Nutty Nostalgia

Recently calibrated oven, you think you're so cool. Truth is, you're the slightest bit too hot. Yes, you are working quite well. Perhaps a little too well. Not only are you responsible for branding one of our new bakers on the back of her arm, you baked the chocolate chip cookies lickity split. When I'm greeted with, "There are cookies for you on the rack," I know I am not being offered a mid-morning snack. I will be forced to make the difficult decision to feed them to the food processor and turn them into crumb crust. Luckily, I have just the recipe for this culinary challenge. And a good thing too, because the apples have yet to be delivered and the pears are several days away from being ripe.

There was a bit of a pie squabble at the counter on Saturday. Nice enough fellow wanted to buy an apple pie, double crust. So did the woman behind him and another who had sidled up to the left of the espresso machine. Unbeknownst to them, several of the pies were already spoken for, their order slips hidden beneath sticky apple pie syrup. Others, still warm from the heat of the newly repaired oven, were available but sported crumb topping. Apparently folks have very strong opinions about crumb topping. In my book, if the crumb is toasty and not too sweet, and the fruit mirrors the appropriate season (the Granny Smiths and Ginger Golds definitely taste like fall), then it's a great match. These Pie Seekers clearly did not receive the crumb memo clarifying this. Thus began a pleasantly heated conversation regarding pie ownership.

Oven mittened, I am dodging the blistering hot oven racks, rotating sheet pans of apple pies. They require a dosey doe throughout the baking process which brings me up front and a little too personal with the retail pie public. I am thinking but not saying (which is terribly challenging for me), "all you need to do is place an order and you can choose double crust or crumb. I'm pretty agreeable when it comes to that." (I know, I surprise myself sometimes.) The bakery is hot, the oven is hotter still and my Saturday patience is growing thin. So is the fabric on the right hand of the oven mitt, between thumb and forefinger.

When folks start to get territorial and use the expression "My Pie" I have a Cafette-of-Philadelphia flashback. And it's even more appropriate this week because I am shocked to discover that one of our new bakers is a Cafette alumna. True, we worked there at different times, but the odds of that happening in one little bakery proves it is a small, small, restaurant/bakery world indeed.

I miss Philly, particularly Chestnut Hill and autumn’s crunchy leaf running trails in Valley Green. I also miss my Farmers Market and the twist-your-ankle cobblestones of Germantown Avenue. So many tempting food options up and down that hill. The double punch aroma of sweet and savory breads, yeasty and buttery tumbling out of Baker Street and Metropolitan bakeries. (Sadly, there is a huge freshly baked bread void in my current Village.) At the top of the hill, Farmer Andy offered the freshest produce 7 days a week. I miss the wicker baskets of soft-but-lovable fruit that I scooped up (some might say hoarded, but that seems harsh) and were mainstays of Cafette pie fillings. In October, weathered wooden counters held a patchwork of options; purple-blue Italian plums, limited edition fresh figs, puckery Concord grapes, citron green quince and adorable Seckel pears. Apples in shades of red, yellow, pink and green overfilled bushel baskets. It was more than a market, it was a 'round the corner gathering place. Much like chatting over the fence with your neighbors, Top of the Hill Market was where you got the scoop before you read the weekly Chestnut Hill Local. I frequented the market almost daily.

In the same way, Cafette was a neighborhood eatery, a mainstay tucked inside a Philadelphia row house. In the warmer months, the side flagstone patio was in full swing, a curlicue wrought iron gate open and inviting. The garden fragrant and blooming, twinkle lights overhead, tea lights illuminating umbrella topped tables. In October, the patio umbrellas wrapped themselves up tightly to ward off the chill and pumpkins sat in front of the secured wrought iron gate. Pie offerings transitioned from peaches and berries to apples, pears and plums.

There was one pie in the Cafette repertoire that knew no season and was popular year round. The slightly crispy chocolate chip cookies at work this week retrieved it from my memory. The pie in progress looks like this:

The original recipe for Chocolate Walnut Pie called for semi-sweet chocolate, but I changed it to bittersweet and I think it's a better fit.  We sailed through many of these pies on a weekly basis, although the fruit pies consistently outsold the chocolate.

