Recipe: Aaron's Fruit and Frangipane Galette

While it's wildly inconsistent of me to post a recipe for an apricot galette in March, the dessert seems to have stolen the show in the Water episode of Cooked.  Everyone wants the recipe.  So here it is!  Right now, the best fruit to use is still apples.  I love Sierra Beauty, Honeycrisp, or Pink Lady.  Soon, rhubarb will be around again...that makes for a wonderful galette, too.  Then, in June, try apricots!  I always use Blenheims when I can get my hands on them.

I used to be terrified of tart-making, until my dear friend Aaron, who’s as obsessive about flavor as I am, came up with this recipe after years of experimentation. Both versatile and forgiving, it works for any fruit or savory tart.  Once you grow comfortable making and rolling out tarts, lay out toppings with an eye toward aesthetics.  Alternate different colored plums, apples, tomatoes or peppers for a striped pattern, or simply dot an asparagus tart with dollops of seasoned ricotta for contrast.  The more senses to which your food appeals, the more delicious it will be.  One note: if you don’t have a stand mixer, you can make this dough in a food processor or by hand with a pastry blender.  Just make sure to freeze all of your tools, no matter what you use. 

Aaron's Tart Dough

• 1¾ cups (240 grams) all-purpose flour
• 2 tablespoons (30 grams) sugar
• ¼ teaspoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon Diamond Crystal kosher salt
• 4 ounces butter cut into ½-inch cubes
• 6 tablespoons (85 grams) crème fraîche or heavy cream, chilled
• Ice water, as needed, to bind

Whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in the bowl of a stand mixer.  Freeze, along with the butter and the paddle attachment, for 20 minutes..  Chill the crème fraîche and cream in the fridge. 

Put the bowl of dry ingredients on the stand mixer and fit with the paddle attachment.  Turn the speed onto low, and slowly add the butter cubes.  Once the butter is added, you can increase the speed to medium-low. 

Work in the butter until it’s broken down into broken-walnut-sized pieces (don’t overmix—bits of butter are GOOD!). This will take about 1-2 minutes in the stand mixer, or a bit longer by hand. 

Add the crème fraîche.  In some cases, this will be enough to bind the dough with a bit of mixing.  In other cases, you might need to add a spoonful of ice water.  Resist the urge to add so much water, or mix for so long, that the dough comes completely together.  Some shaggy bits are fine.  If you’re not sure whether or not the dough needs more water, stop the mixer and take a handful of dough in your palm.  Squeeze it hard, then gently try to break it apart.  If it crumbles apart very easily and feels very dry, add more water.  If it holds together or breaks into a few chunks, you’re done. 

On the counter, pull out a long piece of plastic wrap from the roll but do not cut it.  In a quick, fearless, motion, flip the bowl over onto the plastic wrap.  Remove the bowl, and avoid touching the dough.  Cut the plastic from the roll and, lifting both ends, use it to encourage all of the dough into a ball.  Don’t worry if there are some dry bits—the flour will evenly absorb the moisture with time.  Just twist the plastic tightly around the dough, press the ball into a disk, and chill for at least two hours or overnight. 

To freeze the dough for up to 2 months, double-wrap it in plastic and then wrap it in aluminum foil to prevent freezer burn.  Allow the dough to defrost in the refrigerator overnight before using.

Makes one 16-ounce tart dough, enough for a 12-inch tart

Frangipane:

• ¾ cup (110 grams) almonds, toasted
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 2 tablespoons almond paste
• 2 ounces butter at room temperature
• 1 large egg
• 1 teaspoon Diamond Crystal Kosher Salt
• ½ teaspoon vanilla extract
• ½ teaspoon almond extract

To assemble the Tart:

• Flour, for rolling
• 4 pounds apricots, or other fruit
• Heavy Cream
• Sugar for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 425°F/220°C, and set a rack in the middle of the oven.

To make the frangipane, place the almonds and sugar in a food processor and grind until very fine.  Add the remaining ingredients and mix until you have a smooth paste.

To make the magic dust, combine ground almonds, flour, sugar, and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.     

Flip a rimmed baking sheet upside down and place a piece of parchment paper on top.  Set aside. 

