A Day Without Orange

Two things sparked this week’s pie selection; unpacking a box of miscellaneous cookbooks with an advertisement from a 1962 edition of Ladies Home Journal tucked inside and a chance encounter with a case of oranges. First, the ad…

As a baker, canned fruits are not something I generally house in my kitchen cupboard. There are however, two exceptions where canned fruit is infinitely easier than fresh. Crushed Pineapple-in-its-Own-Juice (not someone else’s, thank you) and Mandarin orange segments. The pineapple is key when making Morning Glory bread and Mandarin oranges are ideal for fruit tarts of the diminutive variety. (I do have a fondness for pineapple pie with a macadamia nut crust, but that’s fresh pineapple, and today it’s about the “tin can orchard in my kitchen.”) I used canned Mandarins religiously in the restaurant because of their vibrant color and perfect size. Perched atop miniature tarts, they play nicely with other fruit, particularly berries and kiwis. Everybody gets along and nobody balks at a quick brush of apricot jam to bring out the blue or red or green in their eyes. 

While we are on the subject of cans, there’s one other tin-ified item that I keep.  Not in a cupboard, but chillin’ in the freezer, and that’s Trader Joe’s orange juice concentrate. No, it’s not as orangey as Tang or Beech-Nut fruit stripe gum. It is an unheralded savior of orange desserts. Unlike orange flower water or orange oil which must be used with the utmost precision, orange juice concentrate can be used with greater abandon. The flower water and orange oil vaguely remind me of a fragrance that I dodge when accosted by a perfume spritzing sales clerk at Bloomingdales. Frozen orange juice can be reduced rather quickly on top of the stove or in a microwave.  The end result is highly concentrated simply making  orange taste more like, well, orange.

Admittedly, I do not adhere to the teachings of the Ladies of the Home Journal who admonished readers to turn to their cupboards for inspiration. Opting not to share their philosophy that “all outdoors is at my fingertips” I prefer fresh to tinned, still seeking choices within the produce aisles.

Tis’ the season of citrus and as fond as I am of lemons and limes, I am particularly drawn to fresh Mandarins. Simultaneously sweet and tart, Mandarins also look great resting in a bowl on the kitchen counter. Mandarins seem perfectly comfortable in their own easy-to-peel skin, and don’t pine to be flashy like The Real Housewives of Blood-Orange County, all caught up in their pink and red selves.

Now about my chance encounter with the oranges.  Years of therapy as opposed to years of running might have helped me cope with my Post Traumatic Restaurant Syndrome. Too late. A visual can trigger an episode, a flashback, a remembrance. The manager at our local Garden State market is always in the thick of things. Unpacking and arranging, decanting and displaying. The other day he was up to his madras shirt sleeves in Sunkist juice oranges. Suddenly, it was Sunday in Philadelphia at the Super Fresh supermarket. I was in a bit of a situation because a certain restaurant was shy one case of oranges. Orange juice was an integral part of the Sunday brunch “mise en place.” Which is a lovely way to say in French that somebody in the kitchen neglected to order the oranges. I went to the Super Fresh (we called it Stupid Fresh) in the hopes of snagging a case of the citrus, and have it back and squeezed before bottles of bubbly were being uncorked.

