Nothing and everyone

At the beginning of my voyage as a parent of a school-aged child, the dainty preschool teacher pulled me aside at pickup one afternoon, and said, “we’d like to celebrate your son’s birthday next week. Could you bake a cake for him to share with the class?” Of course I can, thought I. And then the restrictions started: Please don’t use sugar or chocolate (there went my first choice); we have one child who cannot eat wheat (ok, so no cake, maybe an apple tart), another two who are vegan, one who can’t eat apples (maybe not the tart).

This posed a challenged, since our family had not yet dealt with our own food sensitivities. But I had an inkling it could be done, and hit the books: the cookbooks, to be precise. Working from a Cynthia Lair recipe (and learning in the process that she was a fellow Waldorf parent), I concocted what came to be known as “The Nothing Tart,” because it had nothing in it that excluded anyone and can be easily modified to conform to the ever-shifting matrix of a class' dietary restrictions. It became a birthday staple, and is still requested on a regular basis.

The Nothing Tart

Crust:

1¼ cups rolled oats or quinoa flakes (Bob’s Red Mill brand oats are gluten free)
½ cup ground nuts (any combination of walnuts, pecans or almonds)
¼ cup flour (wheat, spelt, barley, amaranth or oat)
pinch of salt
2 Tbl maple syrup
2 Tbl cold-pressed vegetable oil
2 Tbl water

Filling:

2 cups frozen berries, thawed (any combination of berries you like)
1 cup apple or berry juice
2 Tbl kuzu or 4 T cornstarch

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine oats, ground nuts, flour and salt in a bowl. Add syrup, oil and water, mix well. With wet hands, press the mixture into a 10-12" tart pan. Bake 10-12 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool. (Can be done ahead.)

Mix juice and kuzu or cornstarch together in a saucepan until dissolved. Add thawed berries. Heat mixture over medium heat, stirring constantly until thick and clear, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and pour into prebaked crust. Cool at room temperature or in refrigerator before serving.

Over the years, I have been joined by one or two moms as we filled out school potlucks and dealt with class outings of increasing duration and complexity. And before we knew it, our babies were departing on their final voyage as a class last week, a six-day trek to the middle of nowhere. We had three hectic days to pull together 30 alternate meals that could survive horseback riding and river rafting while feeding five kids with sensitivities ranging the easy (gluten, eggs, dairy) to the more challenging (corn, pineapple, almonds and rice). One mom kicked into full quinoa mode; one shopped and froze; we all planned. I pulled baking duty, which covered breakfast and dessert. In the end, we filled one cooler and one roughneck with packets painstakingly labeled with ingredients and days. And we were successful: our kids were fed well, and only a little food came back (one quinoa salad was a clear bomb, and will not be repeated).

Yesterday, we “graduated”our nine children from eighth grade. Others made cards and presented token gfts and flowers. But I cook. And so, in recognition of this milestone, I offer food for all: from the Nothing Tart, through Maria crackers (amaranth-based) and Lucia buns, to the Class of 2009 Everyone Granola.

Class of ‘09 Everyone Granola

8 c rolled oats (Bob’s Red Mill brand)
1 c raw honey
1 c pure maple syrup
1 c vegetable oil (canola or safflower)
1 T vanilla extract (any brand without maltodextrin)
1 T sea salt

1 T cinnamon
½ t nutmeg
1 c dried apples
OR
2 t cinnamon
2 c dried berries (strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries)

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
2. Place the oats in a very large mixing bowl.
3. In a very large saucepan over medium-high heat, combine the honey, maple syrup, oil, vanilla extract and salt. As the mixture begins to boil, it will increase in volume considerably. Stir and watch closely!
4. Pour the boiling mixture over the oats in the mixing bowl and stir with a wooden spoon until well combined.
5. Distribute the granola on two large baking sheets and bake for 10 minutes.
6. With a metal spatula, turn the granola without too much stirring, and bake 10 minutes more.
7. Add any nuts and turn the granola again, making sure to not break apart the clusters that are forming.
8. Return the granola to the oven for 5-6 more minutes; remove and gently stir in the dried fruit. Do not overbake.
9. Cool the granola completely and then transfer to an airtight container.

Familiarity

The Fascination Waltz begins and I step into his arms. At the right juncture in the musical phrase, we begin moving together, our feet and bodies remembering for us. It is a familiar dance, and one we have repeated countless times. I can close my eyes, knowing that I can feel where he will lead me; I can rely on him completely. I love this feeling of being lost in the music and steps together, with the rest of the world and its worries miles away.

I unlatch the case and pull back the velvet cloth. I pull out the bow first, tightening it, checking if it needs rosin. Setting down the bow, I take out my violin and the shoulder rest, fixing its squeaky rubber feet to the back of the instrument. Picking up my bow, I tune, A string first, then D, G and finally the E, reaching under my bow arm to turn the fine tuner on the tailpiece. There is comfort in the ritual, as much a part of warming up as running scales, a chance to reacquaint myself with an old friend.

There on the counter is a stick of butter I took from the fridge after breakfast. Unwrapping it, I cut large yellow chunks that fall into the flour and release a tiny puff of dust. My pastry knife is old, an estate sale find from my college days, and I relish the feel of the smooth wood handle. I use its blades, turned out from one sheet of metal, to cut the butter into the flour, a comforting gesture, full of promise.

