarb and strawberry. One recipe in particular intrigues me, for a cardamom-spiced shortbread with a layer of strawberry-rhubarb jam in the middle. The rhubarb and cardamom combination is intriguing, as is the technique for making the shortbread; the dough is frozen for a half hour, then grated into the pan.

I was looking forward to using my new measuring spoons, but they were not the new tool I needed at that particular moment. The recipe calls for ground cardamom, and although I had three – yes, three – jars of cardamom, each one was filled with whole green pods.

I set about laying cardamom pods on a cutting board, and smashing them under the flat end of a knife, then prying little black seeds loose with the tip of the knife. I don’t own a spice grinder, but I do own a coffee grinder, which seemed like it should serve the same function, so I cleaned it out by using one of the rare internet hacks that actually works. I ran a slice of sandwich bread through it, which picked up all the residual coffee grounds, then wiped it clean with a paper towel and ran the cardamom seeds through.

It worked like a champ. I used my new spoons to scoop the ground cardamom into the dough.

It smelled lovely. It tasted lovely.

The jam neatly solves the issue I have with my rhubarb, which is a green variety – very tasty, but not all that pretty to look at, which turns out to be somewhat of a limiting factor in using it. Here, though, a small amount of strawberries are used, enough to turn the rhubarb a pretty shade of pink, but not enough to overwhelm its tart, sprightly flavor. I made the jam while the dough was in the freezer, then cooled the jam quickly in the freezer while I grated the dough into the pan.

I made a couple of major changes to the recipe. First, I omitted vanilla from the jam. I think it would be a nice addition, but the filling is just perfect without it, too. (I left it out accidentally.) Second, the original recipe uses spelt flour, which I didn’t have, so I substituted an equivalent amount of all-purpose flour. It worked fine.

The Child and I both loved these cookies, and the entire tray of them was gone within a day.

The original recipe came from PBS recipes, which credits Dorie Greenspan, who adapted it from Julia Child’s Baking With Julia.

rhubarb shortbread bars

Rhubarb Shortbread Bars
 
Print
Author: adapted from Dorie Greenspan via Julia Child
Ingredients
Dough
  • 2 cups all purpose flour
  • 1 tsp. baking powder
  • 2 teaspoons ground cardamom
  • a pinch of salt
  • 1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 2 egg yolks
Filling
  • 2 cups chopped rhubarb
  • ½ cup chopped strawberries
  • ⅓ cup sugar
  • 1 tbsp water
Instructions
  1. Make the dough: Sift all the dry ingredients together in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, cream the butter until smooth and fluffy. Add the eggs yolks and sugar and mix well.
  2. Add the dry ingredients mixture and combine the two until a soft dough has formed.
  3. Shape the dough into two balls, one slightly smaller than the other. Wrap in plastic and freeze for at least 30 minutes. (You can also make the dough well ahead of time, and keep it in the freezer until you're ready to bake.)
  4. Make the filling: Bring the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar, and water to a slow simmer over low heat, stirring frequently. Simmer gently, uncovered, for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the rhubarb softens and a pretty, somewhat thick jam forms. Remove from heat and allow the filling to cool completely.
  5. Make the cookies: Preheat oven to 350 F.
  6. Remove the largest of the two balls of dough from the freezer and using the larger holes of a box grate, grate the dough directly into a greased 10 inch springform pan. Gently pat the dough into the pan.
  7. Spread the rhubarb filling evenly over the dough, leaving a little half inch gap around the edge.
  8. Remove the second ball of dough from the freezer and grate evenly over the top. The rhubarb should be evenly covered, but you will still see bits of filling. Lightly pat the top layer down.
  9. Bake until golden, about 30 minutes.
  10. Allow the cookies to cool completely in the pan before slicing into wedges.
Notes
The original dough recipe calls for one cup of white flour and one cup of spelt flour. The original jam recipe calls for a tablespoon of red wine and a teaspoon of vanilla extract.
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Categories // The Joy of Cooking Tags // cardamom, cookies, rhubarb

Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie

04.27.2016 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

Income taxes are due, so my almost-divorced friend throws a poverty party; I am assigned to bring a dessert. I remember seeing something somewhere about pies of the Great Depression, and a little bit of googling leads me to Paula Haney’s Hoosier Mama Book of Pie. I check it out of the library, read the chapter titled Desperation Pies, and have all the ingredients ready to make a pie on Friday evening for her Saturday party.

Friday evening, a text arrives, from a phone number with a San Francisco area code: Hey sweetie it’s Dwayne. How is your day going so far?