Sporting my Sunday morning kitchen best, smelling more than a little bit like French toast and bacon, I was frantically scanning the produce section hoping to find a manager. No one in sight, so I made a beeline to the Customer Service counter. In a quiet Sunday pre-noon voice, I asked the clerk if they could locate someone in produce to help me. No response. In dulcet tones I explained  that I was hoping to buy a case of oranges. In a heartbeat, the store’s mega-amplified paging system was engaged. “MANAGER TO PRODUCE. MANAGER TO PRODUCE.”  Through the swinging doors arrived the none-too-pleased produce meister. The paging system felt an obligation to capture our conversation.  “YOU WANT TO BUY A CASE OF ORANGES?! LADY, WE SELL SINGLE ORANGES AND BAGS OF ORANGES. NOT CASES OF ORANGES.” Pleading with him to bend the rules just this once, he glared and disappeared back through the swinging doors. I waited and watched. Shoppers were filling their baskets with sensible groceries; a quart of orange juice, a gallon of milk, a plastic bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s clutching a box of frozen Eggo waffles. My cart was empty until the manager reappeared, huffing and puffing and lugging a case of oranges which he handed off to me. I wrestled them into the cart where they half-straddled the child seat and the wagon, not quite fitting in either space. Maybe all four wheels of my shopping cart were in good stead, but it didn’t sound like it. I pushed/pulled the groaning wagon to the 10 Items or Less aisle. Grown-ups stared. Children pointed.  There was some horrible Muzak version of a Bee Gees song playing over the sound system. Unable to lift the case onto the conveyer belt, I tipped the case in the direction of the check-out clerk. He didn’t know what to charge me and I didn’t know what to tell him.  The Bee Gees were abruptly interrupted by the summoning of “PRODUCE TO CHECKOUT ONE.” I was now holding up the line, and boy, can shoppers turn hostile in an instant. Longing to vanish through the automatic Exit doors, I surmised that stealing a case of citrus in Philadelphia was most likely punishable by time served in an orange jumpsuit. Not my best color. The manager arrived, feverishly scanning his clipboard trying to come up with a price. He scribbled something on an adhesive sticker which he affixed to the box which was scanned by the checker. I paid, I exited, eyes straight ahead, shopping cart limping towards the parking lot. A day without orange juice is like a day without, oh never mind…      

  

         

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Icing Valentines

I love every holiday equally, which as you can imagine, makes me as much a devotee of Cupid as I am of Phil (see last week's post). My friend Rosie listened patiently as I whined about this week's cookie chaos at work. In response, she posed an interesting question. "Why are they fixated on cookies? Why can't they give chocolates on Valentine's Day, like everyone else?" I wondered why as well. In a time not so long ago, my home address was in this very state, not too far from an infamous stretch of roadway that boasts many landmarks from my Wonder Bread years. Among them are a large fabric emporium, a retail store built to resemble a ship (really) and a chocolate manufacturer (now we're talking). My mother at the wheel, I traveled that highway three times a week, passing Helen Elliott Chocolates. Mondays and Thursdays for piano and Solfège,Wednesdays for ballet. Clearly my talents ultimately lay elsewhere; hence my current employ in the world of rolling pins and pastry bags. Which brings me back to Valentine's Day.

It was somewhat of a tradition in my youth and throughout college to receive a Valentine card and a heart shaped box of Helen Elliott chocolates. The signature on the card was always the same and it was the only card my father ever signed. My mother has beautiful handwriting and was the signator on birthday cards, but Valentines were penned in my Dad's run-on scrawl, "Your Secret Admirer." I adored every piece of candy that was nestled into accordion pleated papers; caramels and chocolate covered cherries, English toffee, nut clusters and something that was a cross between a truffle and fudge. That box of candy was the highlight of February, and always welcome. Except once.

    

Sophomore year of college, circa 1970-something. Situated on the Ithaca college campus, tucked within the student union was The Pub. I'm still struggling to understand how The Pub was housed on campus and served alcohol when now the only bars in the student union serve salad. Let's just say without going into too much detail, that on this particular February the 13th, I had joined a castmate at The Pub. I recall circles of fruit swimming in pitchers of red wine and not much else. Oh yes, my friend Pamela arrived at some point and walked me back to my dorm through mountains of snow where Betsy was curiously waiting. Thanks, Pamela. 

The very next day I was making my way to a voice lesson when I paused to check my mailbox. There was a slip indicating I had a package waiting. It could wait. Class was a group lesson and someone was singing a selection from "Oliver" which ordinarily I wouldn't have minded. That day it was torturous, every single note on the piano wreaking havoc on my throbbing head. After class, I swung by the Union to pick up my package. I tore back the corrugated box to reveal, just what someone in my current fragile state would not consider pining for; a heart shaped box of Helen Elliott chocolates. Even hundreds of miles away, my father had his finger on the pulse. 

Which makes me think that on Valentine's Day I should take a minute and call my Dad. Come to think of it, he was the guy who introduced me to the concept of pie for breakfast. I should also say "thank you." For the piano lessons and the ballet lessons, and for all of the heart shaped boxes of Valentine chocolates. 

