tomato tarte tatin (adapted from Barbara Lynch's Stir)

And so we wait for tomatoes. Somewhat patiently. Mostly not so patiently. And with a good bit of dread.

Tomato plants and I would not be featured on one of those Match.com sites. We'd be the couple that really wants to like each other. We'd want the same future together. We'd try really, really hard to make it work. And then some worm comes along right before the first blossom opens and devours the stem and leaves, and the tomato plant dies a slow, horrible death. This has happened three years in a row.

And so we wait again. Hoping to break the cycle of shattered hopes and death monger worms. Hoping the fruits of our labor are red and juicy with just the right amount of acidity.




Fortunately, we live in New Jersey where the tomatoes are a source of pride. Our local farmer's market has insanely large, heavy heirlooms in mid-July, and if we go toward closing time, the stand owners push their heirlooms on us for free, seeing in us that we will treat their tomatoes with love and care and a bit of sea salt. Because farmer market heirloom tomatoes won't keep until tomorrow. Eat them now or just forget it.

And so we wait for July. And it's still May. 

Between our Quixotic tomato windmills and our farmer's market, we will have our red. Eventually. 

This recipe will be better in July. But it's perfect right now. Yes, it's from Barbara Lynch. Yes, we're a little obsessed with her. But it tastes so good, so it can't be wrong.

Let's break down the recipe into components, shall we? 

You must make this over a couple of days. Don't do it in one day. You can do it in one day, of course, but that would mean you have too much time on your hands, and you should come over to our house and change diapers or something. Eric Ripert can't do it all by himself.

So. Tomatoes get slow roasted. Onions get slow cooked for an hour. Puff pastry get slapped on top. You bake. You fry some basil leaves. You dollop the mascarpone. You eat and are happy.

This isn't hard. 

But it takes time. Maybe a day or two. So break it down into the components above, and don't think you can't do this. 

Also, there are some of you who don't eat mustard or live with people who don't consume it. I don't want to take your inventory or anything, but try this. Overcome your fear/aversion and get on it. This is tasty and sweet and savory and you need the mustard integrated in it. Try it. Just try it. Thank you.

Karen made this the other night while I was spastic with work. It was glorious. And so is she.


recipe | tomato tarte tatin with tomato confit, slow cooked mustard onions, puff pastry and mascarpone


for the tomato confit

• 3.5 pounds plum tomatoes
• 4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
• 1 T sugar (especially in May)
• 2 t kosher salt
• black pepper
• 1 c olive oil
• 6 thyme sprigs

Heat oven to 300 F. Quarter tomatoes lengthwise. Seed and core them.

Get two 9X13 pans (baking sheets are fine). Spread the garlic between them. Divide the tomatoes between them, placing them cut side up. Sprinkle with sugar. Salt and pepper. Pour oil evenly over tomatoes. Bake 27 minutes or so. Cool the tomatoes completely. Use a slotted spoon and transfer the tomatoes to a container to refrigerate them. Keep the oil and use it in a pasta. Or something. Don't throw it away. You're a better person than that. 

for the onions

• 2 T olive oil
• 2 large onions, halved and thinly sliced
• 2 garlic cloves sliced thinly
• 4 t whole grain Dijon mustard
• 4 basil leaves chopped
• 8 basil leaves left whole
• Kosher salt
• Pepper
• 2 sheets frozen puff pastry
• some honey
• 1 egg, beaten viciously
• 1/3 cup vegetable oil
• Some mascarpone. One of those little tubs is fine. This isn't optional. You need this.

Also, you'll need small tart pans or ramekins. Ours are about 3.5 inches in diameter. You use what ever you have. Small bowls. Cups. Whatever. Just make sure they're ceramic or metal. Not plastic, right? Right.

Olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Add onions and immediately decrease the heat to low and stir. Do not let these brown. Cook them for an hour. I'm not kidding. Just stir them occasionally. Do not hurry them. You are missing the point if you turn up the heat to medium. Leave it low and have a drink. Or five. About half-way through, remove the puff pastry so it can defrost some. When the onions are caramelized, turn off the heat and add the mustard and chopped basil. Add 1/2 t of salt and some pepper. Taste. We needed more salt. 

