If you make stuffing from a box.
If the gravy you crave comes from a jar.
I judge you for none of it. You go on and love all up on yourself and do what makes Thanksgiving taste like Thanksgiving to you. Whatever makes you celebrate the heck out of this grand American tradition during which we do nothing but eat like a bunch of crazies is all right by me. But can I make one teeny, tiny suggestion? If you make nothing else from scratch whatsoever, go on and do something nice for yourself and your loved ones and adorn your plates with this cranberry sauce. And experience the sort of intense admiration that perhaps the inventor of that weird-but-iconic cornucopia thing experienced on a Thanksgiving long, long ago.
Think of a great homemade cranberry sauce as the crown jewel on a glorious meal of splendor. If you’re the kind that slaves over the meal for weeks leading up to the actual holiday, clipping recipes months ahead of time, nuturing a bread starter in September, brining your heritage bird for days–then this ruby-red accoutrement is the sort of thing that just makes everything that much more magical.
But if you’re more of the type to make a few calls and leave the heavy lifting to the experts, whipping up a batch of this cranberry sauce is still the absolute right thing to do–elevating the meal to a home-cooked level, a jazzy and impressive little button that you can call your own. And really, what else do we yearn for with our holiday cooking and baking other than to be jazzy and impressive?
Even better, the impressive jazziness of which I speak can be yours with mere minutes of prep time and less than 30 inactive minutes on the stovetop, save an occasional stir or two. Sweet-tart, bold with citrus and a good hit of brandy. The texture here is what I think makes it a real winner–it starts with fresh cranberries and finishes by folding in dried cranberries which plump a bit as the sauce cools, but maintain their character and intense, almost winey, cranberry flavor. Double cranberry sauce. Double awesome. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Double Cranberry Sauce
Use a slightly bigger pot than you think you might need for this recipe–the bubbling can get quite intense and climb high up the sides of the pot in a flash. Adjust the heat as needed to keep it at a nice even simmer and not a fierce boil. I like to use organic citrus here since the entire fruit is zested. I make this sauce several days before Thanksgiving–it keeps great tightly covered and chilled, and tastes best when it has a few days to relax in the refrigerator.
Makes about 4 cups
12 ounces fresh cranberries, rinsed and drained
1 cup water
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 large Granny Smith apple, peeled, cored and diced
1 large orange, zested and juiced
1 large lemon, zested and juiced
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons brandy
1 cup sweetened dried cranberries (like Craisins)
Place the cranberries in a large saucepan or other heavy-bottomed pot with the water and sugar. Stir and bring to a simmer over medium heat and cook until the cranberry skins begin to pop open, about 5-10 minutes. Stir in the diced apple, lemon and orange zests and juices, salt and brandy. Continue to simmer over medium heat until the mixture thickens and reduces slightly, stirring occasionally, about 15-20 minutes more. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the dried cranberries. Transfer the sauce to a heatproof bowl or container and let cool a bit before covering and refrigerating, up to 1 week in advance. Serve slightly chilled.
Do you ever get all fired up about the idea of certain food projects? Like you see a thing about pickling or bread making with a carefully nutured starter or something and out of nowhere you’re all, “Yes! Why don’t I do that?! I should be doing exactly THAT!”. And then you head directly to a kitchenware shop and drop ridiculous money on unitasking kitchen tools that you end up using exactly once?
Yeeeaaahhh. I’ve done that a time or two.
Like, say, jam making. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve boiled down fruit with sugar and canned it. And it’s sad, really. Because homemade jam is such a delightful thing to make and eat and give to other people. A true beacon of Americana, if you will.
Plus I own all the equipment I need to do some serious jam making without acquiring burns on 75 percent of my body (note: I say this because I bought said equipment after my own Macgyvered jam-making tools failed miserably and threatened to leave me with burns on 75 percent of my body). So the other day I told myself to get it together, brave the crazies at the mid-week Civic Center farmers’ market, see what was good and fresh and fruity, and make jam out of it. Plums won, big time.
Besides making you feel like you’re in a Norman Rockwell painting, jam making is one of those activities that sort of centers you. Chopping fresh fruit, measuring out sugar, dumping both in the biggest, oldest pot you’ve got, stirring, stirring, stirring with a big wooden spoon. It’s glorious. this is the stage of jam-making when I always wonder why in the world I don’t do this more often.
