Mise en Place

Le Comptoir - Downtown Pop-Up Restaurant

I pretty much do most things on a whim. Saturday-night’s whim led me to an opening that meant my friend, Sophie and I found seats at the counter of chef Gary Menes’ pop-up restaurant, Le Comptoir at whacky, Tiara Cafe in Downtown L.A.. 

Hailing from Long Beach, CA, Chef Menes has knocked around Los Angeles kitchens, Patina (under Joachim Splichal) and Melisse as well as a stint at The French Laundry in Yountville. But you can read his bio anywhere. What I can tell you is how friendly and welcoming and relaxed he and his line were. We sat across the counter from the open kitchen, happily conversing with them all. 

The high-ceilinged dining room feels vast and empty as Chef Menes chooses to make available really only the twelve seats at the counter, inches from where they are preparing the food. I like this. I almost always choose to sit at a counter if there is one available anywhere I go.

There are two seatings, 6pm and 8pm. It is a five-course, prix fixe menu with a wine-pairing for an additional rate. Full details available here.  

BREAD

We were kept in-bread the entire meal, with Chef Menes’ sourdough which he bakes with an 18 year old starter I read somewhere. It was moist, soft and squishy inside which I LOVED. The base crust was a little too black for my taste. 

AMUSE

Mushroom Croquette on Pesto Aioli

The crust was perfect, the interior Duxelles (mixture of finely-chopped mushrooms, onions, butter and herbs reduced to a paste) was creamy and delicious. 

FIRST COURSE

Okinawan sweet potato veloute, yogurt, green garlic, farinette and herbs.

OR

French foie gras terrine, dried cherry compote and saba (an additional $18).

I went with the foie gras and, even though the the sweet potato veloute was delicate and velvety (I tasted Sophie’s), I am glad I did. The foie gras was truly exceptional. 

SECOND COURSE

Sunny side-up egg, young lettuce, herbs, jus vert. 

OR

Asperge vert et eouf sur la plat, reggiano, beurre noissette and citron (an additional $8). 

The interactive egg dish was adorable, cooking before us in a cast-iron cocotte, to which we were to add the pat of butter and the assortment of herbs ourselves. The entire dish was topped with a sorrel jus by a roving server. This showy little dish was probably my least-favorite, flavor-wise. 

THIRD COURSE

A veggie plate - beets, pickled onion petals, turnips, radishes, kohlrabi, carrots, pears, grapes, fava beans, squash and celtuce. 

OR 

House-made fettuccini and black winter truffles (an additional $20).

Most unusually, I chose pasta. I did however try some of Sophie’s vegetables which not only presented beautifully, but were perfection in their simplicity. The fettuccini were light and bright, creamy and al dente. The truffles were full without being overly pungent.  

FOURTH COURSE

Flavors of tangerine beef broccoli - pea tendrils, broccoli, black forbidden rice, caramelized onion jus, tangerine. 

OR 

Poitrine de pore - slow-braised heritage pork belly, stone-ground grits, apples, greens and white wine-braised-leeks (an additional $8).

If my husband had been with me and witnessed my pasta order, he’d have been a little suspicious. Hearing me order the beef over the pork belly, he’d have been certain someone else was inhabiting my body. So glad I ordered the beef. It and the foie gras were definitely the stand outs of the entire dinner. The beef/ broccoli flavor was at once exotic and subtle. The rice was off the charts, with such wonderful depth of flavor. 

FIFTH COURSE

Chocolate, blood orange, vanilla tuille, sour cream, pistachio, graham cracker and mint. 

OR

Cheese plate - Hooks 10 year cheddar, buffalo blue and Nuvola di Pecora (an additional $12). 

I chose the chocolate, of course. It was good. Each little component of the canvas was a sweet, lovely little morsel. The standout of all the sweet things however, was the candied pistachios from Santa Barbara - heavenly. 

We wrapped the night with a mug of Handsome Coffee’s, “Sau Judas” single-origin pour-over, worked extremely attentively by Chef Menes himself who utilized a thermometer and timer, taking his barista role quite seriously. This particular weekend, Handsome were also giving away little bags of beans to guests. I left with coffee in-hand and a belly filled with the perfect amount of food.

Le Comptoir is open Thursday to Saturday and they’re set to be there until July, 2012. You may make reservations over at the Le Comptoir website. 

