Raspberry Crumble Tart with Speculoos

Yesterday it was 41⁰C. 41!!  It was sweltering hot and I loved it but then it made me absolutely dread winter. Sorry I couldn't help it, I had to bring up that horrid word. I'm not excited at all for my thick puffy coat, or having to scrape ice off my car, or those awful bitterly cold gusts of wind numbing my face. I'm only mildly excited to make butternut squash soup and wear cozy sweaters and leather boots. Please please please weather-people, make winter short and bearable this year. 

In an ode to summer, I made this tart. The recipe caught my eye right away, it seemed easy enough, no pastry dough required, the tart layer is the same as the crumble topping. I wanted to bake using summer fruits before they all disappear. I also tweaked the recipe just slightly to make it my own: I browned the butter before mixing it into the cookie base and spread a layer of Speculoos to compliment the tart base before adding the raspberries on top (I bet Nutella would be a delicious substitute/addition too). 

The tart comes together easily, the hardest part for me was evenly pressing the cookie base to the tart pan and ensuring the sides also had a good layer of dough. This takes a certain level of patience that I don't normally have, but I kept telling myself I wanted to make it look good, so I kept pressing on (pun intended).

The tart is a beautiful tart to look at and to eat. The browned butter really sings in the tart base, giving the whole thing a lovely caramelized flavour. The tart also has sandy texture from a mixture of brown and white sugars, reminiscent of a raw shortbread cookie. After I finished wolfing down my first slice of tart, I carefully cut pieces from the remaining tart sides to nibble on it...and then I kept picking at the crumble topping for a solid 5 minutes before I shamefully decided to stop. The cookie base was the perfect vehicle for the sweet raspberries. I'd reuse the tart base for another recipe, like a chocolate ganache or a lemon curd filling.

Also, as the recipe warned that this is best eaten within the first couple of hours after it's done. The tart bottom soaks up the raspberry juices, making it soggy. I ate it the next day, it wasn't so bad and tastes even better with some thick Greek yogurt. Mmm...summer!

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Recipe here!

Strawberry Pop Tarts with Fresita Icing

I grew up mostly in Shanghai, where imported food from the States back then was considered in my mind, a treasured thing. My family rarely shopped at the Supercity Market where a majority of their products were imported, they preferred to go to the local supermarket to buy food instead. If I brought lunch to school, I cringed at my leftovers from the night before (rice, rice, meat, rice, veg, rice, rice—what a bore and yet I still eat the same lunches these days). I envied my classmates that ate pastrami sandwiches and sipped on juice boxes covered with colourful animal cartoons. The best part of lunch time though was near the end, when they shared their treats. Sometimes it was pop tarts, or Rice Krispie treats, or Fruit-by-the-Foot, or my personal favourite, Fruit Gushers.

It was important to sit within arms length to these friends so I could get the first piece. They were always so generous, passing out their treat as if their house was made of candy. As we stuck out our tongues to compare whose mouth had undergone the most serious colour transformation caused by the Fruit-by-the-Foot,  I always wondered in awe who in their right mind would give away these sweets? I’d keep it all to myself. 

Sometime in middle school, I happened to get my hands on my first box of pop tarts. I had studied the bright blue box from side to side and top to bottom, reading the ingredients, admiring the logo, I was so amused at the packaging as if it were a shiny new toy. I tore open the top flap and grabbed a pop tart, wrapped in its thin silver package, ripped the silvery wrapper to reveal the most beautiful pop tart. I licked the chocolate glaze, savored that strange powdery chocolate flavour and inside the pastry was a pudding-like chocolate filling. It was freaking awesome. 

I haven't had pop tarts again since after moving back to Canada for school, the baker in me scoffs at buying precooked pastries when I can make them at home. See? I can make little tarts too! They're not quite picture-perfect, since I prefer the ‘rustic’ look and didn’t spend the time to meticulously measure out the pastry dough to ensure each rectangle was the exact size, but don't judge a book pop tart by its cover, they are heavenly. 

The combination of sticky jam with shortbread-like pastry is addictive, they are especially good warm from the oven. Also, the pastry really does shine here. It’s buttery, flaky, and surprising easy to make (which is a big deal compared to my many horrid experiences making pastry dough from scratch). 

I used Fresita wine in the icing on these pop tarts too. The wine is a blend of Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Moscatel and is mixed with fresh strawberries. The sparkling wine is a little dry but has a strong fruit flavour to give just enough sweetness. 