I get visions of making jam of every conceivable fruit combination and gifting my friends with carefully preserved jars that they can pop open months later for a taste of summer, when berries and stone fruits have long past their peak. It’s so romantic. Until–fast forward 30 minutes later–I am cursing while running my hand under cold water because of a wayward molten jam splatter. But when the jars are filled, capped and lined up, cooling on the counter, I’m glowing with acheivement, again wondering why I don’t do this more often, seared skin notwithstanding.
This batch of plum jam was nothing short of super late summer bliss. Bright, sweet-tart, hints of lemon, vanilla and a gossamer blanket of cinnamon to warm the whole thing up. And tasting exactly like a plum Jolly Rancher, if they ever made one. Can’t explain it, but it’s totally true. I’m just passing on my feelings to you here, like good friends do. Neosporin-ed hands and all.
Late Summer Plum Jam
Makes about 5 half-pint jars
Any variety of plums will work here. I found some lovely ones with a ruby-red interior that made for a stunning shade of jam, but those cute little Italian prune plums that are happening right now would be great too. Since plums are so thin-skinned, peeling isn’t necessary, so buying organic ones is an especially great idea.
If you want to can your packed jam jars, check out this great resource–Canning 101.
3 pounds plums (any variety–see note), washed, pitted and cut into 1/2 inch chunks
2 1/4 cups granulated sugar
Zest and juice of 1/2 a lemon
1/2 of a vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon (Vietnamese or Saigon cinnamon, if you can find it)
In the biggest, heaviest pot you’ve got, stir together the plums and sugar. Let sit, stirring occasionally, until the fruit has given off some juice and the sugar has mostly dissolved, about 1 hour.
Set the pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the lemon zest and juice, vanilla bean and cinnamon. Bring to a hard boil, stirring often, until the jam is thickened and runs off the back of a spoon in big, heavy drops, about 25-30 minutes. While the jam is cooking, skim off any foam that comes to the surface. To test for doneness, spoon a dollop of jam onto a freezing cold plate and let it sit for a minute or two–of you can run your finger through the dollop and a track remains, the jam is done.
Ladle the hot jam into hot, sterilized jars, leaving about 1/4 inch of room at the top of each jar. Cap tightly and process the jars in boiling water for 10 minutes, or store in the refrigerator.
Okay, so I know a few posts back I was proclaiming apricots to be the cutest produce ever, but that was a week before cherries starting taking over our lives. Oh, cherry, baby. So adorable, so delicious, so perfect right now. Particularly when they are encased in buttery, flaky pastry like these Sweet Cherry Crostadas. Let’s do this.
No one loves a big celebratory summer fruit pie more than I do, but there’s just something about making big old desserts in miniature form that gets me all sorts of happy. Maybe it’s because I was a girl who grew up playing with wee little Charmkins and My Little Ponies. Maybe it’s because I like being able to scale a recipe up or down and not have an entire pie taunting me from the kitchen counter. Or maybe it’s because I not-so-secretly hate sharing. But any reason is a good one to make these individual cherry crostadas, I’ll tell you that right now.
This recipe is so fantastic for summer, because the cherries are really the star here. And it’s super, super simple, guys. We’re talking minutes to throw together a crust in the food processor (and even if you do it by hand, it doesn’t take that much longer), and while the dough is resting the fridge, recruit a friend or willing domestic partner to help pit the cherries. And if you can rig up a clever way to pit them, like, say, with a fondue fork over a beer bottle to catch the pits, it will make you feel like Macgyver and make the whole thing that much more fun.
And can I just say that pitting cherries is as delightful as shucking corn, which is to say the sort of glorious summer kitchen work that makes you wish you were a farmer’s wife? I mean, until it occurred to me that farmer’s wives also have to do many, many other things that are very unlike prepping beautiful summer fruits and vegetables and have to be constantly resourceful and at the ready at every moment of the day so I gave up that idea right quick. Turns out you get a lot of thinking done pitting cherries.