Flour a work surface and roll out the puff pastry to about 1/8 inch thick. Get your tart pan/ramekin and a sharp knife. Place the pan on the puff pastry and cut around it with the knife. It will feel slightly like a second grade craft project. Enjoy the memories. Put the pastry cutouts on a plate and put it in the fridge. Keep it cold or it won't puff.

Heat the oven to 375 F.

Take some honey and give the bottoms of the pan a light coating. It's ok if you get it on the sides. Whatever.

Cover the bottom of the pans with some tomatoes, skin side up. Then layer on some onion mixture. Then slap on a puff pastry top. Brush some egg on there. Sprinkle with salt. Bake until brown, between 10-30 minutes. I know that's a big spread, but we made these twice and each time took a different amount of time. Pull them out and let them cool for 10 minutes (no longer or the honey starts to set). 

Heat up the oil in a small pan until a dipped basil leaf sizzles. Place the remaining leaves in the oil until crisp. Maybe a minute or less. Drain on a paper towel.

Run a knife around the inside of the pans. Put a plate on top of the pan, and using a hot pad, hold the pan against the plate and flip them over together.

Garnish the tomato top with a dollop of mascarpone. Stick a bail leaf on there in some artsy way that makes you feel good.

Eat.

ham and cheese puff-pastry bites with honey mustard (from Barbara Lynch's Stir)

I ate a lot of ham sandwiches growing up. Boiled, pressed ham shaved thin, spread flat between two slices of white bread slathered with bright yellow mustard and a slice of American cheese was an affordable meal for my parents to serve us. I don't miss the ham, but there's something incredibly comforting thinking about those sandwiches.

Nothing, however, compares to Karen's relationship with ham sandwiches. We're married 14 years this June. For a long time, we've known each other's stories so well that we can say a word or two, and we've compressed a five-minute story into a second. Which leaves more time for laughing. Or drinking.

But about five years ago, Karen and I were talking about fundraisers we did in high school. This was sparked by large boxes of chocolates at our place of employment. I remarked that both the price and the quality had increased since my time in HS band. I remember the terrible waxy bars resembling chocolate we were required to hustle, funding long and hot summer bus rides to town parades, where our plastic shoes stuck to the sizzling pavement. Bad chocolate, stinky polyester uniforms, but fun. Karen casually asks, "Why didn't you just sell ham sandwiches?"

How do you respond to that? What does that even mean? Is it a euphemism?


Clarifying, she tells me that at their school, they sold ham sandwiches as a fundraiser. Same boiled ham I ate growing up, but they used the far superior Martin's potato rolls. Long assembly lines, done in shifts. People would buy sacks of sandwiches. Mustard packets included. She sees nothing wrong with this, nothing weird, completely socially acceptable.

To me, a sack of ham sandwiches is the most terrifying fundraiser ever. Worse than the 1970s-friendly tall candles my brothers sold, worse than the crocks of processed cheese spread and summer sausage we sold in elementary school. To quote Karen, "People would buy enough to feed their family for the week." Huh.

So. Let's reconsider the ham sandwich, shall we? No bright yellow mustard, no white bread, no rubbery cheese slices. And no fundraiser.

I think it's pretty clear, if you've read even a little of this blog, we'd make just about anything that has Barbara Lynch's name on it. Her food is incredibly, (nearly) impossibly tasty. The one thing we've heard from our readers both here and on Facebook is that her recipes seem a little/lot involved. I sort of (don't) agree. Yes, they take time, but nothing is terribly hard.

The one is incredibly easy, with lots of shortcuts built right into it. It explodes with flavor, so there's no reason to avoid making it. Unless you don't eat pork. Or wheat. Or dairy. We'll excuse the non-pork-wheat-dairy eaters among you.

This is the best ham and cheese sandwich you've ever eaten. Promise.
recipe | ham and cheese puff-pastry bites with honey mustard (from Barbara Lynch's Stir)
for the honey mustard

• 2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 onion, thinly sliced
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
• Salt and pepper

for the rest of it

• Two sheets frozen puff pastry, thawed as the package directs (get the best available brand; try for all-butter)
• 1/2 pound thinly sliced smoked ham
• 1/2 pound shredded Gruyère cheese (we added in some Comte that we had from French onion soup)
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• 1/2 teaspoon sea or Kosher salt

directions

• Heat a skillet over medium heat. Add the oil. Add the onion, Stir until softened. Ours took 10 minutes. Add the honey and the mustard and cook, stirring every so often, for another 5 minutes. Puree in a food processor until sort of smooth. Taste and add salt and pepper if you need it.
• Heat the oven to 375°. 
• Line a baking sheet with parchment. Lay down one sheet of the puff pastry and roll out until about 1/8 inch. 
• Spread out the honey mustard, leaving a 3/4-inch border uncovered. Slap down the ham. Then cover with the cheese.

