Rumor Has It

Strawberry Shortcake, at the market in Muhajereen, Damascus

Like so many things in a totalitarian country, truth often comes by way of rumor. In Syria, information creeps along dusty streets, whispers through neighbors’ walls, and in a country with limited resources or opportunities for fun, joy still comes in the bounty of each season.

When it comes to agricultural produce, word travels from the farm first. A colleague of mine had driven up to the mountain town of Saiyadniah, and says he saw roadside stands with the first fresh almonds of the season. Sometimes, word might come that lack of rain has delayed the artichokes. A friend tells me he saw big piles of blackberries sold by street vendors at Baramke bus station, a few intrepid salesmen eager to capitalize on the short season. We move from one seasonal joy to the next, persimmons, almonds, pistachios, corn, figs, even garlic and fresh leafy thyme get their due.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those rumors that anticipate the arrival of each crop. Here in America, winter came particularly late this year and lasted longer than anyone wanted. Spring was delayed in arriving, and we were deep in snow when we should have been reveling in early spring produce. Food magazines, operating on predictability, arrived in my mailbox with covers of asparagus and berries, touting the joys of spring as I brushed the sleet off their frigid edges. Grocery stores followed suit, stocking the produce that the food industry dictates will be in demand. Standing in the cold aisle of the produce section in April, I surveyed a landscape of imported asparagus, spring greens, tomatoes. I felt lackluster and uninspired; in the impersonal topography of the modern supermarket, no one whispered to me about when the apricots would be in.



Now it’s June and the magazines are touting grilling and summer corn and tomatoes. But my market is still bustling with the joy of a delayed spring, and this week I emerged with an armful of asparagus, morel mushrooms, baby greens, and local strawberries. The strawberries are all sizes, some fat, some tiny, some very oddly shaped, and all incredibly sweet and juicy enough to run down your chin. Eating them, I thought of a carton of Driscoll berries I saw yesterday at the supermarket, literally the size of my fist and only pale pink, and I felt positively sad.

For dinner, I tossed up our vegetables into a spring sauté, and got some local crab meat to make crab cakes. Then I sliced the strawberries and piled them with whipped cream between sweet little shortcakes, for a quintessential American dessert. I had hoped to pick up some fava beans as well, but rumor has it they won’t be ready for a few more weeks. But I’ve got strawberries, and I’m happy to wait.



Strawberry Shortcakes

for the strawberries:
3 cups strawberries, halved
1/3 cup sugar, or to taste
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp rose water (optional)
1 tsp lemon juice
for the whipped cream:
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla
for the shortcakes:
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons chilled butter, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup buttermilk

1. Combine the strawberries, sugar, vanilla, rosewater, and lemon and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate.
2. Whip cream to soft peaks, add the powdered sugar and vanilla and whip to firm peaks. Refrigerate until ready to use.
3. Preheat oven to 425°. Combine flour, 3 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl; cut in butter with a pastry blender or 2 knives until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add buttermilk, stirring just until moist (dough will be sticky). Give the dough a few more gentle stirs to encourage it to come together.
4. Drop the dough onto a greased baking sheet to form 5-6 cakes. Bake at 425° for 12 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.
5. Split shortcakes in half horizontally using a serrated knife; place each bottom half on a dessert plate. Spoon some of the strawberry mixture over each bottom half, and top with whipped cream. Top with shortcake tops. Serve.

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The Morel of the Story

Walking into the market this week, there was a woman with a small table of mushrooms, some boxes of cremini and button varieties, as well as some amazingly sculptural pieces that looked as if they'd been carved right off a tree trunk, big arms of oyster mushrooms ready to reach out and grab you. Gesturing to one of only two boxes, I asked, "are those morels," pronouncing the word somewhat like "moral." The tie-dye clad lady let out a big chortle, "well I don't know if we have morals, but we do have mor-ELS," she laughed, the emphasis resoundingly on the second symbol. Right, I said sheepishly, realizing my mistake.