What I’m gettin’ down to while making my eggs and Savoy Cabbage flowers this morning for breakfast and brewing the French Press.

Split Pea & Ham Soup

Serves 6

Ingredients 

1lb Split Peas 

2lbs Ham Shank - Scored (I like it meaty - less if you don’t or use a hock instead)

2 Carrots - Medium peeled

3 Celery Sticks - Medium 

1 Brown Onion - Small, diced finely

6 Garlic Cloves - Crushed 

2tbsp Majoram Leaves

2tbsp Butter

1tbsp Olive Oil 

1 1/4 gallons Chicken Broth (low sodium if you’re buying off shelf)

Salt

Cracked Pepper

Method 

In a heavy-based, medium-sized pot, on low heat, melt butter but don’t let brown. Add olive oil and let heat.

Increase heat slightly and add onion and garlic and soften. Stir in fresh Majoram leaves. Add a little broth if ingredients start to stick and reduce heat a little. Add a pinch of salt and a little cracked pepper to taste. 

Add carrots and celery and stir in and let soften.  

Place shank(s) in pot and brown each side. 

Add all split peas and 2/3 of all the broth. Stir in until all ingredients submerged.

Cover pot and let simmer on very low heat for 1hr 40 minutes, checking in and stirring occasionally, adding more broth periodically until it’s finished. 

Remove shanks from pot and de-bone, chopping flesh into small, bite-sized pieces. Discard bone(s). Return meat to pot and let continue to simmer for another ten minutes.  

Remove pot from heat and let sit for five minutes before serving. 

V Dreams of Jiro’s Sushi

Jiro Ono’s life-long devotion to the art of making sushi, his utter dedication to his craft (he’s a still-working — seven days a week — eighty-five year old who appears to have been making sushi since childhood) has afforded him three Michelin stars — the first ever to be awarded a sushi chef. It commands reverence, the kind of all-consuming passion, devotion, discipline and single-mindedness required to arrive at such a level of skill and heightened understanding as Jiro has in his career. And still he claims to be learning, to be bettering himself constantly. It is his life pursuit, still.

Honorable it is, how he has spent his time on this earth, perfecting simplicity. This could never have been my path in life. I’m far too distracted, far too interested in everything around me in this giant, wonderful, endlessly fascinating world we live in. I’ve always needed to be in it. Jiro, like other masters of any particular craft, has spent his life, holed up with his fish, his rice and his hands, quietly moving as close to perfection as one can get. 

A field trip to a tiny, hole-in-a-wall in Ginza, Tokyo is all I can think of right now, for the privilege of rapture on my tongue before this guy retires to the other world. And Jiro-san really does need to quit it actually. His poor fifty-something year old son has been apprenticing for eternity, in deference to the Japanese tradition that the eldest son must follow in his father’s footsteps and replace him upon retirement. 

Jiro Dreams of Sushi is now showing in Los Angeles, food-lovers and it’s a beauty (or actually, it’s “beauty” would also be accurate). Catch it only until this Thursday, 22nd March at the Nuart in Westwood.

Eating Alone

Just because I usually lunch alone, it doesn’t mean that I don’t make things pretty and that I don’t sit at the table. 

A Cross-Continental Cowboy Breakfast

I’ve cowboy on the brain post-Santa Fe. I awoke this particular morning and recalled that we had left over pork ribs that our mate from Georgia, Scotty P had come over and prepared along with left over mashed potatoes that our girlfriend Lexi had made to go along with them the night before. I had a hankering for beans too. Heinz Baked Beans to be exact - a staple on toast in the morning in a childhood spent in Australia (or the U.K.). I jumped in the car, headed over to the British Shop at Ye Olde King’s Head in Santa Monica and grabbed a can of this comfort food. Next thing you know, I’d chopped up the last of my savoy cabbage and baby leeks, re-designing them as fritters and… voi la! 

Santa Fe - A Spaghetti Southwestern

By train is the loveliest way to travel. The obvious pro is that it is cheap. But so much more than that, I love the pace of trains, I love watching the world go by out the window in an unhurried fashion, I love being able to walk around and find a new nook on the train to observe from and I love the conversations you engage in and the stories you discover, from many strangers more than just the one you may have been allocated a seat next to on an airplane. 

