Vanilla Fig Scones

I’m always looking for ways to pawn off the older ingredients in my pantry. I haven’t lived in my apartment for very long, but you might never know this by looking in the cupboard. I don’t know how I do it. I’ve always been a very good collector, as evidenced by things like the pretty tins of Piment d’espellette, cans of duck confit, ad hoc sweeteners, delicate vinegars and nut oils, and lots of preserves gifted to me from friends or people on the road (see proof in the entry below!). I come home sometimes from tour with more jam in my suitcase than clothing!

If you’re a pack rat, too, then you probably know too well the chaos that comes with it. All of that stuff has to go somewhere, and if it’s permitted to go unchecked, my pantry turns into a hurricane of sea salts, wacky spice blends, etc. Since there’s less fresh ingredients in season to play with right now, I’ve been trying to use this time to clean out the cupboard a little. It’s not all hard work. Sometimes, I find buried beneath the za’atar and blackstrap molasses a forgotten treasure.

Case in point: dried mission figs. I don’t know how long they had been back there—maybe two or three months now. They were hiding behind the buckwheat flour. I opened the jar and sampled one, and unlike a lot of dried figs, it was still perfectly soft and slightly sticky. I knew I had to seize the opportunity immediately, while they were still this perfect and chewy. In my fridge, there was a little over a cup’s worth of heavy cream a few days past its expiration date* (I won’t tell if you don’t…) and quickly it all began to come together. My first thought was how much I loved vanilla and figs together. I tugged at the jar of vanilla sugar I’d begun back in the fall and stuck way back on the top shelf. I remembered reading this recipe a few days ago. Scones would be perfect. Fig scones! Something that would play with the figs’ rich flavor, and stand up well to a morning cup of coffee. I usually work off the same recipe--mostly due to laziness, and this is the one I've had memorized for a few years now. I love buttermilk in baking, too, but I just never have any lying around. I threw everything into a bowl, turned it out for a quick knead before I glazed the dough with some melted butter and vanilla sugar.

The scones only need 15 minutes in the oven, and they’re nice and light when they emerge piping hot, perhaps slathered with a little butter or jam. The figs remain nutty and chewy, and the vanilla sugar gives it a welcome sweetness without being cloying. No one will know you were just trying to clean out your pantry.

VANILLA FIG SCONES

Make sure to use dried figs that are still soft and fleshy, this way they won't dry out while the scones are baking. If your figs seem wizened and dry, soak them in a bit of hot water to reconstitute them. You could even throw a tablespoon of brandy or rum in with the hot water, to give it even more complexity of flavor.

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups flour

1 Tbs. baking powder

1/2 t. fine sea salt

1/4 cup sugar

3/4 cup very fresh dried mission figs, chopped

1 1/4 cup heavy cream

2-3 Tbs. unsalted butter, melted

2 Tbs. vanilla sugar **

DIRECTIONS:

1. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

2. In a large bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar with a fork. Add the chopped figs and mix again.

3. Add the heavy cream to the flour mixture, and stir with the fork just until a shaggy dough forms.

4. Turn the dough out on to a flat floured surface, and knead it gently over itself 3 or 4 times. Don’t over-work it, the dough should stay pretty pliant and sticky.

5. Pat the dough out into a 10 inch circle. Glaze the circle with the melted butter, then sprinkle the vanilla sugar over the top.

6. Using a sharp knife, divide the dough into 12 triangles. Place each triangle about an inch apart on an ungreased cookie sheet.

7. Bake the scones for 15 minutes until they are just slightly golden, and let cool on a rack. Stored in an airtight container, they will keep for 2 days.

MAKES 12 SCONES.

*I am not encouraging you to use cream past its expiration date, but my rule is that if I’m going to bake with it and the cream doesn’t smell off—game’s on. To each their own. I know, it’s chancy, but I’ve eaten three scones on my own and I’m still living to tell the tale. Also, it should be noted that I used a local cream which hadn’t been pasteurized into oblivion, thus retaining the enzymes that help to ward off spoilage.