It was an immediate flashback to the time I was a quiet ten-year-old who spent most of my time with my nose buried in a book. I had read almost every Nancy Drew mystery, nearly a hundred of those yellow-spined volumes, when a family friend stopped by the house one day. "How's the titian haired sleuth," he asked, jokingly referring to the description that opens every mystery. "You mean 'sleth,' " I replied in complete seriousness. The whole time I'd been reading the books to myself, I'd been pronouncing the word 'sleuth' as 'sleth' in my head, never having the opportunity to be contradicted. It took a trip to the dictionary to convince me I was wrong, and the incident quickly became a family joke.

Now years later, it had happened again, though in my defence, the difference between morel and moral is quite subtle. Of course I'd read about and even eaten the mushrooms before, but I hadn't spent much time talking about them. It was also my first time cooking fresh morels, and combined with some spring produce, they were divine. I'd never understood what the fuss about morels was, but now I do. They were full or earthy flavor and aroma. And if you look for them in your area, don't forget to ask for mor-ELs.

Sauté of Asparagus, Morels, and Favas
If fresh morels are unavailable, you can substitute rehydrated dried morels.

2 oz fresh morel mushrooms
2 cups shelled fava beans (or substitute baby lima beans or edamame)
1 1/2 lb thin asparagus, cut into 2 inch pieces
4 tbl butter
optional: fresh mint for serving

1. Submerge the mushrooms in warm water and agitate them to remove any grit. Drain thoroughly and pat dry. Halve or quarter any large mushrooms.
2. Prepare a pan of boiling salted water. Cook the favas in the water for 3 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon and immediately rinse with cold water (leave the pan of water boiling). Use your fingers to remove the tough outer shells from the favas. (If using lima beans or edamame, you'll also want to blanch them in boiling water until just tender) Repeat the blanching with the asparagus pieces, cooking for 3 minutes and rinsing under cold water.
3. Heat 2 tablespoons of the butter in a 12-inch skillet over moderately high heat until foam subsides, then sauté morels, stirring, until tender and they've released some of their juices, about 4-6 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in the asparagus and favas, stirring over medium heat for a couple minutes. Add the remaining two tablespoons butter to glaze the vegetables and season with salt. Serve immediately.
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Crunchy Asian-Style Salad

A simple vegetable peeler can be great multi-use tool in the kitchen, you can shave ribbons of carrots or cucumbers, make all sorts of pretty garnishes, and even make the thinest slices of potato for a gratin, or shave bits of butter for use in pastry-making. Those carrot ribbons were the inspiration for this crunchy salad, along with cabbage and bean sprouts. I like that this salad stands up well to a little stress, in the lunchbox it retains it’s crunch and it doesn’t wilt in the heat of a summer barbeque, it’s also a great as a sort of slaw, wrapped in a tortilla, or as a salad accompaniment to salmon or chicken.

Crunchy Asian-Style Salad
If you can’t find fresh mung bean sprouts, they’re usually available canned in the Asian foods section of the grocery.

2-3 carrots
1/2 head red cabbage
1/2 cup mung bean sprouts
1 tbl soy sauce
2 tbl rice wine vinegar or other mild vinegar
3 tbl peanut oil
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tbl black sesame seeds
optional additions: chopped scallions, daikon radish, pickled ginger or toasted peanuts

1. Whisk together the soy sauce, oil, vinegar, and ginger in the bottom of your serving bowl.
2. Peel the carrots, then continue with the vegetable peeler to shave ribbons of the carrots. Finely shred the cabbage, you should have about 3 cups of cabbage.
3. Combine the carrots, cabbage, and sprouts and toss with the dressing. Sprinkle sesame seeds over top and serve.
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Etymology of a Tart

Pistachios, Apricots, and the Tart They Made

The Arabic word for pistachio is fustuq halabee ( فستق حلبي) or Aleppo nut, and indeed Syrian cuisine puts this local crop to good use. The bright green nuts fill gorgeous coins of baklava, are sprinkled through rice pilafs and are eaten out-of-hand at nearly every stage of their growth. My boss's eight-year-old daughter, marveling at my ignorance, had to teach me how to eat a young pistachio, first peeling the thin soft red skins, then cracking the hard shells to reach the still-tender nut inside. Pistachios, native to the mountainous region of Iran, are not easy trees to grow. The trees can take up to 12 years to come to fruition, and peak harvests may not happen for twenty years.