I don’t have a sweetie named Dwayne, in San Francisco or elsewhere, so I keep my reply brief: Wrong person.

He doesn’t believe me: U just sent me your number.

Nope, I reply. I’m Seattle, you’re San Francisco.

He agrees he’s in San Francisco, but wants to be sure: Did u just talk to me on the Sugar Daddy website?

I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Now I want to know more. No, I text back. I could use a Sugar Daddy, but I’d need one in Seattle.

Why.

Because that’s where I live.

Are you hot?

That’s a hard question to answer, I think, so I don’t. I qualify for Mensa, I tell him.

I like a smart girl, he says: Send a pic.

First, explain why you are a Sugar Daddy, I say.

I’m looking for a Sugar Baby, he says. I ask why and he tells me about his last sugar baby, the one who ended things after four years, so now he needs a new sugar baby, a sweet sugar baby.

I will spoil u rotten and give u a weekly allowance.

The last time I got an allowance, I was twelve, but I assume we’re talking about more than the five dollars a week I got then. What do you do for a living? I ask.

I own a construction company. What do you do?

I’m a Vice President at a global investment bank.

Why do you need a Sugar Daddy? he asks.

I don’t, but it sounds like a pretty good gig, and banking is tough these days, I tell him.

We chat for a bit longer, but eventually it occurs to him that I am not the person he’s looking for, or perhaps he just loses interest, but either way he stops replying.

I may or may not be hot by his definition, but my oven is not hot by any definition, so given the late hour, I abandon my plan to bake a pie. I’ll do it in the morning. I still have plenty of time.

Saturday morning, I sit and relax with a cup of coffee, and drive The Child to her appointment, and then – finally – go pick up our new microwave. By this time, I discover that Saturday afternoon has somehow arrived, and I have a pie to make. I assemble the ingredients, and turn on the oven, and only then, on my final read-through of the recipe, do I notice that a Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie is supposed to be chilled for at least four hours before serving.

This is a bit of a wrench in my plan to deliver a pie to the party that is still warm from the oven, but I will not be deterred: Desperation Pie will be served. I have taken one shortcut already, using a purchased pie shell, which  I pre-bake in the oven as I mix up the filling.

The pie itself is a simple affair, two kinds of sugar, a bit of flour for body, heavy cream, and vanilla. The recipe calls for a teaspoon of vanilla paste, but from what I’ve learned, vanilla paste is basically just the seeds from a vanilla bean, so I scraped out the seeds from two vanilla pods I already had, and used them. It worked out to about three-quarters of a teaspoon, but tasted just right.

The pie is not set when it comes out of the oven, but a little bit of internet research presented a plausible solution. I set the pie in an ice water bath to cool it rapidly, and hoped it would do the same for 1930’s recipe pie filling as it supposedly does for Jell-O molds – chill and set it quickly.

It worked!

Within an hour, the pie was nicely chilled and set and on its way to a party.

The food at the party was abundant, and all of it perfectly themed – tater tot casseroles, bean dishes, and hot dogs aplenty. The pie was a standout in the crowd, though – a custard pie richly scented of vanilla and notes of caramel. One of the guests called it Crack Pie, and that’s not far off. It’s so rich, though, that I was content to savor just one small, perfectly set, slice.

A few days later, another text arrives, but this time, I know the sender well: I cannot get over how good that pie was!

Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie

 

Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie
 
Print
Cook time
45 mins
Total time
45 mins
 
Author: adapted from Paula Haney, The Hoosier Mama Book of Pie
Ingredients
  • 1 single-crust pie shell of your choice
  • ½ cup sugar
  • ½ cup dark brown sugar
  • 2 tbsp all-purpose flour
  • Pinch of salt
  • 2 cups heavy cream
  • two vanilla beans
Instructions
  1. Cut vanilla beans open lengthwise, and use the tip of a sharp knife to scrape the seeds out. You will have about ¾ tsp of vanilla bean seeds, put in a small bowl and set aside. (Save the bean pods for some other purpose, like vanilla sugar.)
  2. Pre-bake the pie shell according to the directions, and set aside to cool.
  3. Heat oven to 400 degrees F.
  4. Whisk the sugar, brown sugar, flour, and salt together in a medium bowl. Use your hands to break up any clumps, if needed.
  5. Gently whisk in the heavy cream; taking care not to beat too much, as whipping the cream will prevent the pie from setting. Stir in the vanilla seeds.
  6. Pour the filling into the prepared pie shell and bake for 20 minutes. Rotate the pie, and bake another 20-25 minutes.
  7. When the pie is ready, the top surface will be beautifully browned and bubbling vigorously; it will not look set.
  8. Set the pie on a wire rack to cool to room temperature, then refrigerate for at least four hours before slicing.
Notes
If you have vanilla paste, you can substitute 1 tsp for the vanilla bean seeds.
If you are pressed for time, cool the pie for 15-20 minutes on a wire rack, then set it in a pan of icewater, as high as you can get without touching the rim, and place in the refrigerator to cool. This will reduce the time needed to cool the pie by about half. (Or, make the pie a day ahead, and save yourself some stress!)
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Categories // The Joy of Cooking Tags // dessert, pie, vanilla, vintage recipes