Fresita is refreshing on its own and tastes amazing chilled, I sipped on few glasses while sunbathing on the patio. The wine also goes well with desserts and is delicious with these strawberry pop tarts. I love that I can hold my Fresita in one hand and a pop tart in the other, no plate required. I would imagine the Fresita would be a good base for making sangria, You can find Fresita at the LCBO. 

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Recipe here!

Chai-Spiced Apple Crumble

In my undergrad years, my roomie and I lived on the Celestial Seasonings Bengal Spice herb tea. It was caffeine free, ergo, bedtime beverage approved. We went through a box in just a week, infusing our breaths with the comforting, homey scents of cinnamon, ginger, cloves and cardamom. It’s a surprise we didn’t empty the box sooner, since Montreal winters are famous for plummeting to -40°C. 

 

I was inspired with the idea of a chai spiced dessert using the bounty of apples this fall. But I’m not too keen on warm fruit. Warm pies make me cringe. Grilled pineapples make me shudder. Hot crepes with soft banana slices make me gag. There’s something about the texture of cooked fruit that I have major issues with, I prefer eating fruit plain and cold.

I can’t say I never cook with fruit, since I like to showcase the best of what the season has to offer. If I do bake with fruit, I make sure that the dessert is served at room temperature, like this blueberry galette or this peach clafouti.

But I digress. This apple crumble goes beyond the usual addition of cinnamon in the crumble mixture. Here, a flurry of other ground spices joined the oat-crumble topping: ginger, cloves, and cardamom, similar flavourings as the Bengal Spice tea. When I massaged butter into pea-sized bits with the rolled oats, puffs of flour filled the air, tickling my nose with the spices. I chopped up apples, tossed in sugar and cornstarch (to help thicken the sauce), dumped the crumble mixture on top and baked it at 425°F. In half an hour, my nose was more than just tickled; it was seduced with the sweet perfume of apples and spices.   

The pan bubbled and squeaked with hot fruit juices as I pulled it out of the oven. I waited impatiently for it to cool, but unfortunately, the apples turned out too syrupy sweet (from excess of sugar, but Eureka! Apple crumble dolloped on plain yogurt makes a superb breakfast!). On the bright side, the topping transformed into beautiful crunchy, nubby bits of gold, the pungent mix of spices hugged the apples in all the right places, giving it that exotic zing, that hit of something different other than the old stand by of cinnamon and apples. 

I wonder if I make crumble only for the topping, which I could eat all day long, especially if it’s spiked with chai--I just couldn’t refuse.

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Recipe here!

Corn Soup with Dill & Blueberry Galette

I cooked dinner for my relatives last weekend, however, the irony is that the star of the show, namely, roast chicken, failed. The real star turned out to be something unexpected, something that was the byproduct of the ideas jostling in my head.

There was supposed to be roast chicken. Ridiculously moist roast chicken. This roast chicken. Judy Rodger's Roast Chicken. Salted 24 hours before, the bird absorbs the salt, which is then released back to the skin, rendering it the crispiest, most tender meat you will ever lay your hands on (and I say hands because that's the only way to eat chicken).

Then for the fourth time in my life, the chicken threw a fit. It set off the fire alarm, its fat smoking. I wish I could say smoking hot, but that would be inaccurate, it was emitting-plumes-of-heavy-smoke-I'm-going-to-suffocate smoking. And it didn't taste bad, but it wasn't spectacular either, I've used the recipe many times and this time, it let me down. I'll share it with you another day, meanwhile, there are other dishes that I promise, won't have you cursing 235 times under your breath.



Like this corn soup. I looked here and here for inspiration, strapped on my apron, husked and chopped corn, spraying juices left right and center, as kernels bounced off the floor. I sliced up an onion, followed promptly by a stream of tears. I sauteed the gangly rings until translucent, added the heaping pile of golden nubs, dumped in chicken broth, blended the mixture, and added more liquid to reach a thinner consistency.


But the magic step was the addition of feathery dill. Simmering the herb drawed out its grassy, floral notes, levitating the soup to a new heights of freshness. Without it, the soup is passable, but throw in a few sprigs and it's like crowning it with Tiffany jewels--simply ravishing.

Next time though, I'll try roasting the corn in their husks first, because when the kernels caramelize (Oooh did you just go weak in the knees?) I think we will have struck gold. And why not simmer the cobs in water to leech out as much corn flavor? Or try these ingenious tips.


For dessert, there was blueberry galette, which uses I Loathe Making This, also known as sweet pastry dough or pâte sucrée. Harry Potter is to Lord Voldemort as I am to Pastry Dough. Since I began baking leisurely 6 years ago, it has always cursed me with migraines, bruises, and cuts. It haunts my dreams. It's temperamental, it doesn't like to form into a smooth ball, it likes to crack before the touch of a rolling pin, and no matter which recipe I tackle, making sweet pastry dough is akin to wrestling a bear, what's the point?




