A real contender

We'd had apples and pumpkin already for our pies, yet I still had the lingering twitch to make another. One with walnuts. And maple. As you do, this time of year.

For my friends in the United States, I'm here to give you a head start. For everyone else, I'm here to give you Maple Walnut Custard Pie.

While I'd boldly declared dessert plans figured, I've gone and improved upon the theme with a real contender for shared billing with that ice cream. I made this pie on Sunday, a week after our Thanksgiving and forty-some-odd days before the American counterpart (there's your head start, pals to the south — you can thank me later).

Ice cream was actually at the beginning of this. That's what got into my head, this funny memory of a past conversation with a friend, detailing the merits of Butter Pecan ice cream versus Maple Walnut. (And it's a good friend who both puts up with, and ardently participates in, such arguments.) Our debate made me think of my father, as it always does — not only because Maple Walnut is usually his favourite, but also because he began sugaring the maple trees on his property the same winter my eldest son was born.  

He tapped a few trunks and he, with the help of my eldest nephew, harvested the sap. They made quite the picture, ferrying buckets full of clear liquid from the forest to big pots that sat atop a wood-fed stove. There the sap bubbled and reduced, going golden then amber and sweet. In those first years, the stove had a shorter stack, so the resulting syrups were touched with smoke. The syrup smelled, and even better tasted, of crisp air and campfires. 

It was the nicest I've ever had. 

So I made this pie, with my father still in mind, and my mother-in-law too, because she likes both butter pecan and maple walnut, and Sean's grandmother as well, because she makes the finest Butter Tarts and this pie reminds me of them —  a subject we should stick a pin in and come back to later.

This pie is an old-fashioned looker, made by hand. You can consider it a rustic variation on pecan pie, a brawny northern cousin that's caramelly sweet but unexpectedly subtle. A bit flannely, with a generous smile. That sort.

You'll see there's two brown sugars in the filling. I thought all dark might be too heavy, and all golden might be too anemic - but using only one or the other would be perfectly fine in a pinch. The one thing can't be fiddled is the maple syrup, which needs to be proper stuff. 

Choose the grade you're fond of, or if you come across some smokily intense maple syrup, then that's the one to invite along. It'll hang around with the toasty-edged walnuts and get on like best mates who to talk about ice cream. 

Their companionship is both complimented and tamed by the boosted creaminess brought by a swirl of evaporated milk (I know!) stirred in with the eggs. And the oats! Those oats, they're tricky misters, and the subject of quite the side-eye as they went into the bowl. But oh, what a difference a soak and a bake make. The oats fluff up, lose their form and give the pie a pleasant density, setting the custard soft and pudding-like, underneath the cobblestone crust of walnuts that float to the top and go crunchy.

In secure belief that this is a pie you'll like, I'll see about asking Dad for an extra-large syrup harvest come spring.

I'll thank him later for that. Quite possibly with pie. 

Maple Walnut Custard Pie
Adapted from The Egg Farmers of Ontario.

The ingredients are pretty much the same as the original; the method is where things change. Here there's the instruction to pre-bake the crust. And, when almost done, the warm pastry gets a thin coat of egg white, which is then baked for a minute until shining.

These added measures maintain some of the crust's crispness, which is nice against the smooth filling. It also makes the pastry edge extra pretty. 

Ingredients
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup golden brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup dark brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup old fashioned oats
1/2 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup maple syrup
1/4 cup butter, melted
Seeds scraped from half a vanilla bean or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt or 1/8 teaspoon table
Unbaked 8-by-2-inch chilled pastry shell, see note
Granulated sugar for sprinkling
One egg white for brushing plus 3 whole eggs, lightly beaten

Preheat an oven to 400°F (205°C). 

In a dry skillet over medium heat, toast the walnuts until golden and fragrant. Remove to a bowl and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together sugars, oats, evaporated milk, maple syrup, melted butter, vanilla and salt. 

Prick the pastry all over with a fork. Cover with foil and bake for 15 minutes, pressing down any puffed areas with the back of a spoon gently if necessary. Remove the foil and bake for 10 minutes more, the crust should be starting to look dry in places. Remove the crust from the oven, brush all over with a thin coating of the egg white, and sprinkle edge with granulated sugar, if desired. Return to the oven to bake for 1 minute more. 

Set aside the crust to keep warm, and reduce the oven temperature to  350°F (175°C).

