Honey Rhubarb Fool with Cardamom Chèvre Cream

“New school, new baby pool!” Or rather, new city, new so many tons of things to be doing all of the time, including my brand new intense job, that this will be a quick blog post. When I posted last, I was courting a production baking job in Portland, Maine, and lazing away the start of summer with my folks in their dreamy log cabin up north. All of the sudden, I found myself instead with the pastry opportunity of a lifetime in Baltimore, and I’m here now (!!), working away as a pastry assistant at Woodberry Kitchen. Check ‘er out, dudes. It’s an amazing restaurant, business model, idea, influence, etc., that supports farms all over the Chesapeake Watershed by putting their produce to exclusive, consistent use. Farm-to-table in the sense of it being for the benefit of farmers, more than for the delight of eaters, but delight we do, and it sure is a ton of work. 

On one of my precious days off last week, I hopped down to DC to retrieve all of my things, and whipped up this rhubarb dessert in compensation for my trespassing unannounced in the house of my sister and buddies. It’s an April Bloomfield recipe that I’ve had my eye on for awhile, and in the spate of 90-degree heat, it seemed a lot more appealing than a rhubarb Bundt cake, both to make and to eat. It ended up being finished just in time for a sparkling wine–fueled round of porch Carcassonne and visits from the dearest friends, and I’m so thankful to be back home. So please come visit in Baltimore, and eat at Woodberry Kitchen! I’ll be the gal in the back covered in flour and rhubarb splatters.

Honey Rhubarb Fool with Cardamom Chèvre Cream and Pistachios

Adapted significantly from April Bloomfield, via Lottie + Doof and the LA Times

Here, I used honey in place of sugar, omitted rosewater, reduced the cardamom, and used goat cheese instead of creme fraiche in the cream. The original recipe calls for the addition of one to two teaspoons  rosewater to the rhubarb. I think that sounds good, but I wanted to round it out with honey for a nice base to the chèvre instead. If rosewater is your thing, add it to the rhubarb once it’s finished cooling, a 1/2 teaspoon at a time, until you reach a flavor strength that you’re down with. And to see the original recipe, check out Bloomfield’s book, or pop on over to L + D or the LA Times.

Rhubarb

1 1/4 pounds of rhubarb, topped and tailed, then sliced into 3/4-inch pieces

3 tablespoons mild honey

1 tablespoon superfine sugar

1/2 cup dry white wine

1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise

1.  Toss the rhubarb and sugar in a medium pot. Add the white wine. Use a knife to scrape the seeds from the vanilla pod into the pot, and toss the pod into the pot too. Place the pot over medium-low heat and bring to a gentle simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb is very tender but still more or less intact, about 10 minutes—keep a careful eye on it as a totally stringy pulp is not what you’re going for here. Set aside to cool.

Cardamom Chèvre Cream

5 green cardamom pods

3 tablespoons confectioners sugar

4 ounces mild, fresh chèvre

1 1/2 cups heavy cream

Handful of roasted, salted pistachios, for garnish

1.  Smash the cardamom pods, discard the husks and pound the seeds in a mortar and pestle or grind in a spice grinder until finely ground. If using a mortar and pestle, grind the sugar into the spices toward the end.

2.  Combine the goat cheese, heavy cream, cardamom, and sugar in a large mixing bowl. Chill until ready to assemble. When ready to assemble, whisk the mixture to soft peaks—about two minutes.

3.  To assemble: Use four 8-ounce glasses, or a large glass bowl (so as to see the layers, counsels Tim Mazurek!). Layer the rhubarb and whipped cream and top with chopped roasted and salted pistachios. Cover the fools and let them chill in the fridge for an hour or so before serving. They will keep for longer, but really are best served about an hour into chilling.

Rhubarb Pie A La Mode with Rhubarb Syrup

Let’s not beat around the bush—this is my absolute favorite pie. I’ve shared before that I was first introduced to rhubarb by way of a terrible dessert that my grandmother’s older sister made when I was a kid. Once Eloise had left for the night, Grandma Phyllis hung her out to dry during Balderdash, when she submitted as the definition to a squelchy word, “The sound you make after eating Eloise’s dessert.” Sisters through and through. I had rhubarb again as part of the pies made famous by the touristy gold-mining town near to where I grew up, but it was always cut with something: strawberries usually, blueberries sometimes, the occasional cherry bunch, or a ridiculously sugary crumb topping. More recently, I’ve enjoyed it paired with raspberry and with ginger, but rhubarb is absolutely my very favorite when it’s jumbled up with nothing.