There’s nothing truly revolutionary about the fruit and pastry pairing, but since I can’t seem to get over the craving for it lately, I’ve started playing around with a few things that make for nice little twists on the classic. Turbinado sugar sprinkled over the crust and topping of any fruit/pastry situation adds a lovely golden sparkle and a nice rustic crunch, for one. And because I can’t seem to get enough of the dreamy natural flavors that bloom when fruits meet nuts, I decided to toss the cherries for these crostatas in some almond meal to help thicken the juices rather than cornstarch or flour, and scattered extra across the bottoms of the pastry cases to keep the crust from getting saturated with juice. Practical and flavorful, hooray! I felt especially smart after that decision. Like farmer’s wife smart. I celebrated by eating two crostadas. You should, too.
Sweet Cherry Crostadas
Almond meal can be purchased at specialty grocers like Whole Foods or Trader Joes and most health food stores, or you can just make your own by finely grinding raw almonds in a clean coffee grinder (don’t overprocess though or they’ll turn into almond butter). Taste your cherries before starting and gauge how much sugar you want to add–you may need a bit more than 2 tablespoons, or perhaps none at all.
1 recipe My Favorite Pie Crust, chilled
2 pounds sweet cherries, pitted
1-2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/4 cup almond meal
1 large egg
1 tablespoon milk
Turbinado sugar, for sprinkling
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Turn the pie dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and divide the dough into 8 equal pieces. Roll each piece into a rough circle, about 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick–don’t worry about making perfect circles or smooth edges.
Toss the cherries in a large bowl with the sugar 2 tablespoons of almond meal. Beat together the egg and milk in a small bowl.
Assemble the crostadas one at a time by placing the dough circles on the baking sheet, brushing each lightly all over with the egg wash and sprinkling each evenly with the remaining almond meal. Divide the cherries equally among the dough circles, leaving a full 1-inch edge all around. Fold the pastry edges up and over the filling (leaving the filling uncovered in the center), pleating as you go to make the dough fit tight against the fruit. Place the baking sheet with the assembled crostadas in the freezer for 15 minutes or in the fridge for an hour.
When you’re ready to bake, position a rack to the center of the oven and preheat it to 400 degrees.
Brush the edges of the crostadas lightly with the remaining egg wash and sprinkle all over (pastry and filling) with turbinado sugar. Bake for 25-30 minutes until the pastry is crisp and golden and the cherries are soft and bubbling. Cool on a wire rack before serving with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.
Of the many cheery little fruits that are all up in our area this time of year, I can’t think of any more adorable than apricots. I mean, they fit right in that little crook of your curled palm like a wee baby chick. And with their sweet fragrance and soft skin the color of a glowing sunset, all shades of orange and blushing pink fading into each other, well, can you blame me for nuzzling a few under my nose and, okay, maybe even cooing a little in the produce section last week? Don’t answer that. Here, have a big slice of this delicious Apricot-Raspberry Marzipan Tart to distract you from that completely rhetorical question.
I am always completely enchanted by the magical marriage of fruits and nuts. It’s sort of mind-blowing how some flavors are just so naturally perfect together, isn’t it? Like plums with walnuts, peaches and pecans, pears and apricots with almonds. The way the acid and sugar of certain fruits play with the oils and earthy crunch of nuts–it’s natural goodness on such an other-worldly level, you can practically hear Mother Nature somewhere in the distance going, “Ha! Awesome, right? I know! I made that up, y’all! Boo ya!”
But this tart is so much more than a delicious piece of fruit and a handful of nuts when you’re feeling snacky (which I hear some virtuous celebrity people indeed consider a snack–I’ve read this more than once in the pages of Us Weekly while clearing an entire bag of Pop Chips). This tart is cute little apricots, sprightly raspberries and almonds plus nutty pastry and a tweedy, crumbly topping with hunks of sweet almond paste woven through it. Now that’s my kind of snack, Angelina.
If you need an extra little push to try this gem of a recipe, consider this: if you’ve been baking along with POC recently, maybe you made that pretty little Apple-Frangipane Galette from a few weeks ago. And maybe you bought a pretty standard seven-ounce tube of almond paste to make it, but only used four ounces in the recipe, so like me, you stored the remaining three ounces in the refrigerator. And maybe this recipe amazingly calls for three ounces of almond paste! And maybe I am an enabler. A wacky, apricot-nuzzling enabler. Enjoy!