• 
  
  Roll out the remaining pastry sheet on parchment, then carefully flip over the parchment/pastry on top of the cheese. (The parchment should be staring you in the face, not the dough.)
• Seal the edges. Do everything you can to make these edges stick [crimp, press with fork, staple it if you must (don't do that)]. 
• Cover the top with the remaining egg and sprinkle with the salt. 
• Lay another cookie sheet on top of the top layer of parchment to hold down the pastry. Bake for about 20 minutes. 
• Remove the top pan. Bake until deep golden brown. Ours took 20 minutes, but check yours at 15 minutes. 
• Let cool for 10 minutes at least. Cut up into pieces, depending on how many you're serving. 
• Would make a great appetizer, but we served larger sizes with a Bouchon salad.

chicken meatball lasagnettes with creme fraiche bechamel and chicken jus (from Barbara Lynch's Stir)

Let's get this out of the way. This is the best meal we've ever made.

You know when you make something to eat, and you know it's going to be good? But then you taste it, and it blows your mind and taste buds. And your soul?

This recipe is that something. It earned our eternal devotion to Barbara Lynch, the amazing chef and restaurant owner in Boston who is also the author of Stir. It's light, creamy, salty, savory. 

You must make this. And even if you don't make this (which you can count as the greatest mistake in your life), read the recipe, because you can see the way Chef Lynch thinks. This recipe is all about building deep, concentrated flavor. For the jus alone, you're going to cook down sixteen cups of chicken stock into two cups of dark liquid gold.

I've included our changes/shortcuts/modifications. You should buy her cookbook so you can see exactly her approach for yourself. It's a fantastic collection of great food (see her seared scallops with celery root gratinee).

This is a dish of components. This may look overwhelming, but break each element down. It's not a big deal. Make this over a couple of days. Everything keeps perfectly for a day or two or three. You'll have eaten every bite of it by day three.

chicken jus

• 1 chicken, 7-8# (or whatever you can find) 
• 1 onion, chopped roughly 
• 1 carrot, chopped roughly 
• 1 celery stalk, chopped roughly 
• 2 garlic cloves, chopped. Roughly if you feel like it. 
• 2 c dry white wine 
• 16 cups low-sodium chicken stock (do not use regular chicken stock. You're condensing this down to 2 cups, so you want to control the salt) 
• 1 T coriander seeds 
• 1 T black peppercorns 
• 2 bay leaves 
• a few fresh thyme sprigs 
• Kosher salt 
• Black Pepper 

Preheat your oven to 350F. Get a roasting pan ready or use a cookie sheet covered with foil (easy cleanup).

Cut off all the meat you can from the chicken. I didn't strip ours clean (wing meat, really?). I focused on the breast, thigh, and leg meat. Set the meat in the refrigerator.

Remove all the skin from the chicken. Chop up the bones a bit (you want to expose some marrow), so that you have 8-10 pieces. I chopped off the wing tips because they seemed like they'd burn in the oven.

Throw the chicken on the pan, and get it in the oven. Roast until you get golden pieces (40 minutes was good. Go longer if you want. Or shorter.) See, you're not wasting the meat you didn't pick off -- you're roasting it into deep flavor for the jus.

Throw the bones in a pot. Heat over medium-high. Add in the onions, carrot, celery, and garlic.

Keep stirring them for about 10 minutes.

Add the wine. Reduce it by half.

Add the broth, peppercorns, coriander, bay leaves, and thyme.

Reduce it over a good simmer until reduced to four cups. This may take a couple of hours. You could drink during this time.

Strain the jus through a fine strainer. Mash the broth out of the vegetables. Don't leave any of the flavor behind.

Add the broth to a smaller saucepan. Reduce to 2 cups.

Add the thyme for 2 minutes right before serving.