Maybe the squelchy Eloise-type desserts of yore gave rhubarb a bad rap, but it never seems to be all that present on restaurant menus. Sure, most people I know love the heck out of it and find infinitely creative ways to use the plant, but I can’t think of the last time I saw a rhubarb dessert on a menu, unless it was strawberry rhubarb pie; even my own main dude, number one eater of rhubarb baked goods spilling forth from my kitchen, “can never remember whether I like it.” Fruity, zingy, earthy in a way—it’s one of the most distinct flavors around, and I’d love to see it get more of its due. In the meantime, this simple pie can be yours. The rhubarb profile is strong, brightened up with a touch of orange, and rounded out with a splash of vanilla. I’ve been experimenting with partially cooking fruit pie fillings, and it really helps nail the consistency here: broken down, but not mushy, juicy, but not runny, tart, but not puckering. And with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of rhubarb syrup? It’s just my favorite iteration of a slice of pie this time of year.

Rhubarb previously: rhubarb ginger jam, rhubarb ginger jammers, raspberry rhubarb crostata, and strawberry rhubarb pie.

Flaky pie crust

Adapted from I Made That!, via Apt. 2B Baking Co.

Makes two crusts, or enough for this double-crust pie. Feel free to substitute in your favorite recipe or technique!

12 ounces pastry flour

1/2 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt

8 ounces (two sticks) very cold butter

4 to 6 ounces ice water

1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

1.  On a clean counter, dump your flour and salt; mix it around with a bench scraper. Chop one stick of butter into quarters, and cut it into the four with your bench scraper. When butter is about the size of lima beans, cut in the second stick, pulling, folding, and tossing with the bench scraper as you go, until the butter is about the size of quarters. Add the vinegar to the ice water.

2. Using your fingers, flick the water onto the butter-flour mixture, gently folding with the bench scraper all the while. You have added enough water once the mixture holds together when squeezed; it should be very shaggy.

3. Next, push the butter into the flour. Using the heel of your palm, push a small section of the dough down into the counter and away from you; this creates long layers of butter in your dough, which translates to long flaky layers in your crust. Use your bench scraper to scrape up the smear, and put it a bowl. Repeat until all the dough has been smeared and you have a bowlful of long, buttery layers. Push these into one mass, divide in half, wrap each in plastic, flatten into disks, and chill at least two hours, or better yet overnight.

For rhubarb filling

Inspired by Apt. 2B Baking Co.

8 cups rhubarb (from about 2 ½ pounds), chopped into half-inch pieces, divided

1 ½ cups granulated sugar minus two tablespoons

Zest of half an orange

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pinch of salt

¼ cup cornstarch

For assembly

2 tablespoons butter cut into bits, optional

1 egg yolk, for brushing onto crust

2 tablespoons granulated sugar, large grain if you’ve got it

1.  In a large, ungreased skillet, mix six cups of rhubarb, the sugar, your zest, and a pinch of salt. Over high heat and stirring gently all the while, cook the rhubarb until it releases its juices; this will only take about three minutes. Strain out the fruit, reserving the juices, and in a shallow bowl, mix the cooked rhubarb with the two remaining cups of uncooked rhubarb and the vanilla extract. Then, in a small bowl, make a slurry by whisking two tablespoons of the reserved, warm juices with the cornstarch until smooth. Fold the slurry into your fruit and pop the bowl into the fridge to cool for about a half-hour; reserve the remaining juice if you wish to make a syrup out of it.

2. While the filling cools, preheat the oven to 475 degrees F. Roll out one of your pie dough pucks into a 12-inch circle, and fit it into a 9- or 9.5-inch pie plate. Pop into the fridge to chill. Then roll out top dough to 12-inch circle, and if proceeding with lattice top, cut into 11 or 12 one-inch strips. I like to slide my strips onto a parchment-lined cookie sheet and into the fridge while I ready everything else.

3.  Once the rhubarb has cooled, pour the filling into your prepared pie shell. Dot with butter, if using, then weave your lattice across the top, fold the bottom crust up over the lattice edges, and crimp. This is my favorite lattice-top instructional site, although I prefer to use wider strips. Beat your egg yolk with a fork until smooth, then brush it across the lattice and crimp; sprinkle with the remaining two tablespoons of sugar. If you suspect that your pastry has warmed, chill the pie in the freezer for about 15 minutes, otherwise, slide pie onto a cookie sheet or foil to catch any drips, then bake at 475 for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake for an additional 30, until the top is golden brown and juices are bubbling. Cool for at least two hours before serving. Pie will keep for three or four days, covered, in the fridge or at room temperature. Put 

4.  If interested in turning the rhubarb juice into a syrup for using atop an a la mode slice, just simmer the juice in a small saucepan over medium heat for about ten minutes, until the concoction has thickened. Stir occasionally throughout, and keep an eye on it, because the syrup will turn to rhubarb caramel in a flash if you’re not careful (although that’s not exactly a bad thing).