When making the filling, be sure to add the raspberries last, as they have a tendency to fall apart when they’re really ripe. If yours seem particularly fragile, just dot them on top of the apricots before sprinkling on the topping.
For the dough:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch pieces and chilled
1 large egg yolk
For the marzipan topping:
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/3 cup (3 ounces) almond paste, crumbled
1/4 cup sliced almonds
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch pieces and chilled
For the filling:
12 to 14 medium apricots (about 1 pound), halved, pitted and cut into 1/2 inch slices
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/3 cup granulated sugar
6 ounces fresh raspberries
To make the dough, place the flour, almonds, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse a few times to blend. Sprinkle the butter pieces over the dry ingredients and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add the egg yolk and process until the dough comes together–it may look too dry at first, but keep the processor running and it will come together.
Press the dough evenly over the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Pierce 16 times with the tines of a fork. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and chill for at least 1 hour.
When the tart shell is completely chilled, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Prebake the tart shell for 18 minutes, or until its a deep golden brown. Large air bubbles will form in the crust as it bakes, so halfway through baking, press the dough down with the back of a spatula. Cool the prebaked shell on a wire rack. Turn the oven down to 375 degrees.
To make the almond topping, whisk together the flour, brown sugar, crumbled almond paste and almonds. Add the butter and work it into the mixture with your fingertips until the butter pieces are about the size of corn kernels. Set aside.
For the filling, toss the apricots with the cornstarch and granulated sugar. Gently fold in the raspberries.
To assemble the tart, spread the filling evenly over the crust and sprinkle the topping over it. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the topping is slightly golden and the juices are bubbling. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Let’s just get one thing straight right now: I’m a Midwestern person at heart. Born and raised in Illinois and proud of it. It’s a wonderful place to be from, and to me, there’s no better place to be in the summer. But I’ve lived in California for seven years, and although I used to think that someday I’d return to where I’m from to raise my kids, now you’d have to drag me kicking and screaming. Or at least grumbling the whole way. Because I’ve been brainwashed in that crazy way that so many Californians are, which is to say that, generally speaking, I totally believe that there’s no better place to live. I still can’t believe that I get to live here. The mild weather, the ability to see the mountains and the ocean in the same day, and all our year-round crazy sexy produce. I never understood the appeal of an avocado until I moved to California, and the strawberries, people. The strawberries!
Now, we have access to decent strawberries pretty much all year, but man, when prime strawberry season really hits here, we’ve got insanely gorgeous ones coming out our ears at criminally cheap prices. Pints at the registers in corner stores, full flats being hocked on street corners, even the organic berries are a steal right now. The fragrance smacks you in the face as soon as you walk into even the largest supermarket, piles of the kind of glistening, plump fruit that reveals a bleeding red interior all the way through when sliced. Like strawberries on Mother Nature’s steroids, I tell you. So awesome. And although I love a sparkling sorbet or a great shortcake recipe to showcase them, I think I’ve found my new favorite way to love on strawberries in their prime. I give you Strawberry Angel Pavlovas.
This recipe was inspired by one from the grande dame of the California culinary scene, she of the famous waffle recipe, Marion Cunningham. Her recipe for Strawberry Angel Pie got an instant bookmark–what’s not to obsess over when you’re dealing with a pie that involves a crisp meringue crust, billows of freshly whipped cream dotted with strawberries and dreamy lemon cream? Huminuh, huminuh.
As I’m wont to do with recipes with which I become obsessed, I thought about making that dang pie pretty much nonstop as soon as I found it, but hesitated because of the high risk of wasted delicious food. See, despite the insatiable sweet teeth that reside in this household, I really doubted we could demolish an entire pie in a day (not that I mentioned this to the husband, for fear he’d take pause, raise an eyebrow and ask if I’d care to make it interesting). And the reason it would all need to go down within one day is that with a base of delicate meringue and temperamental whipped cream, this is the sort of thing that you have to assemble and put in your face before it all starts to break down. But then I got all smart all of a sudden and opted to make pretty-pretty individual Strawberry Angel Pies, Pavlova-style.