Before unwrapping the dough, roll the disk on its edge on the counter to form it into a circle.  Unwrap the dough and sprinkle the counter, the rolling pin, and the dough with flour to prevent sticking.  Working quickly, roll the dough out into a 14-inch circle, to a thickness of about ¼-inch.

To roll the dough into a circle more easily, turn the dough a quarter turn with every roll.  This will also help you notice if it’s sticking to the work surface.  If the dough does begin to stick, lift it carefully from the counter and use more flour as needed.  

Roll the dough onto the rolling pin, and gingerly pick it up off the counter.  Carefully unroll it onto the parchment-lined baking sheet.  Refrigerate for 20 minutes. 

In the meantime, work on the fruit. Quarter all of the apricots, except for 5, which you can cut into eighths. 

Leaving the chilled dough on the parchment, use a rubber or offset spatula to spread a 1/8-inch thick layer of frangipane all over the surface, leaving the outer 2 inches uncovered.

Use the apricots you’ve cut into eighths to create a wall of fruit at the outer edge of frangipane, skin-side out.  While rotating the tart, fold the border of the exposed dough over the fruit wall, and over itself, crimping as you go to create an outer crust. 

Return the dough to the freezer and chill for 15 minutes.  Then, begin to assemble the tart.  Starting at the outermost edge of the tart, lean the apricot quarters against the crust, with their points facing up.  Pack them in tightly to avoid naked tart bits, since they will shrink as they cook. 

Put the whole thing back in the fridge and for 15 minutes longer.  Brush a little heavy cream onto the crust, and then sprinkle with sugar. 

Bake directly on the parchment, on a cookie sheet or pizza pan.  Stick on the middle rack of the oven at 425°F for 20 minutes.  At this point, sprinkle about 1 cup sugar over the fruit.   Then, reduce the heat to 400°F for another 15-20 minutes. Then, reduce to 350-75°F (based on how dark the crust is) and cook until done, which will be something like another 15-20 minutes, though it can take longer for tarts made with watery fruits, because they can take longer to cook through without being jammy. 

You’ll know it’s done when the crust is a deep, golden brown and you can actually stick a paring knife under the tart and lift it off the pan with ease.  The bottom should be quite golden and beautiful as well.  And finally, all of the fruit should be cooked through and tender and there shouldn’t be pools of juice in the center of the tart…though, it happens!

Remove from the oven and allow to cool on a wire rack, if you have one, or an inverted cookie sheet, if you don’t.  

Serve warm or cooled, with ice cream, softly whipped cream or crème fraîche. 

Cover and refrigerate unused frangipane for up to one week.  Keep any uneaten tart wrapped at room temperature, for up to one day. 

Makes one 14-inch tart

Recipe: Pork Braised with Chiles

Wow!  The response to Cooked on Netflix has been overwhelming!  Almost everyone who writes wants the recipe for the braise Michael and I make in the Water episode.  Who am I to stand in your way?  Here it is--take it and cook!  

We made it with pork, but chicken legs and chuck roast, brisket, or short ribs would work equally well.  No matter what meat you're cooking, just keep simmering it until it falls off the bone.  

Neutral oil, such as grapeseed or canola

4 pounds boneless pork shoulder roast, salted in advance

2 medium yellow onions, sliced

1 head garlic, sliced through the equator

2 cups (480 grams) crushed tomatoes in their juice, fresh or canned

2 tablespoons cumin seed

2 bay leaves

8 dried chiles, such as Guajillo, New Mexico, Anaheim, or Ancho, stemmed, seeded and rinsed

2-3 cups (about 600 milliliters) lager or pilsner beer

½ cup roughly chopped cilantro for garnish

Optional: add 1 tablespoon smoky paprika or 2 smoked peppers, such as Chipotle Morita or Pasilla de Oaxaca to the braise

Preheat oven to 325°F/160°C. 

Set an oven-proof Dutch oven over medium-high heat.  When it’s warm, add 1 tablespoon neutral oil.  When the oil shimmers, place the pork in the pan.  Brown it evenly on all sides, about 3-4 minutes per side.

