Two years ago I wrote about a woman named Kazi Pitelka. At the time she and her husband owned what must be the largest privately owned citrus orchard in Los Angeles – twenty seven varieties of citrus in one backyard. Tangerine-quats. Cara Cara oranges. Buddha’s Hands. And a grapefruit tree the size of a Southern Oak. Sadly, they had to sell the property.

Kazi’s kitchen was just as lust-inducing as her backyard: the copper pots, the Chemex  coffeemaker, and atop her hefty wooden butcher block island sat a rainbow of candied citrus peels. I remember thick nuggets of candied orange peels with ginger, long, thin strips of candied lemon and a fragrant mason jar of candied Buddha’s hand. These were, of course, lined up next to the jars of preserved lemons and pickled limes.

Candying peels isn’t hard, but it’s the sort of project that is best left for lazy Sunday mornings. Fruit must be peeled. Peels must be boiled. And boiled again. And again. Then finally diced and simmered in simple syrup for about an hour. Next comes a night of cooling drying and finally a quick dredge in sugar.

I find that sort of kitchen monotony incredibly soothing, and if you do too this is a project for you.

I am a faithful devotee to Alice Medrich’s book Pure Dessert. It is one of the most stained and splattered cookbooks in my collection and I, of course, turned to her expertise for this recipe.

My only regret is not making more. If I can keep my husband from eating them all I intend to add them to some whole wheat chocolate chip cookies. Stay tuned…

Candied Citrus Peel

From Alice Medrich’s Pure Dessert

4 organic oranges

1 1/2 cups water

1 1/2 cups sugar, plus more for dredging

Use a sharp paring knife to score the peel of each fruit into quarters, cutting just through the skin from the top to bottom all around. Use your fingers to strip the peel from the fruit. It’s okay if some fruit is left on the peel for now. You should have 3-4 cups of peel. Save the fruit for another dish or snack on it as you cook.

Place the peel in a 3-4 quart saucepan and fill the pan with cold water leaving just enough space for it to boil. Bring the water to a full rolling boil. Drain the peel and dump it into a large bowl of cold water to cool for a minute. Drain and return the peel to the saucepan. Repeat the entire blanching and cooling sequence three times. (Blanching rids the fruit of excess harshness and astringency and tenderizes it. The number of blanchings is not cast in stone. With experience, you may increase or decrease the number to get the tenderness and flavor that you like.)

After the final blanching and draining, use a small sharp knife to scrape only the mushiest part of the white pith (and any fruit left on the peel) gently from the peel, leaving the orange peel about 1/4 inch thick. Cut the peel into strips or triangles or whatever shape you like.

Place the peel in a smaller (2 quart) saucepan with 1 1/2 cups of water and the sugar. Bring to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Adjust the heat and simmer the peel uncovered, with little or no stirring, very gently until the syrup registers between 220 and 222 degrees and the peel has been translucent for a few minutes; this will take a little more or less than an hour. (I was able to eyeball this and not use a thermometer.)

Remove from the heat and use a slotted spoon to transfer the peel to a rack set over a rimmed backing sheet, to catch the syrup drips. Spread the peel out in one layer and let cool and dry overnight.

Dredge the peel in sugar to coat. Stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator, the peel will keep for several months.

Left to it’s own devices frisée would be dark green from tip to root, yet we eaters typically enjoy a two-tone frisée that is a cream or pale yellow at the core. When a head of frisée reaches full maturity in the field, the farmer either wraps a rubber band around the head of lettuce or tops it with what looks like a shower cap so that light cannot penetrate the center of the greens. This prevents photosynthesis which explains the white center but it also prevents the plant from getting too bitter. Plus, it makes it look pretty on the plate.

Win. Win.

For me, frisée shines brightest when eggs are involved. Bacon helps too, as the French have long known, but it’s not necessary. This dish of simply dressed frisée and a fried egg on toast is my idea of a perfect breakfast or lunch depending on your appetite.