Due to the confines of the restaurant, folks waiting for tables would gather alongside the narrow space in front of the counter that displayed the desserts. At the height of the dinner hour, the crowd spilled out on to the street, hungry diners clutching BYO bottles of wine, perching on benches out front.

Customers became territorial about pie offerings and often times reserved their dessert in advance. Little toothpick flags earmarked the saved slices, and if I underestimated, well, folks got a little bit cranky. Sorry.

I'm sorry, too, that the crumb versus double crust became a Thing on Saturday. I did offer to slice one crumb pie in half and one double crust in half creating an Apple Pie Duet in two completely new and shiny aluminum pie plates. I thought that was a pretty good compromise. No takers.

Several days ago, one of last Saturday's Pie Seekers returned for coffee and casually mentioned that the crumb pie was actually delicious; not too sweet, the right amount of lemon, a good amount of crumb and more than enough apples.

Just trying to do my job here. Which right now, is to salvage the chocolate chip cookies and transform them into a tart filled with bittersweet chocolate walnut-iness. As I'm reaching for the commercial food wrap I'm reminded of one of my favorite line cooks from my Philly food days. Omar, a Gumby of a man who was as tall as he was thin, outfitted daily in over-sized black and white checkered chef pants. When it came to mise en place, he was exceptionally well prepared for the Cafette lunch and dinner line. Less so, when it came to his wardrobe. The one accessory severely lacking from Omar's clothes closet was a belt. In his inimitable style, he made use of what was readily available behind the speed rail opposite the six burner stove. Eighteen inch commercial food wrap, twisted and fashionably tied made an impromptu belt that almost held up his trousers. I miss Omar and the Cafette kitchen crew. I miss the meals that were crafted in that tiny kitchen and enjoyed on the patio. Jan was a gracious owner and employer, Richard an inimitable host. That was then.

This is now.

A Sweet New Year

One would think that ushering in a New Year might just quell a bit of the wacky. Fresh from my recent upstate pie-scapade, I returned to work buoyed by the optimism that accompanies a new season. The rotary phone was ringing as I set foot inside the bakery. What I didn’t realize was that Murphy, of Murphy’s Law was walking in right behind me.

Coffee business is brisk and I find myself foolishly answering the phone. (Second to Murphy’s Law is the “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished” Dictum.) My phone conversation is with a woman who is moderately pleasant but most insistent that we pay strict attention to her cupcake order. She had retrieved her custom cookies the day prior and felt they were a touch paler in color than what she had envisioned. She could live with the cookies but she wanted to make sure that the gum paste letters that were to bedeck today’s sweets would sit atop more dramatic shades of pink and blue buttercream. Not baby pink or baby blue, but dark. But not too dark. But not too pale. And not too babyish. But not too mature. She did relinquish control over where the letters would perch on top of the cupcakes. That was all up to me. Lucky me.

History indicates that Murphy was not the actual fellow behind the adage, “Anything that can possibly go wrong, does.” Nonetheless, I give him full credit. His law is particularly prevalent during

holidays, regardless of the time of year. I have often considered the fact that this Murphy fellow must have toiled in a bakery at one time. What other explanation is there for things going horribly awry around a Bakers bench?

If I have to point a finger at the individual responsible for the technical difficulties hampering the bakery this week, I’ve got to go with Mr. Murphy himself. Nothing says “L’Shanah Tovah, Baby” the way multiple commercial equipment crises can. In our intimate space, we are down one Hobart mixing bowl and one convection oven. These glitches have forced both bowl and oven to bow out of the Rosh Hashanah baking party. A plucky crew of bakers are we, priding ourselves on being ever adaptable. The baked goods however, are less so.

Like women and children lining up for life rafts, trays of scones and banana breads, coffee cakes and cookies are running to the front of the oven line. The oven timer blares like a Captain over a megaphone, “Scones and Gluten Free Breads first! High Holiday Baked Goods step to the end of the line.” Personally, I’m about ready to jump ship.

The apple studded cinnamon batter is forced to wait impatiently in Bundt pans, while honey cakes spiked with strong coffee and a generous splash of whiskey are lollygagging in loaf pans. The bittersweet chocolate truffle cakes are the most needy; it’s all about them, divas demanding water baths and moderate oven temperature. I beg of the unbaked goods, can’t we all just get along?