I tried a new recipe for pastry dough from Baking with Julia and immediately, my hands felt the difference. Perhaps it was the addition of yogurt, but as I massaged the cold butter into the flour mixture, adding tablespoons of cold yogurt and water, it came together slowly but surely. It's never been such a cinch to roll out pastry dough, it was obedient, it barely broke apart, it was as silky as a baby's skin. After forming it into a thin round, I dumped blueberries into the centre, folded the sides over and baked it. Minutes later, as I removed the baking sheet, a hot breath of fruit swirled around me, the berries had shriveled, it's deep purple nectar seeping through the pastry creating its own a jammy river.


We ate it at room temperature, when the blueberry juices had congealed to the texture of barely cooked jam, like homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving, but not nearly as sweet, more tame, more chunky. The pastry dough was a bit too soft for my taste, I prefer it a bit crispier, but it sure was flaky, the yogurt makes a brief appearanace, lending the galette a slight tang. And the best part? It was one less thing to worry about.

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Recipe here!

Strawberry Jam

When I think of jam, I think of my dad. With gusto, he would slather on strawberry jam on white bread (which he prefers over whole wheat) either for breakfast or sometimes as a late-night snack. Jam covered every nook and cranny of the toast, instead of seeing a golden border of bread around the red jelly, you would see, well, only the red jelly. There was also evidence of his messy tendencies: jam stains on the plate, a smear on his unshaven chin, the drip on the kitchen floor, and occasionally, a blotch on his pajamas.


I've never really been fond of jam, I find it cloyingly sweet, so much so that it burns my throat. But then this jam came along and I fell in love. L-O-V-E. Like Natalie Cole's Love. It's fruity, chunky, and the cherries taste as though they were just plucked from a tree and tossed with a touch of sugar. And since I've emptied the jar with my spatula, finger, and tongue, I've been a little blue. Nothing to sweeten my yogurt! Nothing to motivate me to wake up in the morning! Life will never be the same again!

I've been hankering over jam for weeks and weeks now and though Bonne Maman is my favorite, it's too expensive here. So, I consulted various websites as any determined jam-maker would do and rolled up my sleeves.


The moment I began mashing the strawberry chunks, releasing it's ruby juices, the kitchen smelled like a trail of grass, golden fields, and fresh berries, an enchanted garden, if you will. But I should have known, making jam isn't meant to be a clean matter.



No matter how many times I rinsed my hands, red sticky blotches always managed to stick to my skin, eventually, I gave up on cleaning every time I skimmed pink foam off the simmering pot of fruit. Much to my mother's disapproval, puddles of juice splattered everywhere on the kitchen counter, I can't help but make a mess (Did I tell you how I tried to paint my fingernails but ended up adding bright pink highlights to my hair?). As the undeniably fruity aroma of berries exploded in the air, I grew impatient, something best avoided when jam jars are sterilizing in a roaring pot of water. The jam wasn't gelling after several tests, so I continued to stir the pot grudgingly.


But finally, I scooped globs of cooked fruit into the jars and had enough jam to give away as gifts. In the morning, I jumped out of bed, and like my dad, dolloped a thick layer of strawberry jam on buttered toast, doing my best to avoid staining my shirt, I leaned over the sink and took a bite. There's only one word to describe eating something homemade and as easy as strawberries stewed in sugar: satisfaction.

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Recipe here!

Peach Clafouti

There's an old picture of me wearing a frilly dress dotted with pink roses, lacy socks up to my ankles and a straw hat fit snugly on my head. I wasn't posing for the school yearbook nor was it my 4th birthday. I was picking strawberries with my parents and their friends, in fact, you can see me squatting between the rows of berry bushes, the dry leaves crunching beneath my sandals, as I sucked on my red-stained fingers, clearly oblivious to the pay-first-then-eat policy on the farm.

I still eat fruit with wild abandon. In China, one of the best summer fruits are peaches, literally named water honey peaches in Chinese and they grow to the size of engorged baseballs. They need to be stored carefully, because one careless nudge will bruise them forever. The only proper way to eat honey peaches is with both hands and a big napkin. I ate two a day, refusing to share (selfish, I know), I revelled in its juiciness, even though its nectar-sweet syrup once splashed my new white shirt and the stain never went away.