In an effort to combat increasing desertification and improve the livelihoods of poor farmers, the Syrian government in collaboration with the UN, has undertaken a tree planting project over the past forty years. Focusing on high value crops such as pistachios and almonds, it has not been an easy road, it takes considerable investment on the part of the farmers to clear the fields and then tend the trees for the many years before they produce any financial return. However, using loans and food aid, the program has been remarkably successful, replanting tens of thousands of acres, empowering poor farmers, and inculding complimentary programs targetting women such as bee-keeping and nursery skills. Driving through Syria's greenbelt today (the area near the Mediterranean coast and Euphrates river), you'll pass mile after mile of tree farms, a startling green landscape at the edge of the desert.


Apricots topped with thickened yogurt and pistachios; young pistachios in the market.

Apricots also grow among those green fields and are another crop you'll find all over the Damascus market. The first time I saw them in the spring, I was captivated by these tiny sweet fruits, barely 2 inches in diameter and just ripe enough to split open with your fingers. As the season progresses the apricots grow larger, but it is those tiny baby ones I covet, and which arrive by huge cratefuls in the markets. Apricots bruise easily and don't travel well, which is probably why I grew up with the more hardy nectarines or local peaches. But apricots thrive in the Mediterranean, and in Syria they are turned into fabulous apricot jam, apricot syrup, dried and made into a type of fruit leather called qamr al-deen (literally 'moon of the religion'). Indeed, the word for apricot in Argentina and Chile is damasco, probably referring to the Damscene settlers who brought the fruit. In Arabic they're known as mishmish (مشمش).



When I set out to make a tart the other day, I had in mind the wonderful French frangipane tarts, frangipane being a mixture of ground nuts, butter, and egg that forms the filling of the tart. Traditional French tarts pair hazelnuts and pears, but I thought why not use those Syrian products, pistachios and apricots. You could easily make this subsitituting almonds for some of the pistachios, or canned fruit in place of fresh. My only mistake was to brush apricot jam over the top of the tart, I was supposed to brush it only over the fruit, but I covered the whole tart with the glaze, resulting in an unfortunate green+orange=brown result. Oops. To preserve the brilliant green of the tart, I suggest brushing a clear glaze of corn syrup over the tart to give it that glistening look. And no matter what language or provenance you use, the tart is delicious.


Apricot Pistachio Frangipane Tart
This tart has a stunningly colorful appearance and comes together easily in the food processor. Shelled blanched pistachios will have a vibrant green color, look for them in well-stocked groceries or Middle Eastern markets. If you can't find blanched pistachios, blanch them yourself by immersing the shelled nuts in boiling water for one minute, then rinse them under cold water and dry thoroughly.

baked tart crust for a 9" tart pan (see below)
1 1/2 cups (about 6 oz) shelled blanched pistachios
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp orange zest
4 tbl butter
1 large egg plus 1 egg yolk
1 tsp almond extract
2 tbl flour
pinch salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
4-6 very small apricots, halved
2 tbl corn syrup

Preheat the oven to 375 F, prepare the tart crust.
1. Grind the pistachios in a food processor with two tablespoons of the sugar until you have a fine meal (don't grind so much as to make nut butter though). You should have about 1 1/4 cups pistachio meal (if you have more than this, set it aside or discard it).
2. Add the remaining sugar and orange zest to the pistachio meal and pulse to combine. Slice the butter into small pieces and add to the processor with the nut mixture. Process until combined. Add the egg, yolk, and extract and pulse a few times just to combine. Sprinkle the flour, salt, and baking soda over the mixture and pulse a few times to combine. (If the mixture appears stiff or dry, you can add a bit more egg, if it appears too soupy or wet you can add a touch more flour.)
3. Pour the pistachio mixture into the tart shell. Arrange the apricots, cut side down, over the filling. Bake until the filling is puffed and beginning to brown on top, about 35-45 minutes. Cool on a rack.
4. Brush the corn syrup over the surface of the tart to give it that glistening look. Serve at room temperature.