First put your toast in the oven. It goes without saying that the better your bread the better this meal will taste. While your bread is toasting dress your greens. Simply take a handful of frisée and chop it up enough so that it won’t all come sliding off your toast on your first bite. Dress it with your best olive oil, a generous squeeze of lemon, a pinch of high quality salt and a healthy spattering of freshly ground pepper. Toss that all together so that the flavors are evenly distributed and set aside.

Next fry or poach your egg. If you have access to fresh eggs use them! Eggs that have pale yellow yolks lack in flavor what they do in color. A bright orange yolk is a sign that the egg is both nutrient and flavor rich. Cook your egg until the whites are set and the yolk is still jiggly.

To assemble your tartine place your toast on a plate, add thin layer of butter or olive oil if you like, and then top with the frisée salad. Place your egg on top of the greens and again top with a quick drizzle of your best olive oil, salt and pepper. It’s quick, easy, nutritious and pretty enough to serve to a guest.

For me, there is no fruit more beautiful than quince. If you imagine an over-sized knobby pear, one that is so large that it can barely hold it’s own belly upright, then you can imagine a quince. The exterior is just barely furry which gives it a beautiful muted color. They are an ancient fruit from the old world. As my friend Samantha so eloquently said, “it’s like dinosaurs were nibbling on this fruit back in the day.”

Since eating raw quince has been described as “gnawing on slightly sweet furniture,” I doubt the dinosaurs were nibbling, but the image brings a smile to my face.

The flavor is often compared to pear, but for me it’s much more floral. Almost perfumey. It pairs well with apple and that is exactly what happens in this tart. This recipe comes from Rustic Fruit Desserts, a lovely little book that would likely be overlooked in the bookstore had it not been selected for Gourmet’s Cookbook Club. The book is full of forgotten desserts – buckles, pandowdies, slumps and fools – all delicious desserts that will never win the beauty contest. This tart is pretty enough, but it’s no show-stopper either. That is what powdered sugar is for…

This is a tart for a rainy day. Or if you happen to have pie dough and poached quince in your fridge, it’s a recipe for a foggy morning. It takes time. I use the phrase begrudgingly, but this is quite literally slow food.

quince and apple brown butter tart

1 prebaked 10 inch tart shell, (use your favorite pie or tart dough, or try this one)

poached quince (recipe follows)

3 oz unsalted butter

1/2 vanilla bean, scraped, pods reserved

2 eggs

1/2 tsp salt

3 1/2 oz  (1/2 cup) sugar

1 3/4 oz  (1/3 cup) all purpose flour

2 large or 3 medium apples, preferably pink lady, peeled and thinly sliced

Have your tart shell and poached quince prepared before you begin the custard.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

To make the custard, melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the scraped vanilla bean seeds and the pods and continue browning the butter. Stir it constantly, making sure it does not burn. If you burn the butter (you will see black specks in the mixture when burnt) throw it away and start again. Once it smells nutty and has turned a caramel color remove it from heat and discard the vanilla bean.

In a heatproof bowl combine the eggs, salt and sugar. Slowly whisk in the brown butter taking care not to curdle the eggs. Whisk to combine and whisk in the flour.

Slice the poached quince in thin slices to match your apples. Arrange the fruit, alternating quince and apples, in a pattern in your prepared tart shell. (You will have more quince then you need.) Pour the custard evenly over the fruit. Do not worry about spreading it out – it will spread as it bakes.

Bake the tart in the middle of the oven for 35 to 40 minutes or until the center of the custard is firm. Allow it to cool for 20 minutes before serving.

*Use the leftover quince anywhere you would normally use apples or other fruits…cooked int your favorite muffins, atop pancakes or served warm with a scoop of ice cream.

poached quince

This recipe comes from one of my favorite cookbooks, Simply Quince. Barbara, the author, adds a cinnamon stick to her poaching liquid, but I prefer to just use water, sugar and lemon juice.

*this recipe makes about 2 cups of poached quince

4 cups water

1/2 cup sugar

juice of 1/2 lemon + the squeeze lemon half

1 pound fresh quince, peeled, cored, quartered, and cut into quarters

Combine water, sugar, lemon juice and lemon half in a sauce pan and heat over high heat until the sugar dissolves.