Pavlova, for the record, would probably be up there for dessert after my very last meal. Not that I’m anticipating having my last meal anytime soon. That’s a horrible thing to say. How morbid. Sorry. But really, guys–crisp on the outside, marshmallowy-inside meringue shells topped with a bright lemon cream and whipped cream and peak of the season strawberries? Perfection. So perfect, it should be someone’s very first dessert. So let’s say that instead. The first dessert for a brand new, sweet-smelling little baby angel from heaven. There, that’s much better.
Strawberry Angel Pavlovas
Adapted from Marion Cunningham’s recipe in The San Francisco Chronicle Cookbook
If you’d like to make this recipe into a pie like the original, then just spread the meringue in a buttered 9-inch pie plate, and bake just like you would for the shells. Fill with the lemon cream, then pile on the strawberry whipped cream.
Whether you make the individual Pavlovas or just one big pie, save your assembly for right before your serve it. The meringue can be baked a day in advance (store airtight), the strawberries sliced, and the lemon custard made the day before, stored in the fridge with a sheet of plastic wrapped pushed right on the surface (rewarm it a bit by placing the bowl in a pan of warm water and stirring well, just too loosen it up a little). This recipe can be halved to make four Pavlovas–just use a handheld mixer for the smaller amounts of eggs and cream.
4 eggs at room temperature, separated
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced, plus more for garnish
1/3 cup powdered sugar
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
Position an oven rack in the center of the oven and preheat it to 275 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.
For the meringues: In the bowl of an electric mixer, place the egg whites, salt and cream of tartar. Beat on medium speed until soft peaks form, then slowly rain in 1 cup of the sugar. Beat on high until the meringue is stiff and glossy. Beat in the vanilla extract.
Portion the meringue into 8 mounds on the baking sheet, a generous 1/4 cup full each (a standard ice cream scoop works well to keep things even). Using a spoon, shape each mound into a little meringue nest, each about 4 inches in diameter. To create a small well in the center of each meringue shell, first rest the bowl of the spoon in the center of each meringue, horizontal to the baking sheet, then hold the spoon by the very end of the stem and turn it in a circle as you pull it up and off the meringue.
Bake the meringues in the center of the oven until they are firm and lightly golden, about 1 hour. Let them cool completely on the baking sheet in the turned-off oven with the door open.
For the lemon custard: Beat the egg yolks with an electric mixer until they are thick and pale yellow. Gradually beat in the sugar, then the lemon juice and zest. Scrape the mixture into a small, nonreactive saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thickened, about 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and let the custard cool completely.
For the strawberries: Place the strawberries in a medium bowl. Sprinkle with the confectioners’ sugar and toss well to coat. Set aside.
When you’re ready to assemble the Pavlovas, whip the cream until it hold stiff peaks (you should have about 3 cups whipped cream). Fold 1 cup of the whipped cream gently into the lemon custard. Fold the strawberries into the remaining 2 cups of whipped cream.
Place the meringues on individual plates. Divide the lemon cream equally among the 8 meringue shells, and top with the strawberry whipped cream. Garnish with more strawberry slices. Serve immediately.
Quick, guys! Make this galette before all the lovely warm-weather fruits really start parading into the markets, inspiring you and making apples seem a lot like my Mom Wardrobe, which is to say sad, hapless and completely boring. (It’s a problem, people. I don’t know what happened, really. But I can tell you that you will wrestle this pilly old cardigan from my cold, dead torso. I may dress in a manner that is as insipid as apples in May, but I am sort of in denial about the whole thing. I try to think of my clothes as the sort of shiny, happy green apples that still seem relevant, even as strawberries and rhubarb seem to be the order of the day. Lie to me.)
The good news about this Apple Frangipane Galette (because there’s really no good news side to the wardrobe thing, naturally) is that the apples really are just a jumping off point. Any fruity pie filling that you love and would normally put in a pie or tart (except strawberries, too much water) will probably work here. The magic, my friends, is in the frangipane.
I love me some frangipane, always have. It’s the irresistibly dreamy almond pastry cream that’s made with almond paste, the filling of so many decadent pastries and cakes. But until now, I’d never turned one out in my own kitchen. And now that I know I can make it in mass quantities in just minutes in the food processor, I may keep a jar on my bathroom vanity. Eating it will make you feel that pretty, I promise.