Stir the toasted walnuts into the filling, along with the whole eggs. As soon as the oven reaches temperature, pour the filling into the still-warm crust and bake until puffed at the centre and set with little wobble, about 60 minutes. Transfer to a baking rack and cool completely before slicing. 

Makes one 8-inch pie, serving 8-10.

Notes:

• I changed the size of the pie, as the greater ratio of filling to pastry made for a more satisfying bite. A pâte brisée recipe for a 9 or 10-inch pie will allow for the extra depth of a 8-by-2-inch pie plate. If using a store-bought pie shell, which are usually 9-inch, reduce the cooking time to around 40 minutes. 

Of feast and family

Here we are, under two-weeks-and-counting until Thanksgiving; my bar none favourite holiday of the year. There's a laundry list of things to do between that day and this, but I've got one thing settled - a secret to stash away in case of emergency on those busy days - and it goes like this: honey and toasted nutmeg ice cream.

It was in between plans of roasts and butter rolls that I started to consider a spiced ice cream. Not for the main event, as there's tradition firmly in place for that - intended instead as a ramp up to those times of feast and family. The theory was a sound one, as, in practice, having a pint of frozen ambrosial goodness sets a humming tone of anticipation for what's to follow.

I like it alone, and I'd like it with an apple cake or a slice of pumpkin pie. In the case of the latter I think the two custards, one frozen and one, well, pie - similarly smooth but contrasting in temperature and heft - would be particularly nice on a shared plate. Or if, say, this ice cream was employed to simultaneously spark the warmth and soothe the sour of that plum crumble I talked about before, that would work too.

Having said that, I don't know if I'd want it in mounded servings. A smallish scoop suits me fine, and a smallish spoon too. There's a reason behind this uncharacteristic moderation; despite the short list of ingredients, this ice cream's taste develops slowly on the palate. It meanders. It slips along on a base of cream, and the combination of honey and nutmeg is carried to a station greater than its beginning.

And on that note, there was a point as I whisked eggs and the cream steeped, that the combined scents of the two mixtures on the counter reminded me, worryingly, of eggnog. Our relationship is tempestuous, that between the Nog and me. It starts out festive and merry but often ends in the overstepping of boundaries and things taken too far.

I'm not ready to rekindle the romance; it is one best saved for the end of the year.

Lucky for me then, that when combined, there's a levelling to the egg and the spice. While the first introduction of this ice cream might be a vague suggestion of yuletide cheer, the actual impression it leaves is altogether different.

Without the boozy undertones of rum or bourbon or brandy, whatever your mix — and I'm not critisicing a boozy undertone, as I am a big fan — but without that alcoholic throatiness, the nutmeg blooms broader; with a tickling heat, yes, and also a higher, flowery, perfumed taste that is in beautiful cooperation with the honey's similar disposition.

(But don't let my particular mood stop the addition of a spirited pour into the mix.)

 So there you are, set for Thanksgiving. And October. And Wednesdays. 

Honey and toasted nutmeg ice cream
Adapted from Saveur Issue #134.

I have made this ice cream once with egg yolks alone and again with whole eggs. The batch with whole eggs had a clearer, brighter flavour of honey and spice. As one would expect, the egg yolks afforded a silkier custard, which had its own merit. 

In the dead of winter, in need of a cold-weather-worthy ice cream and feeling particularly blithe, I might try it with 8 egg yolks for kicks. Go with what works for you.

Ingredients
1 whole nutmeg
1 1/2 cups milk
1 1/2 cups heavy cream (35%), divided
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup liquid honey
6 egg yolks or 4 whole eggs, see head note
1/8 teaspoon salt

Grate 2 teaspoons of nutmeg into a small skillet. Toast the ground nutmeg over medium heat until aromatic, around 2 minutes. Remove to a bowl and set aside.

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk and 1/2 cup of heavy cream. Add the rest of the (whole) nutmeg to the pot with the milk mixture and bring to a simmer over moderate heat. Remove from heat and allow to steep for 10 minutes. 

In a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks (or whole eggs, if using) with the sugar, honey and salt. Pouring in a thin, steady stream, whisk in the hot milk mixture into the eggs. Tansfer the mixture back to the pan and cook, stirring, until thickened, 8-10 minutes. Pour custard through a fine-meshed sieve into a clean bowl. Stir in the remaining 1 cup heavy cream and toasted nutmeg; cover custard lightly and chill. 

Churn in an ice cream maker according to manufacturer's direction then transfer to an airtight container and freeze until set.

Makes 1 quart.