Add the quince, bring the mixture to a boil and then reduce the heat and allow them to simmer gently until the quince is soft – anywhere from 30 minutes to 1 1/2 hours depending on how high your heat is. The fruit is done when it can be pierced easily with a knife.

Allow to cool before using in the tart.

*Store leftover poached quince in syrup. I like to use the syrup to brush cakes when they come out of the oven.

Pound cake is a lesson in math. Traditionally pound cake was 4 oz flour, 4 oz sugar, 4 oz fat and 4 oz eggs which all together equals 16 oz, or 1 pound, of ingredients. The pound cake I grew up on was just that – 4 ingredients baked at 325 in a bundt pan.

So why are there so many pound cake recipes out there? Because bakers are incessant tinkerers. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. When it comes to pound cake I have seen additions of baking soda, baking powder, buttermilk, egg yolks and special flours, but my favorite addition is that of heavy cream.  This recipe, ever so slightly tweaked from Shirley Corriher’s Bake Wise - an essential for baking nerds – calls for whipping the cream to soft peaks and gently folding it into the batter. The result is a tender crumb that is richer and moister than the pound cake of my youth.

In lieu of any extract I scraped a vanilla bean into the butter and sugar mixture. I reserved the leftover vanilla bean to infuse a lemon simple syrup and brushed the cake with the mixture once it came out of the oven. For me, it’s the tart and tangy lemon curd that make this a winning dish.  Combined with the late season berries it can be either breakfast or dessert.

pound cake

(adapted from Heather Hurlbert’s Magnificient Moist Whipped Cream Pound Cake in Bake Wise)

makes 1 12-cup bundt cake

2 cups unsalted butter (good butter makes a difference here)

2 cups sugar

1 vanilla bean, scraped (reserve pods for simple syrup)

6 large eggs at room temperature

2 3/4 cups ap flour

1/2 cup heavy cream

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Spray your pan with canola oil or butter generously and add flour to coat.

Combine butter, sugar and vanilla bean pulp into a stand mixer.  Beat with the paddle until the ingredients are well incorporated.  When you feel the mixture it should not feel lumpy or gritty.  Scrape down your bowl.

Add the eggs, one at a time.  Mix in each egg completely before adding the next one.

Add the flour in several batches with the mixer on low speed. Do not overmix.

In a separate bowl whip the cream until soft peaks form.  (Imagine perfect rich foam on a cappuccino – they should hold their shape but don’t over beat them.) Fold the whipped cream into the batter gently – I recommend doing this in 2 or 3 shifts.

Place the batter in your prepared pan and bake at 350 degrees until the cake is golden brown on top and when a knife or toothpick is inserted it comes out clean, about an hour.  Allow the cake to rest for 10 minutes and then unmold it onto a rack for cooling.  Brush the outside of the cake with lemon simple syrup (recipe follows).  Eat alone or with lemon curd and berries.

lemon simple syrup

Combine equal parts lemon juice and sugar in a sauce pan.  Add reserved vanilla bean pods and bring to a simmer to dissolve the sugar.

lemon curd

(adapted from Alice Waters’ The Art of Simple Food)

zest of 1 lemon

juice of 4 – 5 lemons (1/2 cup)

2 eggs

3 egg yolks

2 tbl heavy cream

1/3 cup sugar

1/4 tsp salt

6 tbl butter

Combine zest, juice, eggs, yolks, sugar and salt in a heat-proof bowl or double boiler.  Whisk to combine.  Place over simmering water and stir constantly until the mixture is thick and coats the back of a spoon.  Do not let this mixture come to a boil.  When thick, pour curd over the butter and whisk or blend with an immersion blender to combine.  Scrape mixture into a bowl, cover the top with plastic wrap so that it doesn’t form a skin and place in an ice bath to cool it down quickly.

When cool, spoon it over the pound cake.  You can spread the leftovers on toast, mix with whipped cream for a light frosting, drizzle on ice cream or pour into a tart shell for a lemon curd tart.