We rode “The Southwest Chief”, which terminates in Chicago, from L.A. to Lamy, New Mexico (population approx. 300). It was a thirteen hour train ride to Lamy, where we were picked up by Tony-the-Amtrak-shuttle-guy and delivered to our front door, thirty-minutes away in Santa Fe. Our tickets were $160 each roundtrip. Of that thirteen hours, I slept five and during the rest, took photos, read newspapers and rubbish magazines, daydreamed out the window, eavesdropped on people, watched people, met people and listened to people tell their stories. 

So this is how our eating holiday began. But how was it conceptualized you wonder? I’ve been told for years by folks who know me and who know Santa Fe that I, in particular, would love Santa Fe. I had also heard that there was a lot of great food to be had in that area — regional dishes born out of the wonderful, cultural melting pot of the Southwest, that encompasses Native American, Mexican and Cowboy flavors in both food and living. Discussing this with my friend, Sophie one day, she talked about how she had often thought of taking the train there from L.A.. For those of you who don’t know me, I have a tattoo of a railroad crossing sign on my left wrist. Suffice it to say, I was in.  Sophie then went on to explain that her father has a condo there that he uses only occasionally, which we would be welcome to stay in — a condo that came with a 4WD. Next thing, we were on the Amtrak website buying train tickets and collecting our lists of restaurant recommendations from foodie and Santa Fe-born friends. 

As we rocked gently along aboard the Southwest Chief, to the desert tableaux drifting by, we watched and listened to a new friendship unfold between a stylish, non-English-speaking, Japanese man with a very fancy camera and a strapping, young cowboy in full regalia, boots on up to the hat. He used a translator application on his phone to discover that his new friend was an architect, that he photographed animals for fun and all manner of other trivia. It would have been a completely boring-for-us, silent exchange, with the two of them passing the translator back and forth across the table, had the cowboy not felt the need to repeat each of his discoveries aloud to a nearby buddy. 

We first observed our new friend, Anthony Lee as he sat silently at a nearby table, laying out his tarot cards, earnestly giving himself a reading. I didn’t even need to know all that I found out about him once we’d actually met later, to see in that moment that this was a boy headed on a big journey. It turned out that this nice, eyebrow-less, young drag queen — drag name, “Charlie Rose” — was moving from the Inland Empire, California to tear up Lupis, Missouri. He’s hoping to make it on Ru Paul’s, “Drag Race” next season by the way, so root for him with us, won’t you? 

During the night, we ran out of the sandwiches, strawberries and seaweed snacks we’d brought on board and so most unfortunately, we had to take breakfast in the dining car. The first meal of our journey was the worst. But we knew that was to be expected. At breakfast we shared our table with Sherry, the rancher from Colorado — they do Angus Beef.  She was tall and lean with a long, silver ponytail, weather-worn and as beautiful as a dramatic cliff-face in the morning sun. She’s a horse lady. One of her eight boys is married to an Australian, is in banking and lives in Melbourne. None of the boys chose to become ranchers. Sherry rides the Southwest Chief, once a year. We also sat with Martha, the breast-cancer survivor from Albuquerque who had returned to L.A. — her original home — for her class of ‘90 high school reunion. They both ordered French Toast. We should have done the same. Just so you know, don’t order eggs on the Southwest Chief. 

We arrived at Sophie’s dad’s condo at about two-thirty in the afternoon. Our first meal for our first day in Santa Fe would be dinner. This also coincided with Valentine’s Day. My husband and I don’t do Valentine’s Day. We think it’s baloney. Every day is Valentine’s Day at our house. Sophie is of a similar mentality. We knew that we’d find it tricky to get out to any of the great restaurants on our list that night with all the lovebirds out on the town. So instead, we hit a nearby diner that Sophie’s family frequent, at the senior-citizen-dinging-hour of 4:30pm and plotted. Below is the crazy schedule we concocted for ourselves for our stay.

Meal #1 - Dinner While we Plotted

Location:  Harry’s Roadhouse, Santa Fe

Order: BBQ Pork Ribs, Beans and Slaw and Strawberry & Rhubarb Pie

Rating: I would be super happy if Harry’s Roadhouse replaced 50’s Cafe in Venice. Good-quality diner food.

When we returned to the condo, we sat on the balcony, with a glass of wine and cigarette, quietly taking in the distant mountains and far-off lights of Albuquerque and it began to snow. Snow is novel and magical for me, having seen it but a handful of times in my life. But there is something even far more enchanting about snow falling on a desert. 