Savory Asparagus Tart with Mustard, Caramelized Onions, Lemon, and Tomme

This asparagus tart is a springy riff on the potato tart that I made at the farm late last summer. Then, I was working with a wheel of goat tomme that Arlene had made, but this time I was lucky enough to use a hunk of the cow tomme that I made in the fall with my very own shaky, inexperienced hands. After letting four wheels age a full five months in the cave, we finally cut one open late last week, and it tasted dang delicious. I was shocked. The black stripe of vegetable ash—made famous by Humboldt Fog—isn’t traditional to tomme-style cheeses, but it gave this wheel some beautiful character and a deep, delicious saltiness that made it a lovely candidate for baking.

Even so, don’t let the specialty cheese sway you from baking your own version of this tart. Any sort of semisoft or hard cheese would do, from gruyère to sharp cheddar, or even ricotta salata. And although this recipe uses a cow’s cheese, a hard goat’s or sheep’s cheese would be so at home with the asparagus and caramelized onion. On a more personal note, I also really enjoyed making this because it reflects two very important seasons in my life: the momentum of spring now and ahead, and my formative fall at the farm. Special to make, special to eat—it really had no choice but to be good.

Olive Oil Press-In Crust

I like to use this olive oil crust when I’m baking for my butter-wary parents. Feel free to substitute your favorite buttery pastry dough, such as this one.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose or pastry flour

Heaping 1/2 teaspoon flaky sea salt

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1/3 cup olive oil

3 to 5 tablespoons cold milk or water

1. Combine all the dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Pour olive oil and first three tablespoons of milk in, and whisk with a fork until mixture is evenly blended and somewhat moist. If need be, add an extra tablespoon or two of milk to get moist, crumbly consistency.

2.  Press dough crumbles into an 8- or 9-inch tart pan, using a metal measuring cup to ensure even edges that are flat against the bottom and sides. Pop into the fridge while you prepare the filling.

Savory Asparagus Tart

Makes one 8- or 9-inch tart

1 pound asparagus, from about one bunch

1 large yellow onion, sliced into thin rings of half-moons

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

¾ cup heavy cream or half-and-half

1 large egg

Zest of half a lemon

½ teaspoon flaky sea salt

1/3 cup grated hard cheese such as asiago, gruyere, or tomme (I used farm-made cow tomme!)

Olive oil

Pinch red pepper flakes

Cracked black pepper

1.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2.  Caramelize onions: heat a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan for two to three minutes over medium heat until it’s quite warm. Turn heat all the way low, and add onions to the dry saucepan. Stir for about two minutes, then cover, and leave to cook for 15 to 20 minutes, checking occasionally and stirring onions as needed. By this point, they should smell sweet and be browning evenly. Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil and a pinch of salt, and, stirring every few minutes, continue to cook uncovered for another 15 to 20 minutes until the onions are very dark brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

3.  Cook asparagus: fill a medium saucepan with water and bring to boil. Snap off all of your woody asparagus ends, and boil the spears for just one minute. Drain immediately and run under very cold water to stop the cooking. Pat asparagus dry. Heat two tablespoons of olive oil in a medium saucepan and when it’s hot, add asparagus. Top with a few pinches of red pepper flakes and a small pinch of salt, and allow asparagus to brown for about five minutes. Flip, and cook the other side for another five minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

4.  Assemble and bake:  whisk the egg, cream, zest, and salt in a small bowl and set aside. Retrieve your tart crust from the fridge, and spread the mustard across the bottom (an offset spatula makes this easy). Arrange onions in an even layer across the bottom, then top with asparagus spears. I lined mine up tightly and side to side like soldiers across the whole tart, alternating tops and bottoms, then tucked the remaining spears into the bare shoulders of the pan. Pour cream mixture over the top of tart, then top evenly with cheese. Crack some black pepper over the top, slide onto a cookie sheet, and bake for 45 minutes until tart is evenly browned. Allow tart to cool for 15 minutes before removing from pan. Cut slices with a very sharp knife—leftovers will keep for about three days.