Tart Crust
1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, cold and cut into small pieces
2-3 tablespoons ice water

1. In the bowl of a food processor, combine flour and salt; pulse to combine. Add butter, and pulse until mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some larger pieces remaining, about 10 seconds. (To mix by hand, combine dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl, then cut in butter with a pastry blender.)
2. With machine running, add ice water through feed tube in a slow, steady stream, just until dough holds together without being wet or sticky. Do not process more than 30 seconds. Test by squeezing a small amount of dough together; if it is still too crumbly, add a bit more water, 1 tablespoon at a time.
3. Turn out dough onto a clean work surface. Shape into a flattened disk. Wrap in plastic, and refrigerate at least 1 hour or overnight, then roll out and press into tart pan and refrigerate.
4. To blind bake: Preheat the oven to 375 F. Prick the chilled tart dough all over with a fork. Bake the tart shell for 15-18 minutes, until just golden, pressing back any bubbles with a spatula.

The Skinny

Asparagus and Spring Onion Tart

Growing up, the prevailing wisdom was that the best asparagus was defined by uniformly thin stalks. I was taught to pick the skinny bunch from an early age; we avoided the larger asparagus for fear they could be tough or (worse) mushy. Then, somewhere along the way, we wised up and realized fat asparagus could be good too. I particularly like to peel the bottom half of fat asparagus stalks, making them velvety smooth and thus increasing your asparagus pleasure (like in this recipe).

This year, the asparagus crop has been particularly delectable, I think the long cool spring has something to do with it. The wonderful man at the market has fat and thin varieties, and I've been buying both and alternating them, unable decide which I like better, they're both so good. This past weekend, we stopped on the way home from the beach and picked up some locally grown asparagus, and while it was delicious, it can't compare to my market man. Most of the time, we enjoy our asparagus simply boiled or roasted, but faced with produce this good, I wanted to show it off a bit. You know, put it in a fancy dress and send it down the runway.

In this case, the dress was a bit of puff pastry to shelter it in a tart. I matched the asparagus with some sweet spring onions- you'll want to use either baby leeks or very fresh onions, to ensure they have their fresh sweet flavor, and haven't gotten too strong with age. A bit of cheese and a sprinkling of thyme from the garden, and not only was this asparagus showed off, but the tart was quickly devoured. While it may seem to have multiple steps, the recipe is simple and comes together easily, so I recommend you get to it quickly, while those good skinny little asparagus spears are still around.


Asparagus and Spring Onion Tart
Puff pastry makes a quick and easy base for this tart, I recommend you look for Dufour brand in the frozen section of the grocery (it's made with all butter, as opposed to shortening). This tart is meant to show off those skinny first shoots of spring, you could add ramps, green garlic, sorrel, or other sweet onions.

1 sheet puff pastry, thawed if frozen
2 bunches baby leeks, spring onions, or very fresh scallions
1 bunch skinny asparagus
1/2 cup grated Gruyere cheese
a few sprigs of fresh thyme

1. Roll out and trim the puff pastry to a 12 by 8 inch rectangle. Place on a greased baking sheet and place in the fridge to chill.
2. Preheat the oven to 375 F. Trim away the tops and tough outer leaves from the onions/leeks. Take one bunch of the onions and carefully slice them in half lengthwise. Take the remaining bunch of onions and chop the bottom white parts finely. Melt one tablespoon of butter or oil in a skillet. Add all of the onions and cook over medium heat, being careful not to push the onion halves around too much, or they may come apart. Cook gently for about 10 minutes, until well-softened, then set aside.
3. In the same pan, add 1 to 2 inches of water and bring to a boil. Add the asparagus and boil until just tender, about 5 minutes. Drain, rinse under cold water, and set aside.
4. Take the chilled puff pastry from the fridge and use a knife to trace a rectangle marking a one-inch border. Score the interior area in a light cross-hatch pattern. Place in the oven and bake for 10-15 minutes, until golden.
5. Remove the pastry and use the back of a spatula to press down on the center of the pastry. Sprinkle the cheese over top and the chopped onions. Arrange the onion halves decoratively over the tart, return to the oven and bake for 10 minutes. Scatter the asparagus and thyme over the top and bake for a final 3-5 more minutes.
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Homework