The plums are still green around the edges, but are soft and dripping with juice. It will be a good year, I think. I roll out dough for the tart pan, prick it, and fill it with a spiral of the golden-fleshed fruit. There is still a fair amount of dough left, so I grab a small pie pan and slice up the two large apples our favorite tree gave us this week. A garnish of cinnamon and sugar, some oats and butter streusel, and it joins the queue for the oven. The smallish ball rolls out to fit one of the play tins from the kids, and receives a dusting of cornstarch and handful of blueberries from the fridge. And, like the top of Mr. Willoughby’s Christmas tree, the tiny nub of leftover dough becomes a pocket in my hand to hold a dollop of jam (Rote Grutze-raspberries, strawberries and red currants), destined for the open mouth of my dance partner for life.

Not so whipped cream

Sunday! It's pancake or waffles, and if we're lucky, there's whipped cream to top them. But a quick peek in the fridge today is sobering: no whipping cream. There is, however, some soy creamer. We've bought soy whipped cream before, how hard can it be? We pour a cup into a bowl, add some vanilla sugar and start beating. It gets foamy like milk would, but that's about it.

Quickly, I dig out my vegan bible, How it All Vegan. They would know. Sure enough, page 151 tells me to add sugar and cornstarch to soy milk, and blend it while drizzling in some oil. I grab the container of cornstarch and start doing the math: 1 teaspoon for ¼ cup milk means 4 teaspoons for a cup. In it goes, and we start whipping again. It does get a bit thicker, but the bubbles start popping when we stop the mixer. Hmm. I try drizzling oil in, to no avail. The recipe does say to let it sit for an hour, which means we won't have whipped cream on our pancakes. Oh, well. The pancakes are yummy anyway, with syrup and jam and yogurt.

I read the comics and a bit of the Sunday paper, we call the in-laws, and then I come back to the bowl of whiteness. It's thick at the bottom, but whizzing it with the mixer yields the same result. Clearly, I have a dud on my hands.

Now, a good professional would just chuck the thing, but I'm still hopeful. I review what's in the white bowl of doom: soy milk (well, creamer), vanilla sugar, cornstarch and a bit of oil. Sounds like pudding to me. There is a Meyer lemon sitting forlornly on the counter. I zest it and juice it and add both to the white stuff, then pour the whole mess into a saucepan. A few minutes on the heat and the whole thing thickens--I fear far too much. Of course it did, there's enough cornstarch in there to set Lake Erie.

Fifteen minutes later, it's set so thick you can pull it out of the bowl in one piece. But it still smells lovely lemony. A couple of times, I come close to chucking it, but that heavenly lemon smell stops me. I bring it to the table for dessert, in four cute little bowls. We all eye it suspiciously. Number One prods his--to see if it will retaliate, presumably. I take a bite (after cutting it off with my spoon). Taste is delicate, texture desolate. I pass it to my Darling Husband and he tries it. He rises slowly from the table, marches purposely to the fridge, and returns with a jar. Yes, homemade jam, the duct tape of our kitchen. He finishes the bowl with jam. One bite even makes it into Little One.

Now, what am I going to do with the other three bowls?

Homely surprise

I love a good surprise. Cobbler is a good surprise, all homely on top, but yummy luscious melting fruit inside with crunchy on top, still warm enough to melt the ice cream on top. Now, cobbler is traditionally a summer dish, accommodating berries of all persuasions, but winter also offers up some possibilities. Lynne Vea, a chef who regularly does demos at our co-op, offered up a recipe a few years back for a winter fruit cobbler: pink lady apples, bosc pears, with a nutty streusel on the top. She served it with a rich vanilla ice cream.

Last night, I was in need of a dish to take to a board meeting, and decided this dessert would fit the bill nicely. Besides, I had excess apples and pears that had to go--soon. I was peeling and chopping apples when Number One Son sensed food. "Cobbler? Oh, yum!" "Sorry, not for us." "Oh." I started in on the pears. Little One, who is A Reindeer all Shaggy and Grey these days, scampers by (I need to buy knee patches), and sniffs with his invisibly red nose. "Pears?" Big Brother chimes in, "It's cobbler." "Oh, goody!" replies Shaggy. "But it's not for us." "Oh."

In spite of their puppy eyes, I open the cupboard to get out some pecans, and a big bag of chocolate chips falls out on the counter in front of me. The boys laugh, but they know what I'm thinking. I sprinkle some chocolate on top of those pears (pears + chocolate = Belle Helene), before I sprinkle on a thick coating of streusel.

My colleagues and I enjoy the surprise of digging into crust, ladling out still warm fruit with a little something extra, and I manage to bring home enough for dessert tonight. Good thing too, because when Reindeer and his brother climbed into bed this morning, their first question was, "Did you bring any cobbler back home?"

This is not cooking

I opened a pouch of Trader Joe’s Dal Makhani for supper last night. And I reheated the dread curry, just to try and get rid of it (I would have suceeded, too, if Number One son hadn't contracted stomach flu). For the record, real food does not look like this:

The Dal had some good heat to it, but I really should learn how to make it myself. Especially since I read this morning that Indian is the new Chinese.

But I did actually cook a bit: I started some Meyer lemon marmelade (it needs to sit overnight) and made a Meyer lemon tart with a wheat-free pâte brisée (a recipe I found by searching French gluten free sites). The crust didn’t add much, but it didn’t detract, and even looked rather nice.