When it comes to figs, the fine line between ripe and rotten is paper thin.  Should you be lucky enough to have a mature fig tree on your property you will most likely spend 350 days each year anticipating your perfectly ripe figs only to be overwhelmed once they arrive.  The problem with too many figs, is too little time.

I do not have a fig tree, but lucky for me I know many who do and was recently the recipient of a mound of very ripe figs.  The obvious answer to this dilemma would be fig jam, but I foolishly went the more time consuming route and began making pistachio studded tart shells and pastry cream for a fresh fig tart.  Fortunately the tarts were devoured faster than the figs could rot and the lemon flecked crust and creme fraiche spiked pastry cream proved a swell match for the not-yet-rotten figs.

Crisis averted.

fig tart with pistachio lemon crust

lemon pistachio tart shells (recipe follows)
pastry cream (recipe follows)
creme fraiche
very ripe figs, cut into quarters or eighths depending on size
honey, warmed

To lighten the pastry cream incorporate some creme fraiche to taste and whisk to combine.  Place a dollop of the pastry cream mixture on your tart shell.  Place the figs in a nice design on the tart and brush the figs with warm honey.  Serve immediately or place in the refrigerator for safe keeping.

pistachio lemon crust

(makes 1 9 inch tart shell or 25 mini tart shells)

200 grams all purpose flour
40 grams cornmeal
70 grams ground pistachios
50 grams sugar
1 large pinch salt

1 lemon zested
7 tablespoons of butter, cold and cut into 1/4 inch dice
1 egg yolk
3-4 Tbspn water, cold

Combine all of the dry ingredients and lemon zest and whisk together in a bowl.  Add cold butter and using a pastry cutter incorporate the butter until it appears the size of peas.  Add your egg yolk and mix to combine with a fork.  Add ice-cold water and mix with your fork until the dry ingredients are hydrated and when you squeeze lightly with your hands the dough holds together.  Do not overmix.

Flatten the pastry into a disc, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours, preferably overnight.

When you are ready to roll our your dough, preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  You can either roll this dough out or press it into a tart shell.  I prefer to roll it to get an even crust.  Either way, line your tart shells with the dough and return them to the freezer to chill.

To blind bake your shells, take them out of the freezer, prick the bottoms with a fork and line the tarts with parchment paper and fill with dry beans or pie weights.  Bake until the edges are golden brown and the dough is cooked through.  It will vary depending on the size of your tart.

Allow to cool before filling with pastry cream.

pastry cream

1 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup cream
1/2 vanilla bean, scraped
scant 1/2 cup sugar
1 pinch salt
1 whole egg + 3 egg yolks
1/4 cup cornstarch

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Combine milk, cream and scraped vanilla bean in a saucepan.  Place the saucepan over medium heat.  Meanwhile combine sugar, salt, egg, egg yolks and cornstarch in a heat proof bowl and whisk to combine.  Set aside.  In another heat proof bowl place your 2 Tablespoons of butter and hover a sieve over the bowl.  Set aside.

Once the milk mixture comes to a boil, take it off the heat and slowly add it to the egg mixture to temper it.  Either pour it slowly in a stream or add 1 ladle full at a time, whisking the egg mixture all the while so as not to curdle the eggs.  Pour the tempered egg mixture back into the saucepan and return to medium-low heat.  Whisk constantly.  When you feel the cream thicken and see the very first bubble take the mixture off the heat and pour it through the sieve onto the butter.  Whisk to combine.  Cover the surface of the pastry cream with plastic wrap so it doesn’t get a film and put the bowl in an ice bath to cool it down quickly.

Despite growing up in the South, I often forget what humidity feels like.

Depending on where you live in LA you can in fact live an endless summer, but living by the beach we generally wake up to morning fog and breezy ocean air that prevents the wearing of skirts and shorts, let alone bathing-suits.  Needless to say I was unprepared for the swampy heat that would greet us when we arrived in Nashville earlier this summer.

Nashville is amazing.  From my hotel window I could see 7 churches and an independent freestanding Christian bookstore.  It was in Nashville that I discovered the verb ‘honkey-tonking.’  It was also in Nashville that I discovered my love for paletas.