Teen Tales: Parent Associations

04.20.2016 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

An announcement appears in the weekly email from school: A suicide prevention workshop for parents of teenagers.  I do not plan to attend; I am busy with strings of appointments and phone calls from psychiatrists and social workers, and don’t see that there’s much I can learn in a classroom workshop that I haven’t already learned from my ever-enlarging team of private tutors.  A second notice arrives, and I ignore it, too.

Then The Child tells me, firmly, that she wants me to go, so I agree that I will.

Since she came home, I have not left her alone in our house. It is a minefield of lethal temptations, and though I’ve tried to remove and lock away every potentially dangerous item I can find, I know there are more, hidden away in drawers of scarves and boxes of Cuisinart parts. If I go, she will have to come, too. She agrees she will do homework in a nearby empty classroom while I sit and, hopefully, learn.

We arrive early, taking seats in different classrooms. The one in which I sit has a few other people in it; she sits alone in hers. I share a table with the single mom of one of The Child’s friends; she does most of the talking, as is her habit. Usually, it grates on me, but tonight it comes as a relief.  The room fills slowly around us, mostly with mothers, most of whom I don’t know or know only vaguely. The billionaire’s wife arrives and sits near the exit. A wealthy mom I know from The Child’s elementary school sits with me, and I am relieved to see her. She remarks, as always, on how similar our daughters are, and we trade notes on our efforts to create the ideal environments for our beloved, sensitive girls. I do not think she knows about The Child’s recent struggles, but then again, maybe she does: I have known, but never spoken about, how her daughter used to cut herself to relieve her pain. She has never brought up the subject, and doesn’t tonight. Instead, she complains about the influence of a certain friend, and difficulty dealing with the parent of the friend, and then the conversation ends abruptly when that parent appears and cheerfully takes the remaining empty seat at our table.

The School Counselor takes the microphone, telling us what we hope to accomplish this evening, and how. The workshop – which she notes was planned months ago – will be highly interactive, giving everyone a chance to speak, and to try to see things from the perspective of both parents and child.

We start with a video of interviews – parents who wish they had stayed home one evening instead of going out, or had knocked on a closed door and checked in just a few minutes earlier than they did. There is supposed to be a second video, but a moment or two after it starts, The Counselor stops it and moves on to data, giving out statistics about teenage suicide rates, reviewing current research about effective prevention. Handouts and questionnaires appear on the table.

We are told, Communication is key: It does not increase the risk, only aids in prevention.

How do you get your teens to communicate with you?

Everyone has something to say, each time the question is asked, phrased slightly differently. The billionaire’s wife suggests using the kids’ language: even when you can’t stand the way they talk or what they complain about, you can empathize in their words. A voice behind me recommends talking to them in the car, when no eye contact is needed and it’s less threatening. Notice their moods. Do things together.

I have done all of these things, I want to say, but don’t.

Around me, parents nod and take notes and offer personal insights.

We move on. What types of things are dangerous to keep around the potentially suicidal? A list containing the obvious is offered: alcohol, prescription drugs, straight razors. People nod in assent as guns are mentioned, with a politically correct footnote: This isn’t a value judgment about gun control, it’s just about safety, and just about children considered to be at risk.

The room moves on, having completed its tidy list, but I dwell on my own, which is much longer. Everything in your home is lethal to a determined teen, I want to tell them. Your roof. Your car. A drinking glass smashed into shards. A blade removed from a disposable razor.

I cannot speak, cannot listen any more. I try to escape unobtrusively, and just for a moment, wish I could trade places with the billionaire’s wife, who took the seat nearest the door.

I walk to the ladies room, along the way checking on The Child, who is hunched over her laptop in the still-empty room. On the return walk, I stop in, and discover she’s only pretending to do her homework; she appears studious because she is working hard on something much more interesting, researching ancestors for a friend, using my Ancestry account.

She eagerly, proudly shows me what she has found, and seems to appreciate the tips I offer, and she is safe, and we are together, so I linger on, just a little longer.

 

Categories // Teen Tales Tags // prozac

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