I always thought I’d be a teacher when I grew up. Like the dutiful first child that I tend to be, I went to school to be a teacher. I continued on to graduate school. I taught college freshman in Boston and moved on to teach high school freshman back in California. My mom was a teacher and I’d grown up spending time in her classroom (ahh, the hours of Oregon Trail!), hearing tales of her students, and witnessing her late-night grading sessions. It seemed so seamlessly that, all of a sudden, I had a classroom and tales of my own. Until I didn’t. The teaching climate in California was (and still is) a tough one and finding solid work became impossible. People often ask if I miss teaching. I miss my students a great deal and I miss the act of teaching — the challenge of thinking through how to present a piece of information or a structured lesson so that a classroom full of different kinds of learners could really “get it.” I realized last week that, while I’ve been out of the academic classroom for a few years now, in many ways, I’m still doing the very same thing. Food writing and recipe development has, at its core, the act of learning and teaching. There are new kitchen skills to master and dishes to try; there are ways we take what we learn and make it our own based on tastes, ability level or preference; there are then ways we pass them on to others. Saturday night that process came to be in the form of a very fine roast chicken and a grapefruit chess pie.
I roasted my first chicken about a month ago. I know, I know: I’m a little late to the game. It’s been one of my main sources of kitchen and food writing shame: shhh, I have no clue how to roast a chicken! I’d decided all that was silly, so I set out researching many different recipes, landing on one from The Commonsense Kitchen, a book I love dearly. I bought my chicken, picked up some aromatics and lemon, gave my sister a quick call for support (she knows everything there is to know about cooking meat. I have her on speed dial), and got to roasting. A while later, Sam and I realized we’d just eaten what was essentially pretty uncooked chicken. I’d been so fearful of drying it out that it was far from properly cooked. So what began as a hopeful quest to teach myself a new kitchen skill ended with a sense of defeat. I consoled myself that, hey, I’d tried it and clearly, this once-vegetarian wasn’t meant to be much of a chicken roaster. I told the story to my friend Olaiya a few days later. She’s quite wonderful with food — she’s worked in many Seattle kitchens and was one of the founders of The Pantry. Also: she knows her way around a roast chicken, and thought with a little instruction, I could as well. So we got a date on the calendar for a proper chicken do-over. Sam and I would get the bird, the wine and the bread. She’d bring a side dish and the knowledge. I’d make a pie. We were set.
The chicken turned out beautifully. I brined it overnight, we stuffed it with rosemary and lemon and slathered it with olive oil, salt and pepper. Olaiya showed me how exactly to truss it and tell when the chicken is done without using a thermometer (as I’d obsessively done previously) — instead learning how to really feel when it’s done, how to wiggle the leg, how to even eyeball the juices coming out of the thigh to get a sense for it. All of that information would’ve taken pages to write down in a cookbook, but I feel like I really, truly get it now. I think I could actually teach someone else how to roast the perfect chicken at this point. But there are certain things that are best shown, yes? I think your very first roast chicken may just be one of those things. Making pie crust just may be another. If you’ve never made a pie before, you could read a million recipes and it’d take some time to get it just right. But if you have someone beside you instructing you to not let the butter warm, how to work gingerly with your fingers, how to roll out the dough in outward strokes without pressing downward — you’d likely get it in one evening.
So a few years later, while awash in rosemary and olive oil and chicken juices, I was yet again thinking about the act of teaching and all of the different ways it works best. Chicken aside: After dinner I brought out the pie I’d made, a pie born from reading about a new recipe, tweaking and revising it. The pie dough is based on a delicious rye dough I learned from Heidi (with a little added vanilla, inspired very recently by Sarah of The Yellow House) and the filling is one I stumbled across in the new Lee Brother’s cookbook, The Lee Brothers’ Charleston Kitchen (which comes out for purchase at the end of this month). If you’re not familiar with chess pie, it’s a Southern recipe that bakes up a sweet, almost custard-like pie traditionally calling for a bit of cornmeal. I’ve had a great lemon chess pie in the past, but wouldn’t have ever thought to lay grapefruit wedges out amongst the custardy filling while baking. It was a big experiment and I couldn’t wait to see how it’d turn out.
I tried a small sliver before serving it and found myself rather smitten with it, but I wasn’t sure how others would feel. Sam said he loved the crust but wished the citrus pieces were smaller. Olaiya would’ve sliced the grapefruit pieces in thin rounds — I agreed that may have been more delicate. Her boyfriend, Beau, seemed fond of it. My friend Keena just picked up a leftover slice to take home — we’ll see what she thinks. The point here is not the reception of the pie. Sure, some people will like a recipe and some won’t. That’s always the case. The point is the way in which we’d all do it again a little differently. We learn, we try something, and we change the way we’d do it in the future based on our findings. The cycle continues and continues. That’s what I so love about cooking, really. It’s always changing.