Paletas are ice pops.  In Mexico, paletas are a part of summer…sort of like iced coffee in New York.  In the right corners of LA you can find a freezer full of paletas alongside any taco counter.  In Nashville these ice pops are made by a local shop called Las Paletas.

To this day, the honeydew paleta from Las Paletas is one of the best things I have put in my mouth.  Maybe it was the 90 degree weather.  Maybe it was the 95% humidity.  It was outrageously good.

Rather than trying to compete with the memory of that honeydew popsicle, I opted for a totally different flavor combination.  The cucumber juice makes for a unique flavor – one more vegetal than I am used to in a popsicle, but it’s not such a bad thing.  I liked it.

cucumber basil and lime popsicles
(makes roughly 2 cups)

12 oz fresh cucumber juice (from 1  to 2 cucumbers)
3 -4 oz fresh lime juice (from 1 to 2 limes)
1/4  cup + 2 tbs basil simple syrup (recipe follows)

basil simple syrup

1/2 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 bunch of basil (about 1 handful)

Peel both the cumbers and limes before juicing.  First juice cucumber and measure out 12 oz.  Next juice the lime or limes.  Strain cucumber lime mixture into a bowl and add basil simple syrup.  Stir, taste and adjust the tartness or sweetness to your liking.

Pour into popsicle molds and freeze.  If you don’t have popsicle molds you can use dixie cups and insert popsicle sticks mid-way through the freezing process.

Salsa verde falls under the NO FAIL category.  It tastes good on pretty much anything – fish, lamb, grilled vegetables, even crusty bread.  So when I dug up my little German Butterballs last week I knew just what to do.

Boil. Roast. Top with salsa verde.  NO FAIL.

I am an impatient gardener and my little tubers most likely could have used another three weeks to reach their full potential, but alas I was craving potatoes and out they came.  My fellow gardeners talk about tomatoes as the gateway drug for gardening.  For me it’s potatoes.  It’s magic really – put a spud in the ground, cover it with dirt and a few months later you have a potato harvest.  Other than a few green leaves above ground the magic happens out of sight.

This salsa comes in many forms and flavors and like many rustic sauces it’s hard to decipher a strict recipe.  Substitutions and omissions inevitably occur depending on what herbs are in the garden and which bottles and jars are hiding on my refrigerator door.  Use this recipe as a guideline and feel free to add and subtract.  Most importantly taste as you go.  I’ve made salsa verde countless times.  Each time it tastes different, but it always tastes good.

salsa verde

1/2 cup chopped parsley

1/4 cup chopped cilantro

1/4 cup chopped mint

3 tbl capers, rinsed, drained and roughly chopped

1/2  shallot, finely diced

zest of 1 lemon

1/2 cup good quality olive oil

juice of 1 to 2 lemons

salt and pepper to taste

potential substitutions and additions:

tarragon, chervil, basil, garlic, olives, scallions, hard boiled egg, jalapeno, anchovies and cornichons

Combine chopped herbs, capers, shallots and lemon zest in a bowl.  Add olive oil.  Do this to your taste.  Depending on how finely you’ve chopped your herbs and how generous you are with your oil intake the amount of olive oil will be different for each person. I generally start with 1/2 cup and add more if the salsa looks dry.

Just before serving add the lemon juice.  If you add it too early it will discolor the salsa.  Taste for salt and pepper and serve.

Yesterday was my boyfriend’s father’s 75th birthday.  Jerry, or JHB as some know him, has literally been everywhere and seen everything.  As his birthday was rapidly approaching I wondered what, if anything, might be an appropriate gift for a man who earlier this year traveled to Egypt and Saudi Arabia and just last week vacationed on a Russian ice-breaker in the North Pole.

The lightbulb moment came at the market when I stumbled upon a stack of late season rhubarb.  Over the years Jerry has made his love for the tart and tangy perennial well known.  Unfortunately I have spent my entire cooking career avoiding it.  To peel or not to peel?  Boil or roast?  Sorbet?  Preserves?  Pie?  The odd shaped stalks on my counter presented a number or queries.