Notes:

• The type of honey used will greatly impact the ice cream's flavour. A wildflower honey will be subtle and almost fresh, with the cream coming through, while a more robust buckwheat will be far more prominent.

Some of our summer

I thought it might be a little bit fun to share pictures of some of our summer. Photos of days of holiday; of longer evenings and lazy mornings, of trips to the farm and to the city.

I wanted to go through some odds and ends, all in the aim of the business of catching up.

There were meals out with friends, and peaches on the back porch.

We discovered an addiction to strawberry lemonade popsicles, then green peas lightly braised with shallots and tender lettuces, then salads of summer squash, corn and chili.

We've been bottling up this summer, in glass jars that now are stacked and lined on shelves downstairs. We preserved some whole, made ketchup (!!) and jams, and I'm considering a batch of nectarine chutney or tomatillo salsa before we put the big pots away.

There were carnivals, and roller coasters and one last ride to officially say farewell to the season. 

School's started. There's a small backpack that's taken its place by the front door. There were pumpkins outside the market yesterday and stacked hay bales and lined up corn stalks. Apples are around, too. 

Looking ahead, I'm thinking of pies. I'm itching to get into warm sweaters and scarves, and socks pulled up the knee.

First though, we're planning a trip to Louisville, with thoughts of friends with whom it's been too long since we've shared a meal. There's a whisper of bourbon before dinner and biscuits for breakfast - and I can't decide which excites me more. 

I'll be back with more words and a recipe soon. I'm hanging tight to these moments and not quite ready to let go of them yet.

Until then, friends.

Above photographs taken with my phone.

*******

My pal Justin sent me a book about cookies the other day. It's one with a backstory and an even more important intent. It makes me want to get out the bowls and warm up the oven. If you can give it a look, please do.

*******

And, finally, I was recently hired to represent Canada in a friendly competition between the United States, Australia and us - over mushrooms. With thoughts of the Maple Leaf Forever and all that, I couldn't turn down the job. If you'd like to find out more, and vote (yup, you get a say in this too), please click over to Mushrooms Canada and Tastespotting for the full explanations.

It involves Butter Roasted Mushrooms, which are something I think you should know about.

The bounty of our greed

  

I'm writing at our dining table, having recently moved from one side to the other so as to catch more of the breeze from the open window (now) to my right. I can see across the house from this seat. I can see that out the front window the sun is shining bright like August while, weirdly, over the backyard the sky looks pale grey, dressed in the damp clothes of September.

Autumn's around the bend. That said, we're enjoying these days as we head in its direction.

On Saturday, we set out to snag some peaches; our fourth basket in under three weeks, if my tally is correct. That's the math of late summer. It's the season for a peach feast, and we're enthusiastically obliging. We took along iced tea sweet with lemonade and rugged with ice, because even the shortest of road trips deserve a beverage when the sun's out.

We were aiming for a fruit stand we can get to by taking the long way 'round; twisting through back roads and skirting woods and crossing fields. 

We needed the peaches, because there's a drink I've wanted to tell you about, a grown up one. It's a cocktail with peach and lime and mint, spiked with cachaça - the sort of sip that bounces across the tongue like a stone skipping on a lake. Flitting, flirtily, then ending with a splash. I like it a whole lot. 

That's not for today, because I got distracted. First, by the couple that owns the stand. They're older, with warm smiles, soft speech and a sharp wit. Their house is beside their stand, with their trees running behind both. She gently pointed out the fruit she thought best, and he talked to my eldest about tractors. We talked about how things are growing, about when the pears might be ready, and about the thermos of coffee stashed behind the baskets of fruit.

Then I was distracted again, this time by plums. They were lookers. 

In the case of pretty plums, we did what must be done. We bought a basket, one bigger than sensible. We ate a few in the car on the drive back, along with the blackberries and one of the peaches, because we bought them too. We stained our hands sticky with juice, slurped our tea through straws and then decided what was to be done with the bounty of our greed.

The endpaper to Canal House Cooking Volume No. 4 is a scene of summer's generosity; plums are laid out on a white platter with their emerald, curling leaves still attached; squat looking peaches cozy up to glossy nectarines, apples and pears are in the middle with their yellow-green skin; a punnet of blackberries shine like night from the corner of the frame, beside the matte navy of blueberries. The subtitle for the volume is "Farm Markets and Gardens", and it's a bullseye of an image - summing up everything best of the farm stand we'd visited, and fittingly, it's where I was reminded of the recipe that inspired the dessert we settled upon to celebrate the plums. 