In this odd little food writing world, we often call that cycle of inspiration, borrowing, learning and then taking what we like and making it our own “adapting”. And it is. But at the heart, it’s also all about learning from each other and graciously giving back — of getting excited to share a discovery, of trying to think through the very clearest and most direct way to write a recipe so you all can make it easily in your own kitchen. In this way, all of this is not so far from what I thought I’d be doing with my days years ago. Writing a clear, cogent pie recipe isn’t all that different than sitting down and breaking down a Hamlet passage: we read the original text, we break it down so we understand it, and then we pass it on in a way that makes sense to us. Today there are fewer parent conferences, for sure. Far fewer grading rubrics and pairs of Banana Republic slacks. And at the end of the day, that’s a good thing. I’m happy to have landed right where I am (decidedly not currently in Banana Republic slacks).
While the pie recipe below looks a bit complicated, it’s actually a relatively simple pie, it just requires that you pre-bake the crust so I give you pretty clear instructions for how to do that. And I also walk you through segmenting a grapefruit in case that’s a new skill. At the heart of it though, it’s a simple custard-based pie. The Lee Brothers suggest to cook the pie at 300 F, but I found this wasn’t adequate to actually set the custard, so I’ve adjusted it here so it should work for you at home. Maybe you’ll try it and let me know what you think? Maybe you’ll do a little something new with it and tell us about it here? Reading, reworking, passing it on. Adapting. Or teaching. Or whatever you’d like to call it, really.
I give instructions here for making the crust quickly with your fingertips. If you’re more comfortable and familiar making it in a food processor or have another favorite technique, by all means use that. The pie dough recipe yields enough for two pie crusts and you’ll only use one here, so freeze the other for a future pie you’re excited to try. Last, note that between the crust and filling, you’ll use 3 eggs total (although you’ll be doing some separating–see below). Please note, rest time for the pie crust isn’t indicated in the cook times above.
Adapted from: The Lee Brothers Charleston Kitchen
Sweet Rye Crust: (yields 2, 9-inch pie crusts)
To make the crust: Whisk first four ingredients together in a medium bowl. Using your fingertips, rub in butter until coarse meal forms and some small lumps remain. Drizzle vanilla extract over the dough and slowly sprinkle in cold water, 1 tablespoon at a time, quickly stirring with a fork or your fingers until the dough becomes sticky and begins to clump together into a more uniform mass. Divide dough into half and form 2 single flat, chubby disks; wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 1 day. Once chilled, roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to fill a 9-inch pie plate. Carefully transfer the dough to the pie plate and nestle into place. Leave 1-inch of overhang (if there’s a great deal of overhang, trim), then fold edges of the dough under and crimp.
Pre-bake the crust: To avoid a soggy pie, prebake the crust on 400 F: Using a fork, lightly prick the bottom of the crust. Take a sheet of aluminum foil and layer it on top of the pie crust, gently nudging it down so it’s snug on the bottom and the sides. Fill the foil-covered crust with dried beans or pie weights to hold it in place. Bake for 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and remove pie weights/beans and foil. Brush crust with egg yolk to create a moisture seal (again, to prevent sogginess). Decrease the oven to 350 F, and place back in the oven to dry out further, another 5 minutes.
Make the filling: Finely grate the zest of one of the grapefruits (about 1 teaspoon loosely grated zest), and set aside. Segment the grapefruits: trim off the top and bottom so each end is flat. Peel the fruit by placing the tip of a sharp knife just inside the border where the pith meets the pulp and slicing down along the curvature of the fruit. Repeat until whole fruit’s been peeled. Then, over a bowl to catch the juice, gently cut the segments of pulp with a sharp knife by slicing towards the core as close as possible to the membranes that separate the segments. Preserve the juice. Gently strain the segments, reserving the segments and juice separately (you should have about 1 cup segments and 1/3 cup juice). Whisk the zest and salt into the grapefruit juice.
In a large bowl, whisk the egg whites and yolks together until they’re light and creamy in color, then whisk in the cream and melted butter.
In a medium bowl, mix the sugar, flour and cornmeal together. Add the dry ingredients to the egg mixture in thirds, whisking after each addition. Stir in the grapefruit juice until combined.
Pour the filling into the pie crust. Arrange the grapefruit segments in the custard (they’ll float to the surface as they bake). Transfer the pie to the oven and bake at 350 F until the top has nicely browned and the center jiggles stiffly, 35-45 minutes. Cool completely on a rack, about 20 minutes, before serving.