Gâteau Saint-Honoré

Homework is one of those things that you are supposed to be freed from upon leaving school. One of the perks of ‘adult’ life, like going out on a weeknight, or the realization that calculus really was useless. Liberated from homework, people get to move forward in their lives and do fun things like fix the broken washing machine, fertilize the lawn, pay the bills, and have those little things called kids and tend to raising them. But we never really get away from homework, even if it no longer involves trigonometry. I sometimes bring work home with me, especially if I’m working on a piece of writing, I like to be able to mull over word choice and sentence structure at my own leisure. However, this week I was cursing myself for some self-assigned homework.

You may have read about a certain crepe cake I made way back when, part of a baking group I joined (the Daring Bakers), in which we have a ‘monthly challenge.’ So, along came this month’s challenge, and I’ll admit it, I balked. As the deadline approached, I grumbled sourly about “that thing I have to bake, as if I don’t have other things to do.” The assignment, a Gâteau Saint-Honoré, was indeed a challenge, with multiple components and steps. I could be heard muttering things about ‘stupid French pastries’ under my breath like a kid with a book report to do. In France, fancy pastries and cakes are almost always purchased from professional bakers, while home cooks rely on a repertory of simple baked goods and custards for everyday. I am very-much a home cook, but I hope I am also daring, so I gave it a go.




A Gâteau Saint-Honoré is a classic pastry comprised of a puff pastry base with rings of cream puff dough, then topped with a lightened pastry cream (rapid Chiboust), and decorated with cream puffs, whipped cream, and caramelized sugar. May 16 was Saint Honore (pronounced o-no-ray) Day the patron saint of bakers after whom the cake is named.

I finally buckled down and made the thing, and you know what, I’m so glad I did. Like the best homework assignment, it actually taught me some things. I’d never made cream puffs (choux paste dough) before, it’s an interesting technique, and one I look forward to experimenting with some more. I stirred the dough by hand, and nearly lost an arm to it, so if you have a stand mixer, I recommend using it. The puff pastry and Chiboust ( a pastry cream stabilized with gelatin and lightened with both whipped cream and beaten egg whites), are classic techniques worth knowing. If you wanted to simplify this, you could use a purchased puff pastry (I recommend Dufour brand), and a simple pastry cream lightened with whipped cream.

Most importantly, the cake was delicious. I had been contemplating giving half of it away to a friend, but after the two of us went back for seconds, I was told: “you better not give any of this away, it’s like a real French pastry.” I agreed, nibbling a delectable cream puff with a crunch of caramelized sugar, and feeling rather proud of my bit of edible homework. A+

Since it is quite lengthy, I recommend you head over here for the full Gâteau Saint-Honoré recipe. Also, much of my own success is due to Helen, who wrote out the recipe and offered great support and advice along the way. Many thanks!

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What Was Always There, Newly Admired

Radish-Poppy Seed, Cucumber-Coriander Chutney, and Carrot-Ginger Tea Sandwiches

Back when I was in high school, my mom and I were out for our usual dose of Sunday museum visits, something know in our house as "museum therapy," and perusing an exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery. Without warning, I saw my mom approach a man wearing tortoiseshell glasses and who stood with his nose inches from a painting, scribbling notes on a legal pad clutched to his chest. "Dink, is that you?" she asked. To my surprise, he turned and said in a dead-serious whisper, "you used my real name." Actually, I was soon to learn that his real name is Don, and Dink was a name used only by his childhood friends. He and my mother had been best friends through high school, he often picked her up in his mother's pink convertible, and gave her a statue of Hamlet when they graduated.