I haven't seen those beauties since moving back to Canada and I miss them. Clingstone peaches however, are in season and thankfully, are not as delicate. Their yellow flesh is stronger and may withstand serious activities such as baking, which is always a good thing.

A few weeks ago, my friend Hayley invited me for a rooftop barbeque and it would just be plain rude if I declined. So I enlisted my other good friend for inspiration on baked peaches and that's when everything fell into place. I made peach clafouti, a French dessert with fruit baked in an egg-custard.


I've always wanted to make boozy fruit but the peaches I picked up at the store were still quite firm. I rolled up my sleeves and improvised. My sous chef sliced up the fruit, I simmered half of them with sugar and Grand Marnier, allowing the fruit to soften, then I made the custard, heating up milk and cream, adding it to eggs, flour, sugar, and lemon zest. I dumped all the fruit into a baking dish followed by the milky liquid--très simple.

It puffed up unevenly in the oven, giving it a rustic charm. The peach slices wrinkled in the oven, the custard turned a golden color, soaking up the peach juices. As it cools, the custard deflates a little; you can add some powdered sugar at the end to dress it up, or save some of that boozey syrup to drizzle on your plate.

Milos and I wrapped up the clafouti and brought it to Hayley's place. We sat on the patio watching the sun set behind a pink horizon, the scent of caramelized meat intoxicating us (or was it the orange sangria?), and then large portions of beef kebabs, roasted potato salad and cucumber and cherry tomato salad appeared on our dinner plates. We tucked in happily.




The time for The Best Part of Dinner took forever. All I wanted to do was to rip off the plastic covering the clafouti and dig in with my hands. But being the civilized lady that I am, I made new friends, sipped my sangria politely, giggled at appropriate moments and lapped up everything on my plate.

Finally, when the time finally came, I cut squares of peach clafouti and passed them around the table. Immediately, compliments flew here and there (I can’t help it, who doesn’t like hearing compliments?). I jumped back in my seat and took a bite for myself. It tasted like the lovechild between pancakes and puddings, fluffy clouds infused with peaches and cream.

It was a delicious end to the night. It took great restraint from helping myself to another slice, but I thought it was better to save some so I could have it for breakfast the next morning.

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Recipe here!

Berry Berry Yogurt Pops

I once threw a fit (that's an understatement, it was equivalent to a tornado) because I couldn’t buy a blender. Really. True story. For months, I had been saving money to buy my first kitchen appliance. I went to bed thinking of creamy milkshakes, fruit juices, and icy cold smoothies, anything to beat the sticky summers in Shanghai.

My parents and I made plans to buy a Philips standing blender after our lunch on a weekend. I had safely tucked away my cash in my wallet, too excited to eat, I was bouncing off the walls, chirping, “Is it time yet? Can we go now?” Much to my chagrin, when we arrived at the house ware floor of the department store, the price for the blender had shot up. I didn't have enough money to buy it anymore. I was devastated. I went home sulking, banged the door shut, screamed into my pillow, yanked my blanket to the floor and cried in a corner (I don't think I even cried that hard about a Barbie. I mean, it was this just a blender). I suppose I'm a wee bit spoiled.


Weeks later, I had finally saved enough and bought the blender. I hugged it all the way home, admiring its mint green tint and the stand with a cantaloupe-colored dial for three speeds. There was also a small button for quick clean and an inner tube to stick in the middle of the blender for separating seeds. It was beautiful.

Immediately, I plugged the white cord into a socket, dolloped big scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender, followed by chunks of banana and a dash of milk to make a milkshake. I concocted tall glasses of strawberry smoothies with ice and lounged on the couch with a book. Another time, I attempted to make kiwi juice, but it was grotesque, the blender contents turned a murky green color and I didn't separate the seeds, so the texture became grainy. The idea of making something from just the press of a button, how I could change and adjust the flavors and textures with just a few ingredients was incredibly fun for me. This blender became my best friend.

For Christmas last year, my parents bought me a small blender, knowing that I loved kitchen appliances (thankfully there were only cries of joy this time). It's similar to the magic bullet, but it goes by a different name, The Rocket. I didn't touch it much over the winter, I'd rather sip on tea and coffee to keep me warm. But recently, I've been blending smoothies every weekend to change up my breakfast routine.

So...I was going to tell you about a berry banana smoothie. Then I made these and thought who wants smoothies when you got popsicles?


Here are some berry berry yogurt pops, the perfect remedy to a heat wave. I didn’t follow a recipe, but went by instinct. I impatiently waited for them to freeze. I twiddled my thumbs. I oogled at food blogs from around the world. I ate some chocolate. Finally, hours later, I sunk my teeth into the frozen berry puree, but then the tartness of yogurt hit me--I forgot to add sugar to the yogurt. I adjusted the recipe and included sugar to even out the flavors and phew! it makes a huge difference.