The frangipane is the secret weapon that turns something familiar into a next-level thing. When hidden beneath some fanned-out sweet-tart apples, it sort of bakes into the crust and melds with the fruit and adds a stealth layer of flavor that you just don’t expect when you’re faced with something as rustic and familiar as apples enveloped in pastry. I flippin’ love stuff like that. It makes new recipes worth trying, even those that seem like something you’ve had before.
And that brings me to the source of this recipe. It’s from the Great Lebovitz‘s latest recipe collection Ready for Dessert. I was so excited when my copy finally reached my doorstep, and my family was sort of relieved, too–perhaps I would then stop suctioning myself to the front window, practically licking the glass, in hot anticipation of the delivery. I started flipping and bookmarking as soon as I opened the box and this galette was in the oven less than two hours later. I may look a little out of touch in this pilly old cardigan, but I’m sure that’s got to be a new baking record.
Lebovitz’s headnotes indicate that you shouldn’t need to sugar the apples at all unless they are extremely tart; in that case you should sweeten to taste. I used Granny Smiths that definitely weren’t the most tart I’d ever had, so I skipped the sugar, but in the end wished I’d sweetened them just a bit. I might also add just a dash of cinnamon next time too–it was delicious without it, but I missed the flavor combination. Also, I used Demerara sugar for sprinkling and loved the toasty flavor and crunch, so I’m recommending it here, but you can use granulated or other coarse sugar that you like. As always with pastry-making, make sure your ingredients are as cold as possible before using.
For the crust:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and chilled
6 tablespoons ice water
For the frangipane:
4 ounces almond paste, crumbled
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon almond extract
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 large egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon rum, kirsch or Calvados (optional)
6 medium apples (3 pounds), peeled, cored and cut into 1/2-inch slices
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
4 tablespoons granulated, Demerara or other coarse-crystal sugar
First, make the crust. In the bowl of a food processor (or in a mixing bowl with a pastry blender, or in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment), mix together the flour, sugar and salt. Add the butter pieces and mix until the butter is the size of peas. Add the ice water all at once and mix just until the dough begins to come together. Shape the dough into a disc, wrap it tightly in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.
To make the frangipane, place the almond paste, sugar, flour and almond extract in the bowl of a food processor or electric mixer. Mix until the almond paste is in fine, uniform pieces. Add the butter and mix until very well-blended, then add the egg and the liqueur, if using. Mix until the frangipane is smooth (there may be a few tiny unmixed pieces of almond paste, and that’s fine–they’ll disappear during baking).
When you’re ready to bake the galette, position an oven rack to the center of the oven and preheat it to 375 degrees. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.
To assemble the galette, lightly flour a work surface and roll the dough out into a circle about 14 inches in diameter. Transfer the dough to the prepared baking sheet. Spread the frangipane in an even layer over the dough, leaving a 2-inch border. Arrange the apples over the frangipane, either scattering them in an even layer, or arranging them in concentric circles. Fold the un-frangipaned edge of the dough over the apples. Brush the crust and filling with the melted butter. Scatter half the sugar over the crust and the remainder over the apples. Bake until the apples are tender and the crust has browned, about 1 hour. Slide the galette (still on the parchment) onto a wire rack to cool a bit. Serve warm or at room temperature, ideally the day it’s baked.
“Sweet Gingered Biscuits! Now THAT’s what I call a cobbler!”
Ring a bell? Like a catchphrase from days gone by? No? Well, that’s because it’s not. But it could be heard coming from our house recently upon tasting this fabulous twist on a homespun dessert. Now, you might be thinking, cobbler, schmobbler. Had it. Like a million times. Right? And maybe you’ve had a few not-so-stellar specimens that were all gelatinous with soggy bits of dough on top, only made palatable with lots of vanilla ice cream. Snore. Weh-hel-helllll….let the cobbler enlightenment begin, my friends. Oh sure, this incarnation might start with the usual suspects–fresh blueberries tossed with sugar, cinnamon and a sparkle of lemon zest–but the revelation begins thereafter.