When the meat is brown, remove it and set it aside.  Tip out the fat from the pan.  Return the pan to the stove, reduce the heat to medium, and add 1 tablespoon neutral oil.  Cook the onions and garlic over until they are tender and lightly browned, about 15 minutes.  Add the tomatoes and juice, cumin, bay leaves, and dried chilies into the pot and stir. Nestle pork atop the aromatic base, and add enough beer to come 1½ inches up the sides of the meat.  Make sure the peppers and bay leaves are mostly immersed in the juices so that they do not burn. 

Increase heat and bring to a boil, then slip the pot, uncovered, into the oven.  After 30 minutes, check to make sure the liquid is just barely simmering.  About every 30 minutes, turn the pork over and check the level of the liquid, adding more beer as needed. Cook until the meat is tender and falls apart at the touch of a fork, 3½ to 4 hours.

Remove the cooked pork from the oven and carefully remove it from the pan.  Using a food mill or whizzing machine, puree the aromatics and strain them through a sieve.  Skim the fat from the sauce and then taste, adjusting salt as needed. 

At this point, you can either shred the meat and combine it with the sauce to make pork tacos, or slice it and spoon the sauce over the pork to serve it as an entrée.  Garnish with chopped cilantro to serve. 

Serves 8

Maiale al Latte

Several people, after reading Cooked, have attempted to make Maiale al Latte, or pork cooked in milk, with varying degrees of success.  I've gotten a bunch of requests for guidance, so even though it's hardly something I'd cook myself in August, I'm just gonna go ahead and give you all a recipe for it so you can experience the counterintuitive deliciousness that happens when milk curdles and caramelizes around slow-cooked pork.

Traditionally, this dish is made with pork loin, but I prefer it with pork shoulder because rather than toughening with hours of cooking, it relaxes and becomes tender.

6 pounds pork shoulder, cut into two-pound chunks

Zest of 2 lemons, removed in 1-inch strips (I like to use a vegetable peeler for this)

12 sage leaves

12 garlic cloves, peeled

1 gallon whole milk

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper, if desired

The night before cooking, season the pork generously with salt on all sides.  If desired, season with freshly ground black pepper as well.

The day of cooking, pull the meat out a few hours before you're ready to start.

When it's time to start cooking, get out your biggest dutch oven (maybe two dutch ovens, if you've got them!).  Heat it over medium heat, and when it's nice and hot, lightly coat the bottom of the pot with olive oil.  Place as much meat in the pan so that it's packed in a single layer--no more--and the meat isn't touching, and brown over medium-high heat on all sides until it's nice and golden all around.  You might have to do this in a couple batches.

When the meat is all brown, turn off the flame, tip out the grease and place the meat back into the pot.  Now, it's ok if it touches, but it should still all be in a single layer, no more.  If you have more meat than will fit in the pan in a single layer, use a second pan for the rest of the meat.  Add the zest, the sage, and the garlic cloves, and then enough milk to go halfway up the sides of the meat.  I usually will squeeze in the juice of half a lemon to get the curdling going faster, though the oil from the zest is actually enough to curdle the milk.  So, do it or not--you can't mess it up either way.  Turn the heat on, cover the pot (but leave the lid ajar), and bring the milk to a boil, then immediately reduce to a gentle simmer.  The milk should be just barely active, so usually this means that the burner is on the lowest possible heat.  Milk has a lot of sugar in it, and it will burn super easily, so turn it down!

It will take the pork shoulder at least three hours to become tender, so pull up a good book, or take this time to make some polenta, beans, or greens.  Clean your kitchen.  Sort through old family photos.  Organize your spice shelf.  Whatever you do, don't leave the kitchen, because you're going to have to do three things for the duration of the cooking to make sure things don't go awry:

1) turn the pork pieces--as in rotate them and move them around in the pot--every fifteen minutes or so so that they don't stick and burn,

2) scrape the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon to make sure that the milk, though it will caramelize and that is really tasty, does not burn,

3) constantly be adding more milk so that the total liquid level never is less an inch and a half up the sides of the pork.

After about 30-40 minutes, the milk will start to curdle and thicken, and though it looks really gross at first (Who am I kidding?  It looks pretty gross the whole time), it will taste so so so so so good.  But those curds are prone to burning, so take your stirring seriously.