Birthday Cake or Birthday Pie?

It's a brand new week and I'm cautiously optimistic. There's only one holiday this week and it's on a personal level. It has nothing to do with sports or that insufferable creature from Puxatawny (who by the way, I know it sounds harsh, I Unfriended on FB.)  The week stretches out before me and I have a monumental decision to make. What to bake for my mother's birthday, pie or cake?

We have celebrated many family birthdays amidst cake layers festooned with swirls of buttercream.  We have also tucked birthday candles into crevices of pie crust, busting with blueberries, or ripe with summer peaches.  February poses a bit of a challenge regarding fresh fruit ripe for the baking.  That's why I'm stumped and that may be the tipping point in Pie vs. Cake.

Chez moi, our leanings tend towards pie almost unanimously. It has been brought to my attention however, that one of us has been known to choose birthday cake- not because she prefers cake to pie. She simply prefers hearing herself bemoan the fact that she's the Birthday Girl and she'll just go ahead and make her own cake anyway, because, well, who else is going to and... But enough about me. 

I posed my question to those gathered around the bakery work table and was surprised to find quite a few pie enthusiasts. Even the high school and college baristas voted in favor of Birthday Pie. Those who chose cake (Sweet Lady Carey) indicated that it's really not about the cake at all. It's about the frosting and the cake is a mere vessel for said frosting.

Among the Seattle-ites I found a slight divide. Strong pie leanings from my youngest nephew, particularly if lattice crust is featured. My handsome brother-in-law and oldest nephew are cake-ers. My brother-in-law is also I might add, a damn fine baker. My sister is what she calls "Dessert Positive" so she'll take either unless white peaches are in season. Then it's pie all the way.

My mother has always been the peacemaker seated at one head of the dining room table. She is possibly the least selfish person I know and if asked what she would like for her birthday dessert would tell me not to fuss. Which makes this all the more daunting. Of course I'm going to fuss; when I'm an octogenarian, my kids better be fussing over me.

When it comes to desserts, my mother inherited from her mother a fondness for custards and creams, chocolate and glaceed fruits. She also has a penchant for everything lemon so I could go in quite a few directions. The question is, which one?

There is also the whole Boston Cream Pie debate. I know nothing says Happy Birthday better than sponge layers sandwiched with pastry cream and dark chocolate dripping down the sides. Is that considered pie or cake or both?

I have another day to ponder this and perhaps a stroll through the produce aisles of Whole Paycheck will serve to inspire. The more I think about it though, it's not a question of Birthday Pie or Birthday Cake. When I consider the recipient the answer is simple; this Birthday Girl deserves one of each. 

         

Four and Twenty Groundhogs

It's Friday and I'm listening to the banter at the front counter.  It's been the same all week, ever since a certain fellow made his debut on the sugar cookie platter.  Customers ask to purchase one of the cute squirrel cookies, sparkly with brown sanding sugar.  The counter folk casually reply, "Well, actually they're Groundhogs."They are met with a vacant look from the customer. The staff continues, explaining that this very Sunday is Groundhog's Day. Each time I hear this exchange, I start to fall deeper and deeper into a Bill Murray/Andi McDowell trance.  

I am trying desperately to get some pies into the oven before the morning slips away from me.  I've pre-baked the shells (see last week's rant) thinking I'll make banana cream for a change.  I didn't anticipate my morning being interrupted by a cookie.  

According to my cookie calendar, Thanksgivukkah had come and blissfully gone. Turkeys, Menorahs and Pilgrims, oh my! Apparently there is a convergence of holidays this weekend, as well. I don't remember any mention of this, but maybe I wasn't paying attention. Today kicks off Chinese New Year and the Year of the Horse. Sunday is Groundhog's Day right on the heels (rather cleats) of Super Bowl Sunday. And I've already begun mixing a palette of Conversation Heart color for that other holiday. (The one that rears it's ugly head on the 14th of February.)  My pie shells will have to sit tight until I tend to the cookie crisis. We're running low on footballs and we're overrun with Groundhogs. I realize we are not Rocket Scientists, but this is indeed a problem. I casually suggest sticking a football on the Groundhogs and we do. Now I'm the one doing the piping of the royal icing "laces" on the teeny fondant footballs. Which gives me pause to consider a Universal Holiday Cookie.