**Vanilla Sugar is incredibly easy to make. Take a split vanilla bean (fresh, or washed if it’s leftover from another recipe), and place inside a jar of finely granulated sugar. Let it rest for at least a week, it keeps indefinitely and can be used for all sorts of things: cinnamon toast, crème brulee, sprinkling on fresh grapefruit etc.

Look what arrived in the mail today!

Seville Orange Marmalade from  Dale & Julia

Oh yes, today was quite a lucky day!

LA SALADE FRISEE AUX LARDONS

Conversion is not an overnight affair, especially when it comes to vegetables. I can’t pinpoint my hatred of frisée to one specific trauma, but anytime I encountered it I managed to eat my way around it before edging the fronds to the outer ring of my plate. It might have been because it never was conveniently bite-sized, or because it looked like it had been broken off of the coral reef…whatever it was, I couldn’t stand it.

As with most things formerly detestable to me, I had just been eating it the wrong way. First, a true healthy head of frisée isn’t nearly as twig-like as the bagged mesculn mix variety. It should be remarkably tender, smell slightly sweet, its leaves almost fluffy. Then there is the color--which, as you can see, is not the limp off-white you might normally see, but a rather bright spring green color. It reminds me a little of the first young crocus shoots, all hopeful, vibrant and bold.  

Like radicchio, its bitter chicory crunch can be tempered easily when served slightly wilted. Suddenly, the friséee’s bitterness caramelizes a little, its fronds soften, and it becomes the perfect foil for the salty, sweet, or sour. It’s great with pomegranate seeds and prosciutto, or just lemon juice with a bit of ricotta salata sprinkled over the top. There’s a multitude of inventions I’ve tried, but somehow I always return to the first way I had frisee prepared for me, to my first revelation of its wonders: La Salade Frisée aux Lardons. 

Tossing the frisée in the hot fat wilts the greens just slightly, so they retain their snap but lose that scratchy texture. Next, the vinaigrette! Oh, the vinaigrette! You take any kind of red wine vinegar, toss that in the pan while it’s still searing hot from the bacon fat, and use it to scrape up all the brown cracklings still stuck at the bottom. The vinaigrette reduces into a nicely sweet, almost viscous syrup—which plays well with the crisp lardons and the bitter greens and the runny yolk of a poached egg.

I had forgotten about how much I loved this salad until I was at the market and saw this beautiful bunch of frisée grown nearby. Spring must be on its way—the local produce is beginning to make shy appearances here or there, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. Not wanting to jinx the string of beautiful weather we’ve been having here, I’ll be timidly embracing the first signs spring and marrying them with more wintry dishes like this salad until it’s all asparagus shoots and strawberries again. 

Salade Frisee Aux Lardons

Adapted from a recipe by Anne Willan

This salad is classic, and I rarely confer with any recipe when I make it. I taste and adjust as I go--which is the best way for all cooks, especially ones who don't like to mince too much time at the stove. Do it once, and I'm sure you'll remember this, too. The key is to make sure your friséee is extra dry and crisp after you've washed it, or it will wilt too much from the hot fat.

INGREDIENTS:

1 head of frisée, washed and thoroughly dried

4 eggs

1/2 cup  red wine vinegar

6 oz. lean bacon, cut into 1/2 inch slices

1 Tbs. Vegetable oil

1-2 shallots, thinly sliced

Pepper, to taste

DIRECTIONS:

1. Bring a 2 qt. saucepan of water to boil, Add 3 Tbs. of the vinegar to the water, then crack an egg into a ramekin, lowering the egg into the water to help spin the egg-whites around the yolk. Repeat with all eggs. Lower the heat and poach the eggs until the whites are firm but the yolks are still nice and soft, about 3 minutes is al you’ll need. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the eggs to a plate (if you’d like them warm, like me) or a bowl of cold water. Once in the cold water bath, they can store in the refrigerator for up to 6 hours ahead of serving time.

2. Place the shallot slices and frisée, torn into bite-size pieces, in a large bowl.

3. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the bacon and cook until crisp and golden, about 3 minutes. If there’s a lot of excess fat, pour some off, but leave 4 Tbs. behind in the pan with the lardons.

4. Now it’s time for the magic to begin. Pour the remaining hot fat and lardons over the frisée and toss quickly to coat and wilt the greens a bit.