See, most cobbler recipes have you just layer sugared fruit into a baking dish, mix up a dough for the topping, blob the dough on top of the raw fruit and bang it into the oven just like that. Simple enough. Boy Scout camp-like cooking (just ask my husband). But that’s where most cobblers become an epic FAIL. I mean, sure, fruit, sugar, dough–what’s not to like? Well, how about mushy, steamed fruit and pale, uncooked, uncrispy dough with very little nom factor? Yeah, I thought so. But in this recipe, you cook the seasoned fruit all naked in the baking dish first before topping it with the dough. I know!
While the berries are baking all on their lonesome, mix up a simple buttermilk dropped biscuit dough with the genius addition of ginger in two forms–a dash of spicy ground and dazzling bits of crystallized.
Now, I should say here that I never was a huge fan of ginger in any form. Except for Geri Halliwell, my favorite Spice Girl by far–she’s just such a cheeky broad!–and only occasionally as a very subtle backdrop in, say, a spice cake or apple somesuch. But my palate has changed considerably in recent years, and boy am I glad I got over that ginger aversion, because it’s such a great highlighter in fresh fruit desserts of all sorts. The gingered cornmeal biscuits that top this cobbler are so fragrant and delicious that they’d make a great dish all on their own, but here the dough gets portioned off into bits and nestled into the warm, bubbling fruit.
With the berries hot underneath, the biscuits immediately begin gently cooking with steam from the bottom, keeping them tender in the center, while the dry heat of the oven from above creates a crisp, beautifully browned crust. When the filling begins to seep into the edges of the golden biscuits and bubbles up the sides of the baking dish like some crazy sexy blueberry lava, you know you’re just moments away from cobbler nirvana.
Though they may be among some of the most trying minutes of your life, please give the cobbler at least 20 minutes to just sort of hang out and cool down a little. If you lose control and spoon it out too soon, you’ll get a gush of thin, runny juice all over the place instead of something more syrupy and spoon-lickably great. Some time to rest will also bolster the flavors of the berries and the topping.
While summer berries are still at their peak, I implore you to give this one a whirl while the gettin’s good. But if you miss the mark a little, frozen berries can absolutely be used here successfully. One thing you should absolutely not miss the mark on is serving this baby with a good vanilla ice cream–it’s simply the right thing to do.
Blueberry Cobbler with Gingered Biscuits
Adapted from Baking Illustrated
To make this cobbler with frozen blueberries, use 6 cups of good quality berries (preferably wild), and thaw them in a colander set over a bowl to catch the juices. Reduce the juice over medium heat until thick and syrupy, about 10 minutes. Stir the syrup into the filling mixture before baking, and increase the baking time of the fruit to 30 minutes. Also increase the baking time when the biscuits are added to 20 to 22 minutes.
For the filling:
1/3 granulated sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch 1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of salt
6 cups fresh blueberries, washed, patted dry and picked over
1 1/2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
For the biscuit topping:
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons cornmeal
1/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/3 cup buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3 tablespoons crystallized ginger, minced
Coarse sugar for sprinkling (such as sanding sugar, turbinado or demerara)
Set an oven rack to the center position and preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and salt. Add the blueberries, lemon zest and lemon juice and fold gently to combine. Pour the berries into a 9 or 10-inch glass pie plate (a square baking dish of similar size will also work well). Bake until the fruit is hot and bubbling, about 25 minutes.
While the fruit is baking, prepare the biscuit dough: In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt and ground ginger. Whisk together the melted butter, buttermilk and vanilla in a small bowl. Add the wet ingredients to the dry, along with the minced crystallized ginger. Stir gently until the dough is just combined with no dry pockets. Softly pat the dough into an even disk in the bottom of the bowl, and score it into 8 equal pieces.
When the fruit is done baking, pull it from the oven and increase the oven temperature to 425 degrees. When the oven is up to temperature, Pull apart the 8 biscuits, and nestle them into the hot filling. Sprinkle the tops of the biscuits generously with coarse sugar. Bake until the filling is bubbling at the edges and the biscuits are golden brown, about 15 to 18 minutes. Allow the cobbler to cool for at least 20 minutes on a wire rack before serving.
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