I'm prompted by my brother's philosophy regarding greeting cards. He claims that he has purchased one card that he presents to my sweet sister-in-law that covers all occasions. The sentiment of the card is something along the lines of "I love you." He presents this card on her birthday, Valentine's Day, their anniversary. The card knows no limits and clearly it has done the trick; they have been happily married since the late 1970s.

I'm thinking that we could create a cookie at work that is equally suitable. I'm envisioning something simple- for instance, the Easter Bunny wearing a Santa Claus hat embroidered with the word "Mom" and decorated with a shamrock tassel. In one hand, Santa holds the hand of a Gingerbread Man who holds a dreidel emblazoned with a turkey and a pumpkin. In the other hand, Santa clutches both (he has big hands, okay?) an Apple-for-the-Teacher and a 4th of July flag. That should cover it nicely. Sporting events just don't make the cut. Nor do woodland creatures. Why? Because I said so.

I complete my Groundhog/Super Bowl tasks and return to the empty pie shells. Folks are still talking cookies at the counter. I know that the Groundhog of Pennsyltucky or Puxatawny has his rightful place on the calendar, but when did he squirrel his way into the bakery? I'll tell you when- when Super Bowl Sunday collided with Will He or Won't He See His Shadow Day.

Enough- I'm back to the pies, separating whites from yolks with great abandon until one of the Baristas turns to me and asks, "What are the pie shells going to be filled with?"

Without pausing I look up and reply simply, "Groundhog."             

On the Savory Side of the Street

 It seems wrong to complain about the Polar Vortex when my daily workplace boasts two blazing convection ovens.  If you were to catch a glimpse of me with my shoulders creeping up to my ears you would understand that even a bakery can be cold and drafty.  I’ve been decorating Valentine’s cookies (please, no comment) in my red LL Bean fleece which is now royal-icing-crusty along the zipper.

I’ve had a busy few days gallivanting not only the Garden State but the outer boroughs of Manhattan as well.  There’s a common denominator amongst these jaunts; freezing cold weather and blistering hot, thin crust pizza. The kind that burns the roof of your mouth if you’re not careful. I wasn’t.  

I know I tend to gravitate towards sweet pies as opposed to savory, but honestly, in this weather put something spicy/salty on a crust and I’m in. I kicked off my pie safari on Friday night, clutching a garlic permeated box from Arturo’s artisan pizza across the street from the bakery. It’s a tiny space and more often than not, there’s a mighty long wait for a table. Sometimes for lunch we fortify ourselves with slices of their farm-to-table pies. On Friday night, after a torturous wait for NJ Transit to get its act together, I picked up one of those pizzas and carried it home. 

Saturday I reconnected with an old friend from the UK who happened to be in town. On a snowy evening, Conte’s Pizza in Princeton was hopping. The kind of old time neighborhood place that pours Perroni by the pitcher and serves no-nonsense  pies. Was it noisy?  Indeed, it was. And chilly? Yes, right down to my work shoes which were liberally coated in all purpose flour. It was a deliciously retro kind of evening, from the laminated tabletops to the melamine plates. It was also a far cry from Monday night’s foray to Brooklyn.

I was invited to attend a small gathering celebrating the 2^nd Birthday of a restaurant.  A very hip restaurant, I might add.  Despite the frigid temps, I dashed from work to home and then back to the train station. Sometimes it’s fun to catch a glimpse of what’s going on outside your own snow globe.