When the meat falls apart to the touch--this might take 3 hours, or closer to 4, then it's done.  Remove the pork from the pan, and do your best to skim off some of the insane levels of fat that have rendered out of both the pork and the milk.  For something like this, the easiest way to do that (short of chilling the whole thing overnight and scraping off the cold fat) is to pour all of the curd sauce into a tall, narrow container like a measuring cup, and then use a spoon or a ladle to siphon the fat off the top. Once you've gotten the fat off (or most of it), taste the sauce and adjust the salt if necessary.

Slice the pork into portions, and serve with generous amounts of the sauce.  This is traditionally served with polenta, greens, or white beans.  I like it with a big pile of barely blanched green beans, so that I have something really fresh to eat alongside the super comforting, really cooked pork.

I purposely wrote the recipe for 10+ portions, so you'd have leftovers.  For this much of a time investment, you should get a few meals!!!

How this happened.

photo by coral von zumwait for O Magazine

I first heard of Michael Pollan before The Botany of Desire came out in 2002.  Someone at Chez Panisse had an advance copy of it and it got passed around from cook to cook, and eventually to me.  I devoured it, and started avidly following his career.  Next came Power Steer, the story that changed the meat-purchasing policies at the restaurant and far beyond, and of course The Omnivore's Dilemma.

This guy was saying things I could get behind.  I, along with pretty much everyone else in my corner of the food world, was thrilled to finally have someone on the national stage speaking so eloquently about the things I spent my days and nights pondering.  For the first time since Wendell Berry, we had a calm, studied representative out there drawing people's awareness to the issues we'd devoted our lives to.

---

For several years after graduating college, every spring I considered applying--or applied--to graduate school.  I'd always assumed I'd be an academic, and nearly enrolled in graduate school twice.  I wasn't really picky about what I wanted to study.  It was more about just returning to school so I could put off having to face real life.  At various points in time I considered an MFA in poetry, a PhD in English, an MSc in Biodiversity and an MA in journalism.  Like I said, I wasn't picky.

Eventually, I reached a point where I realized it might not happen for me, mostly for financial reasons.  So I asked Michael if I could simply audit his class called Following the Food Chain at the Graduate School of Journalism at Cal.

He said no.

Practical professor that he is, he said I was the lowest priority person on his list, after all of the paying GSJ students who wanted to take the tiny seminar, all of the grad students in other programs at UC Berkeley, and the undergraduates.  Community members like me were basically at the bottom of the barrel.  But as a consolation prize, I could come to the first day of the class.  In the unlikely event that a bunch of enrolled students dropped out of the class and no one else showed up to fill the spots, I could then audit.

No dice.  Over 200 people showed up, all thinking the same thing as me.  Michael tried to manage the chaos by asking us all to write on an index card why we wanted to take the class.  I have no idea what I wrote on there, but I filled it out, stayed for the class, and left knowing there was no hope for me to get in.

A couple of days later, I recounted the whole story to my friend Sarah, then a grad student in Architectural History at Cal.  It was obvious how bummed out I was.  She looked at me, totally confused, and asked, "What the heck is wrong with you, Samin?  Don't know know anything about academics?  You have to show him how badly you want this and point out to him all of the ways in which he would be a fool to NOT let you in.  This class is about your LIFE'S WORK!  Write him a letter and tell him everything you'd bring to the class precisely because you're NOT a grad student, but a COOK deeply involved in everything he's teaching about."

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I did exactly that.  And it worked.  He shrugged and said, "Okay, you're in."

Taking that class was one of the two or three best things I have ever done for myself.  It was tiny--I think there were twelve of us in there--and I forged relationships with many of the writers and journalists who comprise my tightly-knit group of literary friends here in the Bay Area through that class.  Most of my officemates, beach buddies, dear friends, and colleagues in this writerly part of my life came to me as a result of that class.  And then, there's also Michael.

Michael, who allowed me to browbeat him into letting me into that class, into forcing us to take a field trip to Cannard Farm, into turning my turn to make the weekly snack into a three course meal, has been a teacher, guide, mentor, willing guinea pig, and friend to me for the last seven years.

---

When in 2009 Michael came to me and said "I'm going to write a book that looks at cooking from all angles, and I'll need a guide.  Would you like to be it?"  I was ready with a big, fat YES.