In the pages between those endpapers, you'll find a recipe for a Berry Cobbler by Pam Anderson. It's the cobbler that got me started on cobblers, with basically a butter cookie as topper for a layer of vanilla-scented fruit. That's where I began with my thoughts on these plums, as there's a footnote that gives the gentle suggestion of Italian prune plums in place of the berries. I want prune plums for a cake my Mum and I were discussing, so the shockingly-hued reddish golden ones would be my chosen substition for cobbler.

I took some detours along the route to where we ended up, turning down brown butter boulevard for example, but Anderson's cobbler was where we set off from.

Brown butter was beaten with sugar, then an egg and vanilla added to that, along with a mix of flours and some ground almonds. It was basically a rustic shortbread dough - just holding together, gritty with nuts with flecks of brown from the whole wheat and almond skins showing through. It chilled while I set about preparing the plums. They were tossed in brown sugar, cornstarch and a discriminating amount of spices; cinnamon and ginger for a buzz of warmth underneath the plum's sweet acerbity. 

The dough was spooned and crumbled over the fruit, and we were ready for the oven. It felt a pie-dish kind of day, so that's what I used, and even though the syrup bubbled over and stuck to the pan, I didn't mind at all.

When baked, the dough crisps on top but soft underneath, with its belly sagging into the fruit. It tastes very much like a biscuit cookie has been crushed on top of a bowl of stewy, supple fruit. In halves and quarters, the pointed edges of the plums droop as they cook, while keeping some shape. There's luxurious weight to them still. The brilliant, fiery orange-pink of the skin seeps into the golden flesh and into the juice, so the colour ends up a mix of peaches and raspberry, though the flavour is plum through and through.

Acting like August or pretending to be September, whatever this day wants to be, wherever it leads, there's cobbler left in the dish and spoons in the drawer, and that's all I need to know.

Brown butter plum cobbler
Inspired by a recipe from Pam Anderson, from her book The Perfect Recipe (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2001) via Canal House Cooking Volume No. 4 - a publication that inspires with every issue. The original recipe calls this a cobbler, with a cookie crust that slightly sinks into bright puddles of fruit. It's a grand dessert, and I urge you to seek it out and try it as written. In fact, try as many recipes as you can from Anderson's book, which is one I consider an essential to have around. Not only is she chatty, witty and totally approachable in her cooking, what's more is that her recipes work. Every. Single. Time. They're tested and then tested again, and she's generous enough to share the results of all that effort.

This recipe is on offshoot of one of her variations for cobbler that best fulfilled our craving yesterday. My changes makes this something different; it has a sandier topping that might tread into the definition of a crisp. But since I'm no expert, and Anderson surely is, I'm leaving her title intact. 

I should say that the sugar may be scant for some tastes and is dependant on the fruit; plums are sour and the amount I used kept the twang that hits the point at the back of your jaw right below the ear - it's not so much that the muscle clenches, but there's still a twitch. 

For the topping
1 stick unsalted butter
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons ground almonds, see note
1/2 cup fine grained raw cane sugar
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

For the filling
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/4 cup light brown sugar packed, or more, depending on your fruit
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
A pinch of salt
1 1/2 pounds plums, pitted, halved if small, quartered if large

In a small bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, salt and ground almonds. Set aside.

In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, melt the butter, swirling occasionally. Once the butter has melted, continue to swirl the pot, as the butter begins to darken and brown. When the butter is amber in colour and aromatic, remove it from the heat and pour into a medium heat safe bowl to cool slightly. Pour in the sugar, and beat with a wooden spoon until the mixture lightens in colour. Stir in the egg yolk and vanilla. Add the flours and stir until combined. Refrigerate the dough and preheat an oven to 375°F (190°C).

Combine the cornstarch with the brown sugar, spices and salt in a medium bowl. Add the plums and toss gently to coat. 

Tumble the plums into an 8-inch square baking dish. Drop the dough by heaped spoonfuls over the fruit, covering evenly. Bake in the preheated oven until the juices are bubbling and the topping is golden brown, about 40-45 minutes. Let stand to cool slightly before serving.

Serves 4-6.

Notes:

• I think almond is a fine compliment to stone fruit desserts for its subtle, fragrant sweetness and, in this case, its texture as well. I used a handful of natural, skin-on almonds, pulsing them in a food processor to a fairly small, uneven meal. Alternatively, this can be omitted and use a few drops of almond extract instead. On cooler days, hazelnuts or walnuts might be my choice instead.