I love the rosy pink color of blended raspberries. It's subtly sweet and you can play with other fruit too (melon or mangoes would be yummy). I’m looking forward to experimenting with other flavour combinations, like strawberry basil, or peach and ginger. Or even better, why not do as Matt Bittman suggests: cocktails on a stick?


There's really nothing better than cooling down in the sweltering heat with a few icy popsicles. Share this with your friends and I can promise you there won't be any tandrums.

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Recipe here!

Mangoes

My most vivid memory of mangoes is from my trip to the Philippines last summer. I went on a nutrition volunteering trip and on the weekend visited a local beach. Me and three friends lugged fresh mangoes from the market in our backpacks, when we arrived and stripped down to our bikinis, we laid down our towels, peeled a mango each and sat in a circle gingerly eating our treats.

Five minutes had not even passed when one of us accidently let the fruit slip from our hands and it flopped into the sand. Not long after booing, and feeling bad for her, another mango joined the beach. Thankfully, I held firmly to mine and ate it even slower. Accidents like these are not forgivable.

Yet, I usually eat mangoes differently. First and foremost, serious inspection is required. A ripe mango has skin that reveals hints of aging: wrinkled at the ends and a light scattering of brown freckles.

With a knife and cutting board, I slit the fruit’s sides to reveal a silky surface. The interior discloses a deep yellow, just like its peel. I cup one boat-shaped halve with my hands and bring it to my nose, breathing in its sweet alluring aroma, tickling my senses. I cut a half inch grid across each halve, a ritual that always reminds me of my grandpa who taught me how to eat mangoes. Peeling the fruit and eating it whole just isn’t the same.

Armed with my spoon, I slowly carve into my miniature squares, allowing each piece to pop out. Grinning, I bring a spoonful to my mouth, barely biting into the slippery meat, as it slides around my tongue. It has a cool, pleasantly sweet flavour. I swallow and gingerly scoop out the remainder of my favourite fruit. Within a few tasty moments, the easy part is done. Now the seed.

My mom always leaves me the middle, she despises how the mango floss (hmm, doesn’t that sound pleasant?) gets stuck in your teeth. I’m no wimp with food, I savor that part, slowly taking in the rest of the fruit and chewing on the core to really suck out the juices. I sit there with mango stains all over my hands, juices running down my arms, and yellow staining around my mouth. Oh but its so worth it.

I failed to find pictures of real mangoes, but I do have snapshots of mango flavored foods. Here is a mind blowingly delicious mango-coconut gelato on a particularly warm day in Montreal--bursting of flavor and the texture was a shock, very thick and smooth.


And some more cold sweets, mango sorbet from Haagen Daaz, a delectable nighttime snack.
How do you eat your mangoes?

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Recipe here!

Orange polenta cookies

Living in someone else’s apartment is not easy. You have to respect their space. Their habits. Their routines. Not that I hate it, but it’s just means you don’t have the same freedom. You don’t have to bother if a can of pressurized coffee grinds exploded and sprinkled the kitchen counter. You don’t have to care if you spilled a little water on the floor.

So since I moved to Toronto, I’ve stepped out from the kitchen. I haven’t so much as turned on the oven. I rarely fry eggs! And I love eggs. I have my excuses—a new job, too exhausted to cook up a dinner, not motivated to bake, paranoia of setting off the fire alarm and alerting the entire apartment building…

But tonight is a different story. I’ve forced myself to begin the morning with baking cookies. Orange polenta cookies. They’re in the oven right now. I’m watching them melt from their tiny tablespoon balls to round uneven treats, laced with a slightly golden brown edge. They look almost cherubic, soft, pudgy biscuits. They don’t look particularly special, just a bit of glitter from the sugar granules and flecks of orange zest. It seems like an ordinary cookie.


They could be that chubby little girl in kindergarten class. She’s friendly, but shy and is a follower in her circle of friends. But she sparkles. She has the sweetest smile that lights up the classroom.

It’s not your usual melt in your mouth treat. Polenta (ground cornmeal) gives it an extra kick of flavour and bite. The citrus gives it a fresh spring spirit.

Try it. Who cares if you make mess. Bringing those sweet buttery smells into the space makes it more homey. It’s a good feeling. It reminds you why you loved baking in the first place—to feed others and see how their eyes light up when they bite into something pleasantly unexpected.


Thanks to Jamie Oliver for the recipe:

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Recipe here!