My New Year’s resolution of “calm and serene” is rapidly flying out the window. The biggest monkey wrench of the day is a wayward pie order due at 3 o’clock. Pies prefer blistering hot climes in order to set the crust, with a gradual downward temperature spiral. No can do without incurring the wrath of the truffle cakes.

What I needed was a sign. A sign that despite its malaise, I could turn to and turn on the malfunctioning oven. There is a corollary of Murphy’s Law, “If there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then.” I opined that by engaging the top oven, odds were likely the repairman would appear. I had no sooner uttered the words than who should arrive but Mr. Parts and Service.

His timing was impeccable, his ability to diagnose and treat the problem, less so. With the lower oven blazing full steam ahead stuffed to flux capacitor with Bundt pans and loaf pans, and Pate Brisée crusts on hold in the freezer, Mr. Parts and Service maintained a poker face as he began to dismantle the top oven.

With little if any bedside manner, the oven surgeon would not tell us what we desperately needed to know. Would the patient survive, and if so, how long before the oven would be up to temperature? His answer was nothing if not vague, and once I heard him mumbling something about not having the part on his truck, I disengaged. Ms. Three o’clock Pie would need a heads up that three was desperately optimistic. With the apple cakes and honey cakes out of the oven, the truffle cakes were next up for their spa treatment. The pies simply could not jump the line.  The truffle cakes took their sweet time while I continued to peel apples. Mr. Parts and Service was busy making phone calls, nuts and bolts and oven parts strewn in his wake. When the timer finally signaled that the delicate chocolate cakes were ready, I blasted the oven up to high and urged the pies to bake faster. Pies do not respond to idle threats. Neither do repairmen.

I slithered out of the bakery as the sun took a nose dive in a pastel sky. As I exited stage left, Murphy and his Law exited stage right.

On Thursday, with the Jewish holidays in full swing, there was a little bit of Christmas happening at the bakery. Murphy’s departure heralded the arrival of Mr. U.P.S. delivering a package filled to the bubble wrap brim with Hobart goodies. Whisk and paddle and dough hook attachments were tucked inside a brand new mixing bowl. If that wasn’t celebration worthy enough, the word on the street was that Mr. Parts and Service will have our oven up and running in mere days, not weeks.

This very well may shape up to be quite the New Year. Sweet.

Spinning the Pie Wheel

The journey to Saturday’s Pie wheel was daunting, but we were unafraid. Despite the stubborn GPS that insisted bypassing Greenville, we eventually found our way to Main Street. Armed with pumpkin apple breads and enough pie shells to feed an army of Food Revivalists (and then some), we unloaded the car.

The weather Gods smiled upon us Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The last of the summer peaches were ripening in the sun, early autumn apples were fresh for the picking and the tubs of Door County, Wisconsin cherries had arrived as promised. In fact, legend boasted that it had never rained on the previous Revivals. Note to self: never say never.

With the voice of Marvin Gaye pouring out of the makeshift iphone speakers, we were on a roll and a crimp. Dakota was a formidable partner in pie crime, blanching, peeling and slicing peaches, blind-baking crusts and navigating pounds of sugared apples beneath circles of pate brisee. She is gifted with good baker’s hands, and the sunniest of dispositions. She also washed an arsenal of dishes, never once complaining.

The oven timers beeped constantly, reminding us to rotate trays, cover edges with strips of foil to prevent over-browning and catch wayward fillings. I was painstakingly doing Baker’s Math, checking and double checking my recipes while stock pots of wild blueberries and sour cherries reduced on the stove. The crumble for the cherry pies was tempting, and we nibbled on dark brown sugar, toasted almonds and oats.

The long wooden dining room table groaned under the weight of the pie parade. We had commandeered every available surface in the kitchen as well. Pies rested on cooling racks, their aroma a medley of sweet and spicy, fruity and nutty. The fragrance tumbled through the window screen on to Main Street. Apple, (both double-crusted and crumb), blueberry, cherry, peach, pecan and lemony buttermilk.