I recalled a delicate galette from Thyme Cafe in Santa Monica in which careful rows of thinly sliced rhubarb were nestled diagonally into a square pastry.  It was almost too beautiful to eat.  Harnessing that memory as a starting point I set out to make a rhubarb galette.

I owe two great chefs with the ideas and inspiration that follow.  First and foremost I am indebted to Alice Waters brilliant technique and secondly a nod to Michelle Wojtowicz of Big Sur Bakery who uses blood oranges with rhubarb to intensify the vibrant color.

If you choose to make this, which I recommend that you do, don’t be startled about the architectural high-rise of rhubarb that goes in the oven – it will cook down and conform to the edges of the pastry.  And a final note, be generous with the glaze.  In this instance, there is no such thing as ‘too much.’

rhubarb galette with blood orange glaze

(makes one 10-11 inch galette)

10 oz galette dough (recipe follows)

1 1/2 pounds rhubarb

2 tbl + 1 1/2 tsp flour

3/4 cup sugar

zest of 1 orange (or blood orange if using)

pinch of salt

1/4 cup ground almonds

blood orange glaze (recipe follows)

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.  If you haven’t already, prepare your galette dough.  You should have one 10 oz puck of chilled dough.  Pie dough needs to be very cold before rolling – I usually make mine the day before so that it has plenty of time to chill.

Trim the ends of the rhubarb stalks and reserve the butts.  Cut the rhubarb into 3 to 4 inch long pieces and then cut lengthwise into skinny strips about 1/4 inch wide.  Toss the rhubarb strips with sugar, flour, salt and the orange zest.  Set aside.

Roll out your galette dough into a circle roughly 12 inches in diameter and transfer the dough onto a parchment lined sheet tray.  Place individual pieces of rhubarb forming a circle about 1 inch in from the edges of the pastry.  Working quickly tuck the edges of the pastry over and under the rhubarb creating a barrier.  If your pastry becomes too warm at any time put it back in the fridge or freezer to chill.  Once your barrier is complete sprinkle your almond meal over the exposed pastry bottom.  This layer will soak up some of the extra juices so that your crust remains crisp and not soggy.

Next pile your seasoned rhubarb into the pie dough.  It will look crazy.  It’s ok.  Brush the edges of the galette with an egg wash (either 1 whole egg, egg whites or 1 egg yolk) and sprinkle with sugar.

Place the sheet tray into the oven, preferably on a pizza stone if you have one.  After 15 minutes take a spatula and press gently down on the rhubarb.  Continue baking for another 30 minutes until the pastry is golden brown and the bottom of the galette is nice and crisp.

With a pastry brush apply the blood orange glaze to the cooked rhubarb.  Serve warm or at room temperature.

galette dough

(makes 20 oz of dough)

2 cup AP flour

1 tsp sugar

1/4 tsp salt

6 oz chilled unsalted butter

7 to 8 tbs of ice water

Sift AP flour, sugar and salt together into a bowl.  Cut chilled butter into 1/2 inch cubes and add to dry ingredients.  Using a pastry cutter incorporate the butter into the flour until the mixture is crumbly with some butter pieces the size of peas and some the size of dried white beans.

Sprinkle the ice water over the pastry and using a spatula toss the mixture together until it resembles a shaggy mess.  Lightly squeeze a handful of dough.  If it comes together it’s ready.  If it falls apart lightly continue to toss the dough through your fingers until the flour, fat and water will hold together – it should look a bit precarious.

Separate the dough into 2 loose balls and wrap in plastic.  Flatten each ball into a disc and refrigerate for at least an hour but preferably over night.

blood orange glaze

reserved rhubarb ends

juice of 2 blood oranges

3/4 cup sugar

Place all ingredients in a saucepan and bring to a boil.  Simmer until the rhubarb is soft and the liquid has reduced slightly.

Last week this message landed in my inbox:

Eating this buttermilk sorbet right now…I don’t understand it, but it’s blowing my mind. You gotta research this.

So I did…and it did.  Mind.  Blown.