Rhubarb Ginger Jammers from Dorie Greenspan

I like stuff that can endure a lot of mileage: the old-man boots that never leave my feet, the Bundt pans piled up in my kitchen, my relationship with my best friend, not my stupid ol’ smartphone (arguably the newest thing I own, let it be noted). These are all trusty things, sure, but they’re also versatile things that have been reliable and awesome forever and always through all sorts of stresses and contexts—they stand up over time. And this might not be revelatory, but that’s a quality I seek in most of what I consume, from clothes and books to podcasts and recipes. Especially recipes. Don’t get me wrong: I’m like a mockingbird to the shine of labor-intensive, one-time-only baking—birthday cakes are one of my favorite things to create, after all—but it’s the dependable, blank-canvass baked goods toward which I gravitate.

Which brings me, obviously, to these cookies. Dorie Greenspan calls them Jammers, and they’re part of her menu at Beurre and Sel, one of the many gluttonous reasons why a trip to New York is in order. I’ve made them before with apricot preserves and cardamom, with blueberry lemon verbena jam, and I’ll surely make them again with whatever summer throws my way. Round out the streusel with ground nuts, oats, or cornmeal, work some zest into the dough, swap in bourbon for the vanilla extract, brown the butter for either the cookie or the topping: this recipe can traipse through all sorts of treatments and will live up to its excellence each time. The version here is made with some more of that rhubarb ginger jam from last week’s brioche doughnut experience, and we polished off a solid 40 in a shameful two days. They were particularly delicious mid-afternoon on day two, with an iced creamy coffee and a sunny porch break. So use whatever sort of jam you’ve got on hand, or cook up a quick, thick compote if you’re so inclined, and mix it up with the toppings too—ground pistachios, buckwheat streusel, almond extract. You’ve got a lifetime of miles to look forward to with these babies, so hop to it!

Rhubarb Ginger Jammers

Recipe adapted from Dorie Greenspan, via Bon Appétit

Cookie Dough

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature

1/2 cup sugar

1/4 cup powdered sugar, sifted

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt

2 large egg yolks, room temperature

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2 cups all-purpose flour

Streusel and Filling

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

5 1/2 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

3/4 cup thick jam or compote, such as rhubarb ginger (recipe below)

1.  Using an electric mixer at medium speed, beat butter in a large bowl until smooth and creamy, about three minutes. Add both sugars and salt; beat until well blended, about one minute. Reduce speed to low; beat in egg yolks and vanilla. Add flour and mix just to combine. Dough will be soft and slightly sticky.

2.  Divide dough in half. Place each half between sheets of parchment or waxed paper. Flatten dough into disks. Working with one disk at a time, roll out dough, occasionally lifting paper on both sides for easy rolling, until 1/4 inches thick. Freeze dough in paper until firm, at least two hours. Do ahead: Dough can be made two days ahead. Cover and keep frozen.

3.  Meanwhile, make the streusel. Mix flour, sugar, and salt in a small mixing bowl. Using your fingertips, rub butter and vanilla into dry ingredients until no large lumps remain and butter is well incorporated. Streusel will be sandy and hold its shape when pressed between your fingers. Cover and chill. Do ahead: Streusel can be made two days ahead. Keep chilled.

4.  Arrange a rack in middle of oven; preheat to 350 degrees F. Using two-inch cookie cutter, cut out rounds of frozen dough from freezer. Place rounds in bottom of muffin cups and gently pat to flatten. Continue cutting frozen dough into rounds; gather scraps and repeat process of rolling out and cutting to make 34 rounds (I got more than 40). Cover muffin tins with foil and chill in freezer until dough is firm, about 30 minutes or up to two days.

5.  Spoon about one teaspoon jam into the center of each round of dough. Using your fingers or a small spoon, sprinkle one to 1.5 tablespoons streusel around edges of each cookie, trying not to get any in the jam.

6.  Bake cookies, in batches if needed, until sides and streusel are golden, 20-22 minutes. Let cool in tins for 15 minutes. Run a small knife around edges of muffin cups; gently remove cookies and let cool completely on a wire rack. Store in airtight container at room temperature; will keep crisped texture for about three days. 

Rhubarb + Ginger Jam

Makes about a pint

1 pound rhubarb stalks (pink if you got ‘em)

1 to 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar

2-inch knob of ginger, peeled and grated (about two heaping tablespoons)

Zest and juice of half a lemon

1. Trim the rhubarb and chop it into one-inch pieces. In a medium bowl, toss rhubarb with the lesser amount of sugar, grated ginger, and lemon juice and zest. Let sit for at least two hours, stirring two or three times, until rhubarb has let off its juices; you can also cover and let the rhubarb do its thing in the fridge overnight. Ultimately, the mixture should get really juicy.