The final two pie flavors required Saturday morning assemblage; miniature lemon meringue pies and tipsy rum raisin custard.  At five o’clock on Friday afternoon, we called it quits and headed to the barn for dinner. There was a pronounced flavor of autumn chill in the air.

On Saturday, the weather app on my phone indicated a 30% chance of rain in the morning, inching its way up to 70% by mid-afternoon. Smirking in the face of an inclement forecast, I proceeded full steam ahead. Egg whites and sugar rode the merry-go-round whisk attachment of the red Kitchen Aid mixer. I desperately wanted to believe that my meringue would laugh at the weather and hold their marshmallow swirls high.  

The drizzle began timidly, but the air was downright bone chilling. In desperation, I layered my running leggings beneath waterproof knee high boots. To say it was going to be a bad hair day was an understatement.

Pies were sealed in rain bonnets of commercial plastic wrap and window bakery boxes. The lemon meringue pies didn’t stand a chance. They were not the only ones fighting the elements. By noon, the deluge was steady, a bonafide carwash of rain, causing chefs to don baseball caps and striped woolen hats. Foodie participants huddled in the barns, shoulders hunched against the chill, Popsicle toes inside soaking wet shoes. We were cold and soggy and smelled like a barn full of wet dogs. At one point, I sought refuge in the car for a brief spell, blasting the heat on high. My hair refused to dry, dripping steadily like a leaky water faucet.

The Pie Wheel was relocated from the field to inside the barn. We wiped the water from the pie boxes and set them down on the moist gingham check tabletop. At six o’clock the rain finally called it quits and we assembled for a sumptuous dinner with dessert to follow. Cue the pies.

The end was in sight, and for the first time since the onslaught of torrential rain, I was beginning to regain feeling in my toes. I no longer needed a hooded slicker, or so I thought. Just as the rain ceased dripping down my forehead, a most unfortunate incident occurred. The opening of a bottle of carbonated water at the dinner table went horribly awry, exploding in my immediate direction, drowning my finally dry curls.

As I expected, I wasn’t the only one reeling from the effects of the weather. The combination of rain and condensation had sabotaged my lofty lemon pies. Were they tasty? Definitely. Were they standing tall? Hardly.

Overall, the pies were a great success and 80 pies is indeed a fine warm-up for that November pie holiday. Will I include lemon pies on the Thanksgiving menu? Doubtful.

As of this writing, I am back in the bakery and just in time for the first holiday of the season. Apples and honey will take center stage next week with nary a lemon nor an egg white in sight.

But not to worry. In honor of the 2014 LongHouse Food Revival, our beloved and witty Media Lab Director Megan brilliantly dubbed the signature dessert of the weekend; she calls it lemon meraingue. 

Turning the Page

I am most reluctantly acknowledging the date, slowly turning the page from August to autumn.  One last run up the hill, hermetically sealed in a lime green slicker. The rain is steady; my sneakers know the way and are more brazen than cautious through the puddles.

August had unfolded slowly, picking up momentum then culminating in a photo-finish of work. I am reminded of this as I reflect on the past four weeks. We have witnessed amazing woodland creatures in our paths and ‘some pig’ miracles at Crosby Farm. Local celebrities have been photographed and interviewed, The Erie Canal and the Midwest have been analyzed in excruciating detail. Feel free to ask me just about anything pertaining to Cincinnati Chili, Jell-O or Perfection Salad.

The fine lined pages of our daily journals are filled with words and visions; we crane our necks to look forward, we glance back over our shoulders to remember where we’ve been. Against the backdrop of a rambling creek that runs just beyond our windows, it has been a journey of self and solidarity.

The little red barn at the top of the hill is generously offering Free Squash for the taking. In fine print, we are admonished not to take the baskets housing the canary yellow crookneck veggies. Not to worry- I’ll take a pass. We have eaten our fill of summer vegetables. And for restorative purposes, our fair share of Ronnybrook ice cream. Putting pen to paper can be a Herculean effort.

The most obvious common thread among this diverse group of Scholars is our passion for food. The refrigerator has been in a constant state of ebb and flow. My contribution has primarily been in the dessert portion of our food pyramid. Farmer Tim’s bounty of blueberries have afforded us several evenings of sweets. Most recently, the sweet and sassy berries tumbled into circles of butter pastry. I folded them over into half-moons, sealed with a kiss of cream and sugar. I decided for medicinal purposes, the Scholars would benefit from a pair of turnovers capped with vanilla Ronnybrook ice cream and Caramel Bourbon sauce. It was just what we needed.