Meal #2 - Breakfast

Location: The Teahouse, Santa Fe

Order: Steelcut Oatmeal and Sticky Rice with Cream

Rating: Best oatmeal I’ve ever eaten. I know “oatmeal” just like that doesn’t sound exciting, but trust me, even for the 90s garnishings, this was spectacular. Can’t wait to get back and eat more things. Bought teas from wide selection which I’m looking forward to trying at home. Absolutely adorable, cozy ambience. 

After breakfast, we wandered around downtown Santa Fe and hit up vintage stores and chili shops. We happened upon “Kowboyz”, an amazing western outfitter with one of the most comprehensive selections of cowboy boots I’ve ever seen, where I purchased a pile of of ridiculously well-priced, western shirts (actual, real-deal worker ones which had my husband comment, upon my return with his gifts, “Someone’s gonna throw me a lasso and I won’t know what the hell to do with it!”) 

The delightful owner, Suzy greeted us. We were there a while and as she observed our ever-growing pile of booty she  said, “You girls aren’t from ‘round here. You know how to shop!” Turned out Suzy and her husband, Brad had first had their store in Hollywood for many, many years. Photos of the happy, beautiful couple, beaming in their cowboy attire, from various years of their lives together, hung on the walls. I peered closely at a great shot of her tall, handsome husband in his Stetson, plaid shirt, worn jeans, boots and turquoise as she revealed to me that he’d passed away only two years ago. He was, I think, from Kentucky originally and she from Chicago. She’d met him one day many years ago, when her and her sister stopped at a gas station in L.A. to pick up supplies on their way out to go trout fishing. Turned out the gas station was closed and Brad would use it on Sundays to lay out his many hundreds of cowboy boots and sell them. By the time her sister had walked back to the car, Suzy had his number. I smiled and said, “You married a real cowboy.” And she said, “Yes, yes I did.” And I said, “Cowboys are hot!” And she laughed heartily and replied wistfully, “Yes, yes they are young lady!” 

Meal #3: Lunch - Deviation from schedule as the Shed was closed for roof repairs.

Location: Pasqual’s, Santa Fe

Order: Smoked Trout Hash with Soft Poached Eggs (recommended to us by local chef, John Vollersten), Chicken Mole Enchiladas and Santa Fe Pale Ale. 

Rating:  The Smoked Trout Hash was hands down one of the way better things we ate on the entire trip - such a full flavor profile. Make sure you order it. I have brought a half-case of Santa Fe Pale Ale with me back to L.A.. Had a hoot of a time talking to server, “Roblair”. Odd name, great guy. 

Following lunch, we drove up into the Santa Fe foothills and hit up 10,000 waves — an incredible, Japanese-style outdoor spa — for a bit of absolutely-not-needed or deserved R&R. We paid $23, got naked, scrubbed down and jumped into the women’s hot tub, out in the icy air, on a deck under snow-kissed trees and blue sky and went some other place for a couple of hours. Unable to resist, I invested in some of their organic body lotion to bring back to L.A.. I’m not a lounge-around-spas kind of girl at all, but this place is pretty magical. They have women only and communal, co-ed tubs, open to the public and have tubs available to hire privately for singles or groups. They offer facials and massages and all other manner of indulgences. I still feel as soft as a baby’s bum all over. 

Meal #4: Dinner

Location: El Farol, Santa Fe

Order: Tapas Selection - Aceitunas: Salt-cured Moroccan Olives with Roasted Garlic & Oranges, Mountain-cured Spanish Ham with Mustard, Chorizo de Rioja: Smoky Paprika Sausage with Fig Aioli, Pato Asado: Roasted Duck Breast with Moroccan Carrot Sauce, Pulpo: Grilled Octopus with Smoked Paprika, Gambas al Ajillo: Spicy Sauteed Garlic Shrimp with Lime & Madeira, Polenta a la Mancha Machego: Polenta with Romanesco and Cabrales: Spanish Blue Cheese with Marcona Almonds & Honey. We washed it all down with a 2009 Veramonte Pinot Noir from Chile. 

Rating: As far as tapas go, totally good. Not great. If I lived there though, would absolutely go now and then. My favorite items were the Pato Asado,  Pulpo, Polenta a la Mancha and the Cabrales. I also loved using the crusty bread for mopping up the oil from the chorizo, mixed with the fig aioli. I didn’t care much for the chorizo itself. The wine was so, so lovely. 