However, after high school they lost touch, and until that meeting in the hushed gallery halls, hadn't seen each other in nearly thirty years. In a subsequent lunch, my mother learned Dink (as we still call him), was a lawyer who lived nearby with his partner John in a great apartment building, and a friendship was resumed as if there had never been a gap. These days, Dink and John are some of the most creative, intelligent, well-traveled people we know, and I always look forward to when they come to visit. They often talk about memories of growing up in Tennessee, stories looked on with the fresh eyes of time and experience.




Knowing they were coming for a picnic last weekend, my mind set on what to fix: simple things, like a little chopped tomato salad, and some slices of teriyaki chicken, a big bowl of grapes and a nice smoked cheddar. But I was also thinking about those foods of the old South, and looking on them with new eyes. Take, for example, the tea sandwich. I picture it as part of the luncheon spread at the Country Club, piled on platters next to a gelatin salad and ham biscuits, probably coated in mayonnaise and insipidly soggy. I've always associated tea sandwiches that way, never giving a thought to where they came from. It took my British-born companion to point out the obvious, that tea sandwiches are one example of the Old English roots of the South.

That got me to thinking about the linneage of tea sandwiches, and the other behemoth of British colonization, India. Spying a jar of coriander chutney, a thick green paste made with coriander and coconut, I immediately knew it would be a perfect twist on the classic cucmber-watercress sandwich. But why stop at one type of tea sandwich when you can have many? Sometimes my culinary imagination gets the best of me, so those French breakfast radishes I picked up at the market got paired with a delectable cream cheese- poppy seed spread. And finally, sweet grated carrots paired with ginger and a deliciously nutty bread.

I'll admit tea sandwiches are a bit fiddly, you can't really do them ahead or they'll get soggy. But I had a ball putting this together, and best of all, the sandwiches were delicious, each person had a different favorite. Sometimes it takes an old friend and a new perspective to discover something that was right there all along.


Tea Sandwich Tips
Use very thinly sliced good quality bread. To prevent sogginess, spread the bread with a thin layer of unsalted butter, and don't assemble more than 3-4 hours ahead of time. Remove all crusts and slice the sandwiches into small shapes about the size of two bites. For fun, you can decorate the edge of the sandwiches with chopped herbs, seeds, or finely grated vegetables.

Radish-Poppy Seed Tea Sandwiches
slivered radishes, chopped chives, 1/2 cup cream cheese, 3 tbl mayonnaise, 2 tbl poppy seeds, 1 tsp lemon zest, white bread

Combine cream cheese, mayonnaise, poppy seeds, and lemon zest. Spread bread with cream cheese mixture, cover with a layer of slivered radishes and a sprinkling of chives, then top with a slice of cream cheese-spread bread. Trim crusts from sandwiches and cut into small shapes. If desired, spread one edge of sandwiches with a small amount of the cream cheese mixture and dip in poppy seeds to decorate.

Carrot-Ginger Tea Sandwiches
3 large carrots, grated, 1/2 cup marmalade, 1 tsp ginger, whole-grain bread

Combine the grated carrots, marmalade, and ginger (if you have a ginger marmalade, you can use it and omit the powdered ginger). Make sandwiches with whole grain bread and cut into small squares or triangles.

Cucumber-Coriander Chutney Tea Sandwiches
1-2 cucumbers (preferably seedless), coriander-coconut chutney (available in jars in international food stores), unsalted butter, white bread, chopped chives, herbs, or dessicated coconut for decorating

1. Peel the cucumbers in a striped pattern, leaving only a little bit of green for accent. Using a mandoline or a sharp knife, thinly slice the cucmber, pat the slices dry with paper towels.
2.Spread one side of the bread slices with a small amount of unsalted butter to prevent sogginess. Spread the bread with coriander chutney, top with cucumber slices, assemble sandwiches, and trim crusts. If desired, spread one side of the sandwiches with coriander chutney and dip in chopped chives or dessicated coconut to decorate.