For those of you who watch “Girls”, you might recognize the locale. Where the bar is surrounded by the hip and the beautiful, and the thin crust pizza can barely hold on to its toppings.Travel does come with a cost. Not simply the $14.50 round trip NJ Transit fare or the double swipe of the Metro Card.  It requires donning non-work clothes, Big Girl Shoes (in this case, boots) and washing the butter-sugar-flour film from your face. I was prepared. Or so I thought…

Bobbi Brown promised her Party All Night mascara wouldn’t smudge and Kleenex claimed the tissues I was clutching wouldn’t make my nose red. The cable-knit sweater tights swore they would sit snugly at my waist and keep me warm as toast. But as I traversed the slippery streets of Manhattan, everything was running; mascara, nose, and yours truly.  Navigating the black ice hidden beneath the slush, I stepped knee deep into banks of once pristine, now gone city-gray snow. Racing down the subway steps, I felt my tights inching their way south just as the G train slipped away out of sight.  My Kleenex pocket pack was buried deep inside my coat and retrieving another would necessitate removing one of my gloves and I certainly was not doing that. 

After a stint on the C train, the G train and a brisk walk, I arrive at the small gathering. What’s small is the space, what’s large is the crowd. I wedge myself into a space within elbow’s reach of the line cooks. Perfect vista of the intricate kitchen choreography.  A blur of long handled pizza paddles lap at the flames of the brick oven.The pizzas are as promised, delicious- wild mushrooms, Farm egg and curls of fresh sage, another teaming fresh pineapple and salty speck. At the other end of the line is a wood-fired grill where what appears to be a branding iron (can you say Ponderosa?) is hugging the grates. With great precision, one of the line cooks systematically brands something on a silver tray and then hands it to a willowy server. The server dips the tray in front of me and urges me to enjoy a tease of dessert. It’s a new-fangled S’More, a whisper of a graham cracker crust barely crumbling under the weight of its dark chocolate filling. A puddle of marshmallow teeters beneath a crown of more graham cracker. It’s delicious and boy, is it hot.  Nothing melts a homemade marshmallow quicker than a branding iron. Just ask the roof of my mouth.     

The Art of the Blind Bake

Two things happened at work last week prompting this post. One,  (cue Jaws music) there's been talk about that upcoming February holiday. The one centered around Conversation hearts and way too much pink and red. And two, the following scene took place just the other day.

Someone came into the bakery and wanted to buy a blind-baked pie shell. No lie. With the parchment paper and beans still nestled inside. Really? Really.  The exchange went like this:

Woman- What kind of pie is that?

Me- It's not a pie. It's a blind-baked shell.

Woman- Okay.

Me- Okay.

Woman- That'll be fine.

Me- Um, you can't buy it...

Woman- Why?

Me- Why? (Why am I having this conversation?) And so it went. She insisted. I explained. It was lined with parchment paper and beans. Not for the eating. Nor for the buying.  She had never heard of such a thing. Clearly. She wanted it but couldn't have it. Which judging by her just-back-from-Boca tan and perfectly manicured nails, she was unaccustomed to hearing. 

This exchange got me thinking about the whole blind-baking process. I have to say I've often thought that the term blind-bake is, well, a touch awkward. I know what it means, but who coined the phrase? So I looked it up- here's what I unearthed.  According to most culinary handbooks, (specifically Bernard Clayton Jr.'s Complete Book of Pastry: Sweet and Savory), blind baking is simply pre-baking a crust by lining it with parchment paper and beans. The general consensus is this helps to prevent two things from happening; unduly shrinkage and puffing up. (Elizabeth Arden Ceramide Gold Ultra Restorative Capsules might make the same claim, but have no place whatsoever in a pie). What I hadn't realized was rumor has it "baking blind" also refers to the underling doing the blind baking; left in the 'dark’ as to what the filling will be. Perhaps. But since I’m always the one responsible for the blind bake as well as removing the SCORCHING HOT paper and beans from the shells, I think that’s unlikely. Readying a filling with recently burned fingertips, is standard practice.  I see (no pun intended) no distinction between the blind-baker and the baker. They are the same person. Me. You need a blind-baked crust when making a pie with a filling that doesn't get baked (cream pies, chiffon pies) or when you don't want a soggy-bottomed fruit pie. That's pretty straight-forward. 