We started cooking together on Sundays, sometimes shopping together at the farmer's market on Saturdays, sometimes using leftovers or vegetables from the garden or mushrooms he'd foraged, and always naturally drawing the rest of the family into the kitchen.  Each of us quickly found his or her place in the order of things--Michael as the eager student, me as the mess-making teacher, Judith as the keeper of order, and Isaac as the quality-control-know-it-all.  After a long afternoon of cooking together, we'd sit down to a lovingly prepared meal.  One of my favorite dishes from the whole experience was something we cooked that first time with porcini mushrooms Michael had found in Bolinas the day before--we simmered the trimmings in chicken stock and made a really tasty soup that we ladled over spinach, and then floated duck fat croutons piled with sautéed porcini on top.

We quickly realized cooking for half a day yielded way too much food for just the four of us, and soon Sundays became an excuse for dinner parties with people who, more times than not, ended up joining us and lending a hand in the kitchen.

I did my best to build our lessons around concrete themes, from browning to layering flavors, to specific chemical reactions, to various cuisines of the world, to seasonal ingredients available to us for fleeting moments throughout the year.  We cooked paella in the fire pit, roasted whole pork shoulders (and a couple whole hogs!), we cooked grains and meats and all manner of vegetables and fruits, we made mistakes and fixed them, and we had lots and lots of fun.  We cooked everything we could dream up and shared it all with wonderful people.  I couldn't have imagined a better job.

Michael quickly picked up on my obsession with Salt, Fat, Acid, and Heat and I told him of the book I'd dreamt of writing at the ripe old age of twenty.  He encouraged me to write a four-part curriculum for cooking classes and start teaching.  So I did, and eventually, he encouraged me to turn it into a book proposal.  So I did.  And now I get to share what I shared with Michael with the whole rest of the world.

When Michael wanted to learn about bread, I took him to meet Chad Robertson.  When we went in to observe the bakers at Tartine, I was so inspired by them I asked if we could collaborate sometime and Tartine Afterhours was born.  This experience has given me so much.  It's insane.  Some might even call it MAGIC.

---

I can't even begin to explain how wonderfully surreal it is to be captured in print by my mentor, teacher, and friend, who also happens to be a bestselling author and international authority on the subject to which I have devoted my life.  But what I can do is share with you one of my favorite bits of the WATER chapter, where I am the main character, teaching him about cooking in pots.  If you have ever met me--and even if you haven't--it'll be immediately apparent that Michael managed to get the exact right balance of my intensity, silliness, mischievousness and enthusiasm down on the page:

As usual, Samin had a white apron tied around her waist, and the thicket of her black hair raked partway back.  Samin is tall and sturdily built, with strong features, slashing black eyebrows and warm olivey-brown skin.  If you had to pick one word to describe her, "avid" would have to be it; Samin is on excellent terms with the exclamation point.  Words tumble from her mouth; laughter, too; and her deep, expressive brown eyes are always up to something.

As honored and excited as I am to be one of the main characters of this book, my favorite parts--the ones that make me cry--have nothing to do with me.  The introduction (which you can read or listen to here) and the conclusion include some of the most articulate, timely, and sensitive arguments for cooking and eating together that I have ever read.  Just as when I first discovered Michael's writing, I feel an ineffable joy at the fact that there is someone brilliant out there advocating my values, arguing for all of the things in which I so deeply believe.  The only difference is that now, that someone is practically family.  

---

Today is the publishing date for Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation Michael's seventh book.

You can buy it from any of these fine retailers, or, better yet, your local bookstore.  Read it and let me know what you think!
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
IndieBound
Books Inc.
Powell's

Here's MP on the Colbert Report last night.  Hilarious.
Here's a great interview with him and Adam Platt in New York Magazine.
Here's another great interview about how Wendell Berry has inspired his work.
Here's a super informative Cooking FAQ and list of resources on Michael's website.
And here's a list of his book events across the country and beyond.

In case you are interested, I put together a list of cooking resources and will continue to add to it as time goes on.  And I also updated my Amazon.com store (full disclosure, if you buy anything after clicking on an Amazon.com link I post, I make a small commission on that purchase) with all sorts of basic, useful, and luxury kitchen items and books.