After dinner, we tried to hit up Coyote Cafe for a drink only to discover it was closed. Our awesome cab driver, Danny (who we had on speed-dial) dropped us in what he called the “Bermuda Triangle”, where multiple late-night-for-Sant-Fe bars were available within a block. We didn’t make it past the first one, El Matador. Hardcore, old-school punk was blaring from the door, which was located down a shady-looking stairwell with a solitary, red light at street level, announcing to all of Santa Fe, its ill-repute. It was small, shitty, plastered in great band posters, scarcely occupied, had a rockabilly Perry-Farrell-look-alike barman and in the corner the cute, young, blond, girl-DJ was spinning some outstanding vinyl. We sidled up and ordered a couple of Jamieson’s. Sometimes I can drink whiskey now. Good for me. 

As one does in bars, we met all kinds of boys. But our favorite appeared a little later in the evening. His name is Jonah. Chef Jonah to be exact. He is dating aforementioned, cute girl-DJ and so, after he knocks off over at modern, French restaurant, The Compound — a heavyweight on the Southwestern food scene, which is high on the list for the next trip — he heads on over to El Matador to hang out with his girl. This became so frequent in fact, that in the end, he took a job there. Now, on the nights his girl spins, he finishes cooking and then bounces at El Matador until she’s done. He has a missing tooth. I’m not sure if that is occupation-related.

Jonah is from northern California and moved out to Santa Fe after a long stint cooking in Portland. It turned out too, that he has a whole lot of Polynesian friends in Portland, and is headed back to a mate’s 30th birthday there next week. Being Tongan this mate of his — those Tongans roll like my mob roll when they get together and eat — Jonah was driving up, with a live pig in tow to gift the family for the celebration. Yum. We talked for ages about various Polynesian food-preparation methods which he was extremely familiar with, and little things like what it’s like drinking Kava. 

A couple of way strong whiskeys later, just after the stampede (not exaggerating — and the barman was freaking out) of chemists arrived and upset the equilibrium in our happy little grunge-den, we left. Earlier in the day when I’d asked Sophie what kind of people lived in Santa Fe (she has spent her life visiting Santa Fe, where her parents first lived after they were married and where her two brothers were born), she replied, “Artists and scientists.” Turns out she was right. 

Meal #5: Breakfast

Location: Bobcat Bite

Order: Green Chili Cheese Burger - With small hangovers, were weren’t messing around that morning. 

Rating:  At this tiny, friendly, mom & pop shop diner, located on Bobcat Ranch, I had what was definitely one of the best burgers I’ve ever eaten. 

With burgers in our bellies, we made the meandering, scenic drive to Bandelier National Monument. The very beautiful, sacred canyons of this area were home to some of the Ancient Puebla Peoples, who lived in small, scattered settlements, occupying surrounding caves. The cave dwellings are preserved for us to experience. The magic in this area is palpable. As Sophie and I walked a large, open field, taking in the ruins of a Kiva, it began to snow. 

After leaving the cave dwellings, we continued our scenic journey toward Chimayo, where we stopped in to look at some local, native weaving. We met a lovely brother-sister duo of weavers who explained that the largest part of their income these days comes from Japan, where their textiles are greatly coveted. Much of their work is shipped off there directly. 

Meal #6: Lunch

Location: Rancho de Chimayo, Chimayo

Order: Green Chili and Sopaipillas  

Rating:  This middle-of-nowhere restaurant on a ranch provided truck-loads of charm and is a busy, regional, road-tripping destination, Sophie had informed me. Due to our post-whiskey, late start however, we found ourselves there during that quietest of times between lunch and dinner. This served us well as the servers had time to talk and the kitchen had time to receive us and give us a Sopaipilla-making-lesson. It is very important for me to assert now that if you have not had a Sopaipilla, you need to make it a priority. Particular to the region, it is a puffy, hollow, fried-bread that I imagine is the evolution of a Native American staple, by the hands of the Mexicans (though you’ll need to research that yourself). Thank God for multiculturalism. It reminds me very much of fried Maori bread which I grew up eating, along with the rest of the native New Zealanders like myself. Sopaipillas are served with warm, cinnamon-infused honey for dipping. The green chili I must report was just so-so. 