5. Add the remaining 5 Tbs. of vinegar to the hot pan, being careful to stand back so you don’t singe your eyebrows. Bring this to a boil, and stir to loosen the pan juices and crumbly bits. Boil up to 1 minute to tame the acid of the vinegar, then pour over the salad mixture and toss again.

6. At this point, sprinkle the salad with salt and pepper, then taste to adjust. Divide the salad amongst four plates.

7. Use the slotted spoon to place an egg in the center of each salad. The yolk will act as a binder for the vinaigrette. Serve immediately.

Serves 4.

Finished Product.

 The proof is in the custard: a picture of last week's Lemon Custard Cake, with a slice of vanilla poached quince perched atop.

Pride & Joy.

Behold! This is my new baby, a motorized citrus juicer. She (yes, she) goes with Esmerelda, who is my beloved KitchenAid Stand Mixer. (Cue the clamor of product-placement sponsors!)

This juicer isn’t what I’d call essential, per se, but she comes in handy when you want to juice a whole motherload of citrus at once, as I did last Sunday for an impromptu mimosa brunch. And best of all, it makes an exquisite whirring sound while it’s cranking out 1/4 cup of juice in under 30 seconds! Ok, so the whirring sound is a bit loud and maybe worth prepping in advance of your guests' arrival, if you like your lilting chit chat minus the hiss of machinery. Personally, I like to involve my guests in the prepping of things rather than to have everything all set up just-so beforehand. This is especially true when mechanics are involved. Give me a little champagne and something to plug into a wall socket, and it's officially a party.

Up until recently, I spent a lot of time working in coffee shops. Whenever I began feeling as though I couldn’t possibly make another soy macchiato or diplomatically ask a customer to get off of their cell-phone, I made a bee-line for the fridge to check on the lemonade. Every place I ever worked had homemade lemonade. In those short seconds between the register and the fridge, I’d hope that the lemonade was nearly 86’d so I could be the lucky one to replenish it.

When I worked at Flour, we had a magnificent vintage juicer—stainless steel, with a stocky build, and fast as a devil. It took only five minutes to extract almost a quart of juice. Those five minutes away from the counter were usually enough to restore me, enough to get me back into perky-barista mode. I think it had something to do with the methodical repetition. Slice, juice, slice, juice. Or sometimes just slice, slice slice, and so on, until you could juice, juice, juice. I’d be in a meditative state by the end of it (this same phenomenon occurs whenever I use a mandoline, or finely mince herbs). Then one day, the old juicer gave out in one pitiful whimper—the verdict was death by natural causes, brought on by old age. From then on, I only sliced lemons in half with a cleaver before handing them off to our chef to finish the job. No more lemonade reprieves for me.

Ever since, I’d been angling to get a juicer of my own, but they were always so pricey and my kitchen too small to justify bringing in another gadget to further clutter it. I’d been taking baby steps. First, I bought a hand-held wooden reamer, which was nice for juicing a single lemon for vinaigrette, or little projects like that. Even so, it didn’t put me into the meditative rapture that the Flour juicer had. My juicer-envy reached its zenith while we were driving through Germany last fall. All of the rest-stops on the Autobahn had these fresh-squeezed OJ machines which operated with the simple pull of a lever, and I started saving up my rest-room deposits so I could guzzle a big glass of the stuff.

Generally, I’m not really a gadget person but I never really stopped hoping I’d find the right one, and when I was ogling Elmerelda’s possible accoutrements in a window-display I found this attachment. I buckled. Then I moved on away from the window of impracticality. My mother was kind enough to gift the juicer to me over the holidays. After all my coveting and searching, I know I’ve found the right juicer for me. This thing is great! It’s affordable, takes up barely any space, and I now have a permanent Vitamin C machine to keep all winter colds at bay.

aha!

Mark Bittman joins me on my souffle crusade!

More tomorrow...

Meyer Lemon Custard Cakes

 

* Meyer Lemon Custard Cakes pictured above, with an impulsive batch of nocino meringues, recipe to come, I promise!