2. Pour the rhubarb mixture and juices into a medium saucepan. Bring to boil to and stir to dissolve the sugar, then allow to rapid-boil for about 15 minutes; the stalks will completely break down and the mixture will thicken up quite a bit. Keep an eye on it though so as not to burn. Taste, and if you prefer a slightly sweeter jam, add the remaining quarter-cup sugar and stir to dissolve. Remove jam from heat and allow to cool—it will thicken as it does—or fill sterilized jars and process accordingly. We just filled one big ol’ jar and are keeping it in the fridge instead of storing.

Baby Goats Deux: The Peanut Crew

Early November of last year found Dave, Emily, and I shepherding Oliver the buck around the girls’ pen while he did his thing as many times as the goats would let him—”going on dates” or “getting girlfriends,” we called it. We had to intervene a few times to steady some squirrely lady goats, but generally everything went off—hyuck—without a hitch. That was, at least, until a super unexpected frost settled in, and for about ten days none of the goats were into getting it on. In Maine, and throughout much of frigid New England, breeding is carried out later in the year to protect the tender new kids from the hellacious winters and early springs. Gestation takes five months, so breeding in November yields April babies here, even as livestock in much of the rest of the country were having kids in March or even February. On the one side we’re working against winter, and on the other, we’re working against the start of our time-intensive farmers markets, so finishing breeding within that sandwich is crucial. When the goats took a ten-day time-out last year, we wondered how things would turn out on this end, and for better—I think, at least—it’s led to two distinct generations of kids.

Last time I posted about the kids, we were smack in the middle of generation one: seventeen baby goats all born within about eight days of one another. Unsurprisingly considering the frosty hiatus, about ten days passed wherein no kids were born. And then the other foot dropped overnight: six kids, then 12 kids, then two kids in two days, and now we’re waiting for the final two mamas to bear their babes. That’s generation two, the “peanut crew,” so called because they are teensy tiny compared to their three-week-old half-sisters and half-brothers. Among my favorites, there’s the littlest kid whom I call Charlie Brown because she’s just so teeny and loveable, and a beautiful gray one with a mottled face and bright pink nose who eats like a horse (picture at top). The distinct ages seems to have helped keep the chaos under control, especially since we’re able to differ the feeding methods: generation one is on bucket feeders, and the peanuts are being bottle-fed; it would be exhausting were we to be bottle-feeding all of them. The newest of the bunch all seem quite healthy too. Among the first crew, we unfortunately lost four overall: one refused to eat, two had neurological issues, and a fourth just stopped being able to stand or sit up one day. There’s a fifth slow one who is coming around now, and he’s sort of become everyone’s favorite because he is the slowest, messiest eater, but just seems to exist in such a Zen state of unconcern; sometimes we call him Buddha (picture top left below, he's facing the camera). 

Yesterday, Mr. Tilton came by to pick up the majority of bucklings from generation one and take them to his livestock auction. Some of those guys will be castrated and used as pets—wethers, they’re called—others will become companions for horses, since both are social creatures but tending a horse is much more involved than tending a goat, still others will grow up to be breeders or to manage brush growth at farms and rural properties, and yes, some will be raised for meat over the better part of this year. Today, two of my favorite little gals will go to the farm store to be sold as pets to the willing populace, and other farmers and dairy owners have been coming by to pick up a kid or two to round off their own herd numbers. And then of course there’s what this farm will keep, which is so far the majority of the baby girl goats. Soon enough we’ll move them all out of the barn and into the brush, where they’ll stuff themselves silly and cease to be peanuts, but for now, we’re still having fun getting to know all of their quirks and personalities as we bottle-feed. This is my last week on the farm, so hopefully I’ll get to meet the very final batch of babes and even toss out a name or two. Mama Greta, for instance, was named after 1930s actress Greta Garbo, so her baby will be named after a 1940s actress; Ilsa’s generation of kids will be named after flowers (Allium/Allie? Trilium aka Stinking Benjamin aka Benny?); there’s a group of artist babies (Frida!) and of suffragettes (Lucretia/Lu?); another of water babies and a bunch more I haven’t learned of yet. I hope to do one or two more farm follow-up posts, but thanks for now for following along! If you have any suggestions for flower names, I'd love to read them in the comments!