It’s light.  It’s lemony.  I suppose it is technically sorbet – no eggs or cream – yet there is enough dairy-ness in the buttermilk to satisfy those who hanker for the texture of ice cream.  Buttermilk nowadays is a bit of a misnomer.  Originally the bi-product of churning butter out of cream, it is now a manufactured product made with either low-fat or skim milk – there is nothing buttery about it.  You can make it at home by simply adding 1 Tbl of lemon juice to 1 cup of milk and allowing it to sit until ‘curdled’ – about 5 minutes.

What I love about making sorbet is that you don’t have to make a custard.  There is no cooking to be done and therefore no extra heat in your kitchen on a hot summer day.  Simply combine 5 ingredients and you’ve got an impressive dessert on your hands.  I served this batch with mixed berries from the market, but it is also tasty alone or alongside a thick slice of your favorite fruit pie.

And lastly, a nod to the ever-talented Fergustuff for the special lemons you see below and the inspiration for the sorbet above.  For more of her limitless craftiness click here and here.

buttermilk sorbet

(makes roughly 6 cups)

1 1/4 c + 1 tbl sugar

zest of 2 lemons

juice of 4 large lemons (about 1/2 cup)

4 cups buttermilk

1 tbl vodka (to prevent it from getting icey and hard)

In a bowl combine the sugar, zest and lemon juice and stir with a whisk to combine.  Add the buttermilk.  Whisk again to combine and refrigerate overnight or for a few hours until sufficiently chilled.  (I prefer to let it sit overnight to allow the flavors to meld.)  Add the vodka to the mixture and process in your ice cream maker as directed.

As a general rule I prefer my alcohol unadorned.  I like beer.  I like bourbon.  I love tequila.  And I drink them straight – no frills.  Should I opt for a cocktail, I tend to go the savory route.  I am no stranger to Dirty Martinis and I have been known to drag my loved ones across town for a good Bloody Mary.

Cocktail culture and the ubiquitous waxed mustaches that come with it can sometimes make me cringe, but despite the mustachioed men clad in ascots that are all-too-often behind the bar, I do appreciate the recent attention given to artisinal drinks.  It adds another dimension to dining out, and well…who can complain about that?

A few weeks ago I had brunch at the Tasting Kitchen – our local go-to spot in Venice.  Their brunch menu is fairly odd and unconventional, but what it lacks in omelets and pancakes it makes up for with chicken and waffles and a killer cocktail list.  On that particular Sunday morning I ordered a celery based Bloody Mary which I have tried to recreate here.

In the restaurant version, celery juice, vodka, peppercorns and lime are shaken, strained and served up in a glass with salt and sumac on the rim.  In my version, vodka is infused with peppercorns over night, shaken with celery juice and lime and served up in a glass with a tomato salt rim – a trick I accomplished with my fancy new dehydrator.

If you have a juicer, it is best to juice fresh celery right before you construct your cocktail.  You can also puree it in a food processor and strain the juice through a fine mesh sieve lined with cheese cloth.  Should you have a dehydrator, but no tomatoes, use whatever vegetables you have on hand.  I happen to also love arugula salt.  And if you are less indulgent and/or neurotic than I am and happen not to have a dehydrator hiding in your cupboard just pour it in a glass and drink up.

deconstructed bloody mary

(makes 1 cocktail)

2 oz vodka, infused with 3 peppercorns overnight

1 oz celery juice

3/4 oz lime

tomato salt for rim (recipe follows)

Before you juice your lime, cut it in half and use the inside to moisten the rim of a cocktail glass.  Dip the rim of your glass in tomato salt and set aside.  In a cocktail shaker, combine peppercorn-infused vodka, celery juice and lime.  Add ice and shake vigorously.  Strain into prepared cocktail glass.

tomato salt

dehydrated tomatoes

salt

Cut as many tomatoes as you like into 1/4 inch rounds and dehydrate at 135 degrees F for 12 to 24 hours – until brittle.  In a spice or coffee grinder grind the dehydrated tomatoes into a powder.  Add salt to taste and whir a few times to combine.  Use on the rim of a cocktail, sprinkle on buttered toast or add to pasta for a fresh tomato kick.