Season to taste with salt and pepper.


chicken meatballs

• chicken meat from above
• 1T vegetable oil
• 2 shallots, finely chopped. Then chop it more finely.
• 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped.
• 1/2 c heavy cream
• 1 c panko
• 8 T grated Parm
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 T chopped thyme
• Kosher salt
• Black pepper

Heat a pan over medium-low heat. Add the oil. Then the shallot and garlic for 8 minutes. You want them really tender but not browned. Take the pan off the heat.

In a small bowl, add the panko and cream together. Stir. Leave it alone to think about what comes next.

Grind the meat in a food processor until chopped finely. Dump it in a bowl. Add everything left on the list, along with 1 tablespoon of salt and 3/4 teaspoon of pepper. Mix together. Gently add the panko mixture.

Chef Lynch suggests frying a small bit of the meat as a patty in a skillet. Taste for seasoning (we needed more salt).

Heat the oven to 350 F.

Line a baking sheet with foil. Form 3/4 inch meatballs and place on the sheet. Don't let them touch each other. Bake for 8 minutes or so. Ours needed to go for another 90 seconds.


creme fraiche bechamel

• 4T unsalted butter
• 1/4 c flour
• 3/4 c whole milk
• 1/3 c heavy cream
• Kosher salt
• 1/3 c creme fraiche
• white pepper (yes, you could use black, but it's not the same)

Melt butter over medium heat. Add flour and whisk for 5-8 minutes. It's going to smell nutty, but don't let it get very dark.

Add the milk, cream, and 1 teaspoon of salt. You could cook this for 7 minutes, but ours set up like glue in 2 minutes, and we thinned it out with a bit of milk and cooked it for the rest of the time.

Take it off the heat. Stir in the creme fraiche. Taste it. Season with salt and pepper as needed.

Push the salt a tiny bit, especially if you're afraid of salt.


pasta

• Flat fresh pasta sheets; make your own (you're so fancy, aren't you?) or buy it like we did (could you use lasagna noodles here? Probably so. Don't let the lack of fresh pasta stop you from making this. But try to find fresh. Try really hard.)

Heat a pot of water to boiling. Salt it.

Cut 4-inch rounds out of the raw pasta. Keep the scraps for another pasta dish.

Cook for 3 minutes. Plunge into an ice bath. Dry each piece.


to assemble the awesome

Heat the oven to 300.
On a baking sheet, place down parchment or a Silpat and spray a tiny bit of vegetable oil on top. This stuff will stick like a mother, and you don't want it to fall apart at the very end.

Lay down a round of pasta. Cover with 1 tablespoon of bechamel. Cover with 3-4 meatballs. Lay down another bit of pasta. Meatballs. Bechamel. Pasta. Meatballs. Bechamel. Pasta. Stack it as high or as low as you want. You could cut the meatballs in half, but don't.

Place a tablespoon of water on the baking pan. It'll steam a bit. Bake for 15 minutes. Maybe a little less.

Use two spatulas to pick up the lasagnettes. Place them in a shallow bowl.

Spoon jus over the top. Spoon some around the base.

Top with some shaved Parm.

Sit down somewhere quiet. Use a big spoon. Get every component in that first bite. Savor. Pay attention to everything that's happening in your mouth.

When all the lasagnette is gone, go ahead and tip the bowl into your mouth. Don't let a bit of the jus go to waste.

Isn't it brilliant?

seared scallops and pureed celery root gratinee

When I was seven, I went on vacation with my family to Sarasota, Florida. We stayed in the house of a family friend, Shirley Apple, whose mother, Ma Core, lived with her. They were so nice to us. They had a miniature train and track in their front yard that was big enough for me and my brothers to ride. And they had a banana tree in their back yard. We we warned to look out for alligators because an overflow water ditch ran behind the banana tree. A train with the potential to be eaten alive was easily one of the best vacations. Ever.

We made most of our meals that vacation. One afternoon, I went to the kitchen to see what was cooking. Something didn't smell right. Lifting a lid off of a pot, I saw giant white marshmallows piled on top of each other, swimming in butter. Naturally, I assumed we were having Rice Krispie treats, even though the blue box of cereal was nowhere to be found. I put my finger on to a marshmallow to get a taste. Sure, it would burn, but it would be worth it. But the marshmallow didn't give. So, I got a spoon and cut off a big bite, along with some butter. It was the most horrible thing I'd ever tasted. Just then, my dad walked in and asked how the scallops tasted. Scallops. We weren't having Rice Krispie treats. We were having seafood. And I hated seafood. Dad ended up overcooking the scallops and threw them away, sparing me from skipping dinner that night.