It turns out that returning from a sunny honeymoon to a rather rainy, dark stretch of Seattle fall hasn't been the easiest transition. Sam and I have been struggling a little to find our groove with work projects and even simple routines like cooking meals for one another and getting out of the easy daily ruts that can happen to us all. When we were traveling, we made some new vows to each other -- ways we can keep the fall and winter from feeling a bit gloomy, as tends to happen at a certain point living in the Pacific Northwest (for me, at least): from weekly wine tastings at our neighborhood wine shop to going on more lake walks. And I suppose that's one of the most energizing and invigorating parts about travel, isn't it? The opposite of the daily rut: the constant newness and discovery around every corner. One of my favorite small moments in Italy took place at a cafe in Naples when I accidentally ordered the wrong pastry and, instead, was brought this funny looking cousin of a croissant. We had a wonderfully sunny little table with strong cappuccino, and, disappointed by my lack of ordering prowess, I tried the ugly pastry only to discover my new favorite treat of all time (and the only one I can't pronounce): the sfogliatelle. I couldn't stop talking about this pastry, its thick flaky layers wrapped around a light, citrus-flecked sweet ricotta filling. It was like nothing I'd ever tried -- the perfect marriage of interesting textures and flavors. I became a woman obsessed. I began to see them displayed on every street corner; I researched their origin back at the hotel room, and started to look up recipes for how to recreate them at home. And the reason for the fascination was obviously that they were delicious. But even more: I'm so immersed in the food writing world that I rarely get a chance to discover a dish or a restaurant on my own without hearing tell of it first. And while a long way away from that Italian cafe, I had a similar feeling this week as I scanned the pages of Alice Medrich's new book, Flavor Flours, and baked up a loaf of her beautiful fall pumpkin loaf: Discovery, newness, delight!
I had every intention of starting a new tradition this year and hosting a cookie swap with some of our local friends, but somehow the season really got the best of me and it just hasn't happened. But! That hasn't stopped me from getting a head start on holiday baking; I posted a photo on Instagram the other day of some of my very favorite holiday cookbooks, and asked if there was a way we could all just take the whole week off to bake instead of work. Judging from the responses, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks this would be a really great idea. But back here in reality, cookie baking is relegated to later evenings or, I hope, this weekend we'll find some time to eek in a few batches (the recipe for Sam's mom's Nutmeg Logs is up next, and I'm set on making gingerbread men to take with us down to the Bay Area). Right now on our countertop, we've got a batch of these crumbly, chocolatey, whole grain shortbread that have proven to be a big hit. The ingredient list is small and simple, the technique foolproof, and I think they're a real standout in a sea of holiday cookies.
Hello from the other side! I realize we haven't been back here for a few weeks, and I'm sorry for dropping into a little black hole. My cookbook deadline was Monday, so I've been a writing and editing machine, stepping away from the computer to occasionally clean the house like a crazy person or throw together a most random lunch or dinner. But somehow it all came together although there was something strangely anti-climactic about sending it off: In the days when you'd print out your manuscript and have to walk to the post office and seal it up carefully to send to the publisher, I imagine it would feel much more ceremonial and important --you could stroll out of the building and do a cartwheel. Or high-five a fellow customer on your way out. Instead, I was sitting in our dining room on an incredibly rainy, dark Monday afternoon unable to hit "send." My sister Zoe told me to just close my eyes and do it. Sam gave me the thumbs up. So around 3 p.m. that's what I did. With the click of a button, just like that: it was finished.
Strolling New York City streets during the height of fall when all the leaves are changing and golden light glints off the brownstone windows. This is what I envisioned when I bought tickets to attend my cousin's September wedding earlier this month: Sam and I would extend the trip for a good day or two so we could experience a little bit of fall in the city. We'd finally eat at Prune and have scones and coffee at Buvette, as we always do. Sam wanted to take me to Russ and Daughters, and we'd try to sneak in a new bakery or ice cream shop for good measure. Well, as some of you likely know, my thinking on the weather was premature. New York City fall had yet to descend and, instead, we ambled around the city in a mix of humidity and rain. When we returned home I found myself excited about the crisp evening air, and the fact that the tree across the street had turned a rusty shade of amber. It was time to do a little baking.
We've been waking up early these days with baby Oliver. I've always been a morning person, so this isn't particularly challenging for me -- although the middle of the night feedings have proven to be really tough. There has been a lot of finessing of sleep schedules and figuring out how Sam and I can both get enough to function well the following day. And just when we think we have it down ("gosh, aren't we lucky we have a baby that sleeps?"), everything changes. When I was in the final weeks of pregnancy and would talk about how I couldn't wait for the baby to be here, all of my friends with kids would advise me to sleep as much as possible -- and now I get it. I should've napped more. I should've listened. In getting up at odd times throughout the night with Oliver, I've had the chance to occasionally see some really brilliant sunrises (although not this past week which has been a particularly dark one in Seattle); I've made up some wacky baby tunes that I'm happy no one else can hear; and I generally have a good hour in which I can put him in the sling and walk briskly around the house trying to soothe him back to sleep while also putting away a dish or two or making a quick cup of coffee. In that hour, I can usually get something productive done and this past weekend that something was pear gingerbread.