There's an inimitable smell to blind baking, not particularly fragrant in a good way. Once the beans that are doing the weighing down have baked, they take on a roasty quality. And since hard-core bakers re-use the beans, that fragrance only becomes more intensified.  Kind of reminiscent of wild hickory nuts roasting over an open fire. On a Manhattan street corner. Opposite Penn Station. In December.  You get the idea.  When I worked in commercial establishments, we kept an enormous burlap sack of blind bake beans.  It's one of those nasal wake up calls that you never forget. It can permeate a house in a matter of moments. Just ask my kids.

So I was taken aback that someone would actually look at a pie shell lined with parchment and toasted-til-crisp beans and want to make it their own. But what do I know. The retail buying public can be strange creatures.

On the home front, I’d like to make something for dessert. Not that there’s anything wrong with Trader Joes graham crackers and marshmallows taking a quick spin in the oven. I'm still reeling from the conversation I had with the Boca woman, thus opting out of anything requiring a pre-bake. I have a pitcher of homemade caramel sauce (thank you, Barbara for the Macrina bakery book) and a few apples clamoring for attention. Kismet. I decide on some hand pies.

Another thing- after too many years in the baking business, I know it's highly unlikely that come February I'll be baking any heart shaped anythings at home.  So I'll do it now- as they say in an old movie musical from 1956, "Now. When else? Now is always best time."

And the Walkin' Man Walks

"In the twenty plus years that I've lived here," my friend Ann Marie gesticulated, arms wildly dramatic, "You are the one and only person I know to arrive in LA without renting a car."  Really?  I found that hard to believe.  I had done my homework, checked out the Metro, the stations, the TAP card information.  I consulted my light rail expert in Seattle who assured me that Pasadena boasted a light rail line and that LA was growing subway passengers daily.  I was determined to use Public Transportation because, well, that's what New Yorkers do. We're movers and we have places to go.  Running for buses, careening down stairs onto subways is in our blood. Unashamedly hailing taxis right out from under the noses of Times Square tourists posing for pictures with anemic Elmos and disfigured Buzz Lightyears comes naturally.  Waiting around is not our strong suit, and quite frankly, you can see it in our faces. It's particularly obvious during frigid temperatures, Polarvortex winds and snow lashing at our upturned collars.

Might I also add quietly, we jaywalk.  On the straight lines, on the diagonal, a-little-too-close-to-buses and yellow cabs.  It's what we know.  It's sort of an inbred New York gene, and once a New Yorker, it's hard to disengage.  Even under the stern warning of my brilliant sibling, a bonafide Pedestrian Master Planner.

I tried, I really did.  I waited on the street corners of Los Feliz and Pasadena for the light to change green.  It was a bit like waiting for Thanksgivukkah to roll around.  No one else seemed to mind, no one appeared to be in a hurry.  I could have crossed back and forth and back again in the time it took for the "Walkin' Man" sign to illuminate. Yet I was determined not to become a ticketed statistic.  So I waited, paused, glanced at the Pacific blue skies and reminded myself how lucky to be lingering at a crosswalk in a warm clime. Emblazoned in my memory was the recent New York Times article accounting in excruciating detail the perils (and price) of jay-walking in LA.  Enough to keep my Tretorn-clad toes firmly planted on the curb.  But it was driving me CRAZY. 

So while I waited, I looked around.  At graceful Spanish-influenced architecture, at benches crafted out of recycled skate boards, at towering Bird of Paradise and lush greenery and citrus fruit ripe for the pickin' on front lawns.

I was also on the prowl for a California piece of pie.  And who led me in the right direction? A woman waiting at a crosswalk in size zero yoga pants. Pie-n-Burger is a Pasadena institution since 1963.  By my abacus, that's fifty plus years.  I didn't even pause at the burgers, moving directly to the laminated pie menu.  So what if it was 10 o' clock in the morning?  I hesitated between Butterscotch Meringue, Rhubarb and Ollalieberry.  (Who knew there was such a berry? A cross between a loganberry and a youngberry; in the blackberry family).  The waitress refilled my green-rimmed/diner-white coffee cup and said, "Get the cherry." So I did. Still warm, it did not disappoint.  Classic crust (like me, a little flaky) bursting with cherries, both sweet and tart.  You gotta love a town that offers upwards of twenty pies on a single menu.

It was worth the wait at the crosswalk.