In the thick of the winter doldrums, I’ve decided to try a more resolutely sunny approach. When life gives you lemons, make tiny lemon custard cakes. Don’t they look resolutely sunny? How can you not smile looking at a soufflé? I'm in need of a little lift. Low bank account balance? Check. Stressing about bills? Check. Busy and yet, feeling completely sluggish? Check. When you're checklist starts getting longer than the number of fingers on your left hand, then it's not a bad idea to treat oneself to a little luxury.

The French know a thing or two about luxury—having ingeniously devised countless methods for turning out the sumptuous in the absence of rich, expensive ingredients (though they're not too shabby with those rich and expensive ingredients, either). Soufflé is my favorite Pygmalion story. I feel like it's developed a bad reputation amongst some as a snobby dish—which I've always thought was totally unwarranted. There’s nothing in a soufflé that you’re not already likely to have: some eggs, sugar, a tiny bit of flour, milk. Is soufflé like the prettiest girl at the party, her imperious looks detestable to half of the room before they’ve even spoken with her? Adding only further to my confusion, as you’ll see when you make these for yourself, is that soufflés are not very hard to make. So what’s the deal? Someone, please, give soufflés a break and invite them to the table.

The only epicurean splurge in this recipe is the meyer lemons, but regular old lemons would still be great. Meyer lemons are in season right now, and they have a wonderful ambrosial taste to them--and it was a small splurge because I only needed a few lemons. I found this recipe in Bon Appetit when I was searching for something to bring over to my friends' house for dinner. I volunteered to bring dessert, and needed something sort of frugal, simple, yet hopefully a little impressive in presentation. Shelley, our hostess, made these crazy delicious nori-wrapped tuna balls and a butter lettuce salad with pears, served with a bottle of dry Oregon cider. When it came time for dessert, her boyfriend Alexis poured us all little splashes of Drambuie while we took turns unlocking the custard cakes from their ramekins, watching them fall onto the plate with a satisfying little “plop!" The original recipe suggested they be served alongside some whipped crème fraîche. But I like them served the way they were, the way I prefer most of my luxuries, in the company of good friends.

MEYER LEMON CUSTARD CAKES

adapted from Josie Le Balch's recipe featured in Bon Appetit

These cakes are soufflés when they first come out of the oven—but as they cool, their little yellow top-hats slip back down below the rim of their ramekins. What happens next is the truly magical part. The top of the cakes retain their fluffy soufflé texture, but the egg yolks pool at the bottom to form a creamy lemon custard, all tangy and tart. They feel opulent, yet light as air. I like them just fine on their own with maybe a little bit of sherry, but they’d be great with some fresh berries alongside, maybe tossed in a little limoncello. The original recipe suggested they be served with a dollop of whipped crème fraîche.

INGREDIENTS
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided
1/4 cup all purpose flour
Pinch of salt
1 1/3 cups whole milk
2 large eggs, separated
1/3 cup fresh Meyer lemon juice or regular lemon juice
2 tablespoons finely grated Meyer lemon peel or regular lemon peel


DIRECTIONS
1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter eight 3/4-cup ramekins or custard cups. 
2. In a medium bowl, whisk 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, flour, and pinch of salt in medium bowl to blend.
3. In a separate large bowl, combine milk, egg yolks, lemon juice, and zest, whisking until blended.
4. Add flour mixture to yolk mixture and whisk the custard until blended.
5. Using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites in another large bowl until soft peaks form. Gradually add remaining 1/4 cup sugar to the whites and beat until they're stiff but not dry. They should have a slightly glossy sheen to them. 
6. Gently fold 1/4 of whites into custard. Fold remaining whites into custard in 2 additions. The custard will still be a little soupy, and it's okay if there's small lumps of egg whites here or there.
7. Divide custard equally among prepared ramekins. Place ramekins in large roasting pan. Pour enough hot water into the pan to come halfway up sides of ramekins. Bake custard cakes until golden brown and set on top (custard cakes will be slightly soft in center), about 27 minutes.
8. When they're done, chill the custard cakes uncovered until cold, at least 4 hours, then cover and keep refrigerated. 
9. To serve: Run a small knife around each custard cake to loosen. Invert each cake onto a plate. Enjoy!

SERVES 8. Can be made 1 day ahead of time.