We left Chimayo, headed down into Taos, taking the scenic high-road. We got a lot more scenery than we bargained for, getting ourselves completely lost in the snow which forced us to see twilight turn into the dead of the night, in completely unmapped territory (for us). It was in being lost however that we found some of the prettiest scenery of the trip. 

Meal #7: Dinner

Location: The Love Apple (la Pomme d’Amour), Taos

Order:  We had the Beet and Avocado Salad with ruby grapefruit, spearmint and a lime vinaigrette. It was sensational. We had the Quail Nogadas: Wild quail stuffed with green chile, cilantro, feta and quinoa with a creamy walnut and creme fraiche sauce and pomegranate seeds. We had the chicken special which was a super-moist, local, happy chicken with a classic, French mustard sauce that they NAILED. An absolute highlight however was the desserts — which change constantly. We had a layer cake of chocolate, chiffon and marmalade that was unbelievable. And sincerely, the rose custard I would use for a body moisturizer — I actually rubbed a little on myself, truth be told.

Rating:  This was, hands down, the best meal of the trip. An utterly romantic, cozy, adorable restaurant, housed in an old adobe church, I cannot recommend it enough. A farm-to-table, northern New Mexican delight, every, tiny detail was clearly thought-through with love. Each of the waitstaff wore a unique, gorgeous, handmade apron by a local artist. In classic French-bistro style, each table was adorned with old wine-bottles, propping up candlesticks alongside locally-picked flora delicately housed in an odd-assortment of glasses. The vintage mis-matched plates charming under the romantic, very-dim lighting. An interesting fact we noted too was that the entire staff — kitchen and floor — was all female. 

We got back to our condo, heavily overfed to the point that we had to forfeit breakfast the next morning. I believe I would have thrown up. By the time we arrived in Lamy however, ready to board our train, we’d found a tiny bit of room. With an hour before our train departed, we made our way across the dirt road from the tiny, lonely, little country train station to the beautiful, colonial building across the way — the only other building within miles — which we figured to be a restaurant. 

“Legal Tender” as it turns out, was a brothel back in the day and had gone through various incarnations over the years as a train museum, a restaurant and a bar. It had been closed for twelve long years and wouldn’t you know it, that morning of our arrival, had reopened for business as the only watering hole/ restaurant for miles.

The Santa Fe Pale Ales went down far too easily as we talked with one of the owners. Two brothers, Jon and Greg (or maybe it was Craig — I cannot for the life of me tell the difference with an American accent) were running the show along with Jon’s wife and a COMPLETELY VOLUNTEER staff. Also a train museum, this fantastic, old venue had been reopened with great difficulty after much frustrating wrangling of red tape. Apparently, local council is a bitch. All of the staff — locals who wanted the venture to happen, to put this heritage site back on the map — were volunteering their services until they could start making a profit. Jon and his wife had been living in Hermosa Beach (and still dock their boat in Redondo) and decided to head back to the region and get this place up. Greg/ Craig had been living in North Carolina where his wife had passed away recently. Being a good brother, Jon called Greg and said, “Pack what you can fit in one suitcase and get down here and let’s do this together.” 

The sun, the quiet, the good folks and great beer, along with the enticement of a live band that night for a big, local opening-night fete, were more than enough good reason to stay. Sophie and I trotted across to the train station and asked the ticket master if we could change our ticket to the next day. Alas, the train back to L.A. the next day was completely sold out. It was with briefly-disappointed hearts that we boarded the train back to L.A.. 

If you ever get the opportunity to take a train anywhere, do so. If you ever get the opportunity to take a train into the magical heart of the Southwest, do so. If you get to go on any journey with a friend, into any place unknown, don’t let the opportunity pass you by. Live, eat, enjoy this life. 

What I’m Getting Goose Bumps All Over To While Cooking: Michael Kiwanuka

What I’m Cooking While Getting Goose Bumps All Over: Smothering a Chateaubriand with goose liver pate in preparation for Christmas Beef Wellington and making vanilla ice cream.

The Unlikely Pie

A Guest Post by Sophie McLaughlin

Paine Farm was a yearly trip to Mecca for my mother. Pre-dawn, she would gather us in the van, glue the accelerator to the floor and speed towards her childhood. She was raised a Paine, on the farm, in small town Michigan. She spent her youth riding bareback through the orchards picking apples and pears straight from the source. Hence, I spent my youth surrounded by apple butter, apple cider, apple cider donuts, apple ice cream, and of course, apple pie; ANYTHING to recreate her farm life in our suburban Missouri home. She refused to buy apples from the grocery store, so after a summer spent shoveling the barn, fishing with my great-grandfather, and helping my uncle organize the hardware store, we made one last stop at the farm to fill our van to the brim. Then it was home to preserve them.