*******

Something to share:

• My dear friend Tara Austen Weaver wrote a stunner of an ebook about Japan, to benefit Japan and the continued rebuilding efforts after the earthquake and subsequent tsunami last March. The book is now available for purchase, and she's written about her project here.

The means to the end

If you, like me, were the recent recipient of an armload of blue-ribbon-at-the-county-fair-worthy summer squash, then most certainly you are, like me, currently thinking yourself spectacularly spoiled.

But then, if you're one of those industrious types that grows their own squash, then maybe you're looking for a way to use up the proliferous buggers.

In either case, if need be, I may have the means to the end of your zucchini supply, specifically by way of chocolate olive oil zucchini bread.

I had some difficulty with this bread, not in its making but in its naming, as while the sum of the parts is what we're all here for, each of those parts has an indespensible role to play.

I put the chocolate first, because one glance at this quick bread and there's no mistaking the presence of cocoa. Chopped semisweet chocolate mollifies the tobacco-darkness of that cocoa powder; the irregular shards melt into the bread so that here and there within the crumb are damp pockets of sweetness. 

The olive oil is the surprise, tasting resiny and somehow green. The one I used makes me think of lemons and fields of newly-mown hay, which feels right for something you're baking at summer's height. 

The zucchini is, of course the main event, and so gets the glory of the final fanfare. There's a full four cups of it in the recipe, divided between two loaves. The pale shreds weave through the batter, so the resulting breads are gratifyingly bulging with bumps and crags, shot through and through with specks of green. It's a bread that does not pretend to be anything other than what it is, and that's an (albeit tasty) conveyance for terrific quantities of summer squash. 

All that said, I could have mentioned the walnuts. They're toasted, so that their fatty waxiness is made snappy and their aromatic bitterness is amplified. Along with the olive oil you've got a winner of a combination, so much so that the nuts were this close to headline status. 

The buttermilk too, it could have been up there in lights, because this bread would be so much less without the spring in the crumb - the crumb has weight without being weighed down, and the buttermilk's to thank for that. It steers the bread away from residence in the land of cake and clears the way for having some for breakfast. Which I did already. Twice.

Exceptional with coffee, this bread's not so much suited to a fork, but instead the sort you use your fingers to break chunks off a slice, to be eaten in between paragraphs as you read the paper. 

There's what's left of a loaf on the counter and it's my plan for tomorrow's breakfast - let's go for three times being the charm.

If you'd like, I'll set an extra place.

Chocolate olive oil zucchini bread
Adapted from a variety of sources. The method for this bread is the standard muffin or quick bread style; wet ingredients stirred briefly into the dry. No mixer required, with two bowls and a spoon and you're set for this one.

Ingredients
Softened butter, for pans
1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 cup chopped walnuts, toasted
8 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup well-shaken buttermilk
2 eggs
1 1/2 cups fine-grained turbinado sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 cups shredded zucchini, see note

Preheat an oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease two 9-by-5-by-3-inch loaf pans with softened butter. Use a length of parchment to line the bottom and long sides of the pan, forming a sling, and lightly butter the parchment as well. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Stir in the chopped walnuts and chocolate. Set aside.

In another bowl, whisk together the olive oil and buttermilk. Add the eggs, sugar and vanilla, and beat until smooth. Stir in the zucchini.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry, stir until combined, taking care not over mix. Divide the batter evenly between the two prepared pans and bake, rotating once, until a cake tester inserted into the loaf comes out almost clean, which should be around 50 minutes. Cool loaves in their pans on a rack for 20 minutes, then grasp the edges of the parchment to ease the bread out.

If you can wait long enough to let them cool to room temperature before slicing, then well done. But if you can't wait, and cut the loaves into ragged pieces while still warm, then I can't say I blame you.

Makes 2 loaves.

Notes:

• For the zucchini, I use the grating attachment on my food processor, taking care not to press down on the feed tube plunger while the machine is running - this gives a light, feathery shredding. Since we want a bread that is damp but not sodden, I sprinkle the emerald-tipped strands across a (lint-free) kitchen towel, then place another atop, patting it down gently. After a few minutes the towels will have absorbed some of the excess liquid and the zucchini is left crisp and ready to go.
• If olive oil is not your thing, then it can be replaced by an equal amount of neutral oil or melted butter. With the latter, the bread will be denser and, as it lacks the mitigating edge of olive oil, it will taste sweeter as well.