Since then, I've spent most of my life avoiding seafood, and scallops in particular. Then, I'd try bites of Karen's crab, lobster, whatever. And most of the time I liked it. So...

I decided in the last year to learn how to cook seafood. Anything I could find. I can nail a lobster and make a killer aqua pazzo. Then I got Barbara Lynch's cookbook, Stir, and she loves scallops. And I love Barbara Lynch. So, using the transitive theory, I should like scallops. Based on this single recipe, Barbara converted me. It's easy and spectacular. Crunchy, sweet, and smooth. Butter and sea, but in a good way this time. Make this.

Note - if you haven't tried celery root before, think of celery-flavored potatoes, but in a good way. They'll make you happy. Even if you don't want to make the scallops (which I can understand only if you're allergic to seafood like one of my brothers), make the celery root gratinee. 

Seared Scallops and Pureed Celery Root Gratinee, Adapted from Barbara Lynch's Stir cookbook (which is one of the best cookbooks of the last year)

This will feed up to four people. The second time you make it, you'll want to double the celery root because it's amazing.

• Get four scallops per person. Or three. I won't tell you how to live your life.
• Get a celery root. Whole Foods has them. Our Stop & Shop has them, too. Celery roots are not inherently elitist. They're roots.
• 1 c. of whole milk
• 1/2 cup of panko bread crumbs
• 2 tablespoons of butter, maybe a little more
• Some chives or 1 green onion (the sort-of-green part worked well, and it's cheaper than chives), sliced paper thin
• 1/2 granny smith apple (in honor of the Apple-Core family), diced right before you need it at the end
• A flavorless oil of you choice. Maybe a tablespoon.

Make the celery root
Peel the celery root. A normal vegetable peeler works fine. Cut it up into chunks. You're going to puree it later, so don't worry about uniform pieces. I know chefs will disagree and say that the pieces need to cook at the same rate, but really, move on. You have other things to do. Cover it with the milk. Add a little more to cover the celery root if you need, because the root turns brown where it's exposed. I know because I didn't fully cover it. It's unsightly. Cook it until you can easily stick a fork or a sharp knife into it. Maybe 15 minutes or so. Puree it. Or mash it like you would potatoes. If you have a stick blender, use it. Add one tablespoon of the butter. Stir it until it melts. Add a bit of salt, maybe half a teaspoon. Add in white pepper if you have it or black if you don't. Taste. Adjust salt until you're happy with it. It'll stay warm through the next bit. You can heat it up a little if you need.

Make the toasted breadcrumbs

Melt the rest of the butter on medium and add in the panko. Keep stiring them over the heat. Keep them moving, or they'll burn. Get them golden brown. Dump them on a plate so they don't continue to brown.

Get ready

Get your plates out. Have your apple and onions ready to go. Now, cook the scallops.

Cook the scallops. Remember they are not marshmallows

Scallops need to be treated gently but with confidence. Screw up your courage and be cool. You can own this. Ready?

Get a non-stick skillet hot, maybe over medium high. You want it ready for the scallops. Once hot, add a little bit of vegetable/canola/grapeseed oil. Our stove is uneven, so all the oil gathers to the lower left of the pan. I skate the scallop through the oil, spreading them out in the pan. Set the timer for two minutes. Don't estimate. You will get distracted by your children or your wine. Look for a beautiful sear, a dark golden brown. If you don't think they're dark enough, let 'em cook longer. Stay present and watch them. Stop drinking, pay attention. Turn them over. Tongs work nicely and so will your fingers. Be brave. 90 seconds to 2 minutes more on the other side. While the scallops cook this last bit, spread out the celery root gratinee in an artsy way on the plate. Place the cooked scallops on top, again using your creative powers for good. Top with panko, then apple, and finally the onions.

Take a bite. Isn't Barbara Lynch brilliant? And don't you wish you had a train to ride in your front yard? Or an alligator in the back?