Upon arrival, it was time to categorize and put the apples to work. First she made butters, jams, and ice cream, then on to the apple pies. She would spend days folding and refrigerating pie dough to make the perfect crust and nights, folding those crusts around the apples. Luckily for her, she was a stay-at-home mom. She had the time, and so she took it.

In 1998 however, a chain of events left my mother with no time for the labor intensive pie crusts. In desperation, she asked our closest family friend, Trudy to take over the pie baking. As Trudy, a professor and single mother, set up for a marathon baking session, she calculated how long the process would take and “holy cow”, she didn’t have the time! So, she performed an ingenious trick. Her secret, a Swedish crust.

Her best friend had given her the recipe years before saying, “this will change your life one day”. On August 16, 1998 that day arrived. Instead of four days later, Trudy had all fifteen pies done in four hours. Halleluiah! Basically, the crust is made on the stove-top by combining butter, egg, salt, flour and sugar and then pouring it over the apples in a buttered pie pan. Don’t get me wrong, I respect process and baking is all chemistry. The best bakers (for me Joanne Chang of Flour) have stressed over the details, receiving degrees in chemistry and creating the most labor intensive confectionery delights. However, the Swedes provide the rest of us with a scrumptious alternative; a pie without the detailed labor.

I LOVE baking pie. I also love brining turkey, stirring cranberries, peeling potatoes and crumbling stuffing. I want to have it all and this pie obliges my request. Trudy changed how I would spend the rest of my Thanksgivings. Instead of solely baking the pie, I could focus on the turkey and sides while slapping together a delicious pie in less than an hour.

This is Trudy below.

This Thanksgiving, it was time to evolve the Swedes idea. I’ve only seen Swedish apple pies, so I thought I’d rethink the idea. I was reminded of a cranberry sauce I had made a few years back that called for fennel seed. That was the first time I had heard of fennel and I quite enjoyed the results. Then, this year I saw my first fennel bulb. I fell in love and have started roasting them and using them in all sorts of dishes. I decided to recreate the fennel cranberry sauce within a pie.

To start, I know fennel is a bitter vegetable, so I soaked the quartered pieces for about an hour in honey. An interesting thing happened, (and only on my second attempt did I realize the importance of this) when I coated the fennel with honey and let it sit at room temp, the fennel became moist which created a honey fennel bath that only helped to soften and sweeten the bitter vegetable. I went ahead and made cranberry sauce as per the instructions on the bag and added that on top of the fennel, in a buttered glass pie dish and poured on the crust. It was either going to be nasty or nice. I put it in the oven for fifty-five minutes, prayed to the pie gods, and when I removed it, a delish new pie was born. The best part? I was able to crank out ten of those beauties which all went to friends and neighbors.

The Swedes are my crust gods.

Fennel & Cranberry Pie

(Serves 8)

Ingredients - Filling

2 Large Fennel Bulbs

9oz Fresh Cranberries

1 Cup Sugar

1/2 Cup approx Honey

1 Cup Water

Ingredients - Crust

3/4 Cup Butter

1 Egg Unbeaten

1 Cup Flour

1 Cup Sugar

1/2 Teaspoon Vanilla Extract

Pinch of Salt

Method

Preheat oven to 350 Fahrenheit.

Clean and cut fennel bulbs into wedges. Place in a bowl and distribute honey over them. Let sit while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

Stew water, sugar and cranberries on a low-medium heat until the cranberries have softened, cracked and broken apart. Let cool until the cranberry thickens.

In a separate pot, melt the butter and add the vanilla and salt. Once melted, add the flour and sugar and mix in well.

Add the egg and fold in until gently blended. Remove from heat.

Butter the base and side of our pie pan well.

Discard the fennel water that sweats out in the base of the bowl and arrange a single layer of fennel wedges in the base of the pie dish.

Spread the cranberry over the top of the fennel. You do not want to fill the dish more than half way.

Finally, spread the crust batter evenly over the top of the filling.

Place pie on top rack for one hour or until crisp and golden brown on top.

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