Heading down the hill, I tuck my rain-drenched head below a canopy of now autumn leaves, just beginning to blush crimson. Tomorrow I will pack the car and bid my fellow Scholars fare thee well. It is remarkable that in a very short time, total strangers can become kindred spirits.

September beckons. It is time to turn over a new leaf.

The Great Lime Pie-Off

One does not travel the roller-coaster hills of Rensselaerville in search of retail therapy. Folks amble down the street, cyclists head for the rolling vistas and the occasional car is generally just passing through. Main Street is a sleepy stretch with a single restaurant and a diminutive library. 

I had no intention of perusing the stacks at the Main Street Library’s Book sale. The tiny voice in my head whispering, “Cookbooks” led me directly to the 1994 Kraft General Foods, Inc. edition of Simple Desserts Made Special With Cool Whip. Unlike organic heavy cream, sugar and vanilla bean which are part of my personal and work repertoire, Cool Whip is most definitely not. Standing in the tiny hallway of the Main Street Library, I couldn’t help myself. The cover of the skinny hardbound book had me at Jell-o parfait. Practically jiggly in excitement, I desperately wanted to know what was inside the pages. Alternating shades of neon yellow, orange and green suspended in waves of Cool Whip, graced the cover. Unfolding a crumpled $1 bill that was buried deep within my jeans pocket, I handed it to the capable bibliothec. Upon closer inspection, I was giddy to learn that my new cookbook boasted 94 pages of seasonal Cool Whip recipes!

Following the dictates of the season, I began on page 50, “Summertime Celebrations.” Leafing through, I found myself pausing on the page that boasted Lemonade Stand Pie and Summer Lime Pie. The past three weeks had been a touch lackluster in the citrus department and I was fixated on the glossy photographs. All that I needed was accessible at the Tops Supermarket, a mere 30 minutes away in the neighboring town of Greenville. Before I had time to think it through, I was traveling the gravity-defying turns of Rensselaerville, heading thirty-five-miles-an-hour-and-not-a-mile-more towards Greenville.

Tops is a humble supermarket, sequestered in a small shopping center. I made my way to the Jell-o aisle, scanning the display of puddings and gelatins. Boxes the color of Crayolas lined the shelves of Aisle 6, top to bottom.  “Pick me! Pick me!” the neon green box of lime Jell-o waved. With strict instructions from my fellow Scholars to adhere to the recipe to the letter, I filled my cart with a pre-made graham cracker crust, a 16 oz. container of Cool whip and one fresh lime. En route to the check out line, I paused in front of my old friends, Nellie and Joe, known for their authentic Key Lime Juice. I was a goner.

By the time I arrived at the express check out, my shopping cart had all the fixings for my Summer Lime Pie, but also everything necessary to replicate a genuine Key Lime Pie. The pie tide was about to turn in Rennselaerville.

On my drive back to the land of the Scholars, it occurred to me that with my limited access to the kitchen, I needed a solid reason to be walking into the house with fixings for two pies. I had 30 minutes to hatch a plan.

I crafted a baking challenge for myself, and plans to capture it in words and photos. Pitching my idea at dinner, I calmly and rationally explained that I would be hosting a Bake-Off. True, I was the only one participating, but it had far reaching benefits.

Researching Jell-o salads for an Iconic Dish of the Midwest assignment, I felt rather well versed in the world of gelatin. Additionally, my Key Lime Pie had won a Best of Philly Magazine Award in 1994. The end result would be that the house of Scholars would have the opportunity to try both pies. It was decided the best plan of action was to have the Bake-Off culminate in a blind taste test.

Following dinner on Friday night, pie forks and plates at the ready, we assembled around the long wooden dining room table. Our brilliantly talented art intern Matthew, pulled up a chair and was blind-folded. The taste test was short-lived, with Best of Philly Key Lime Pie beating out Cool Whip Summer Lime Pie in a single bite.

I bet the local library will welcome my donation of a gently used 94 page cookbook.