Roasted Strawberry Basil Muffins

Oregon's beloved Hood strawberries are in, and they are lovely. But, as much as I'd love to get all puffy with regional pride, there are probably lovely strawberries coming in all over the country. Tinier than the supermarket behemoths, red and juicy throughout, begging to be eaten out of hand (or, if we must, with shortcake).

But even in the height of this ruby-red season, we get some not-so-great berries. Maybe they've gotten so waterlogged as to become flavorless (last week's rainstorms, I'm looking at you), or they're a bit dulled and shriveled after you, say, forgot that last pint in the back of the fridge (umm... no comment). But in times like these, we've always got roasted strawberries.

Roasting concentrates strawberries' juices, turning even lackluster berries into flavor punches. And it also dries them out a bit, so they don't sog up your baked goods. I gave a recent watery batch of berries a good turn in the oven, then decided to fold them into some muffins (and yes, I do still have leftover sour cream — this is what happens when things are on sale). A little sprinkle of fresh basil gave them a bright herbal edge, keeping them from one-dimensional sweetness (I imagine many other herbs — mint, tarragon — could do a similar job). It's like springtime, but intensified a bit. And served up for breakfast.

Roasted Strawberry Basil Muffins

1 1/2 pints strawberries
1 tablespoon sugar

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt
1/2 stick butter, melted and slightly cooled (if you fancy, brown the butter in a small saucepan, melting it until it takes on a toasty color, for an even more delicious depth of flavor)
1/2 cup sugar, plus additional for topping
1 egg
3/4 cup sour cream
1/4 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
a few sprigs fresh basil leaves, cut into strips

Preheat your oven to 375° Fahrenheit. Wash the strawberries, and halve any large ones (or quarter them if they're truly mammoth). Toss with the tablespoon of sugar, transfer to a rimmed baking sheet or casserole dish, and roast until the berries shrink and the juices come out and thicken, ~45 minutes (you can use a large sheet tray, or a smaller square baking dish, which will take a bit longer). Set aside and let cool slightly, but leave the oven on. Grease 10 muffin cups, and set aside.

Sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, mix together the melted butter, sugar, egg, sour cream, milk, and vanilla until well combined. Add the wet ingredients to the dries, give a turn or two, until  just barely combined (better to under- than over-mix), then sprinkle in the strawberries and basil leaves, and give an additional turn or two until barely combined.

Quickly divide the mixture into muffin cups, coming just a bit below the lip of the cup. Sprinkle a dusting of sugar over the batter (you should need just a few spoonfuls for the whole tray). Bake until lightly golden and a tester comes out clean, ~15-20 minutes. Let cool slightly, then pop out of the muffin tin, and enjoy.

Sour Cream Twists

I have a fairly predictable response to stressful life events. I become insomniac (because 5 am is always a good time to mull over your worries), I forget to eat, and I become surly and short-tempered with those who are only trying to help. I am well aware that these strategies could use a little work. But, on the somewhat more productive side of things, I do try to make some time to exercise and clear my head. And I bake.

Baking is perfect stress relief. It's mindless yet productive, helping pass the time while you wait for events outside of your control to unfold. It's comforting. It's delicious. And, as a bonus, you end up with a batch of cookies to, say, gratefully share with the surgical team who fit your dog in for a last-minute Saturday appointment. And really, how can things be bad in the world when there are cookies as perfectly delicious as these?

I've been baking batches of rugelach lately, inspired by some time I spent at a local Jewish retirement home recording a recent audio project. And so, looking for a change of pace (yet still in possession of leftover sour cream), I came upon this recipe.

As best as I can tell, these cookies come from a long-ago Pilsbury bake-off (though some sources say the recipe was printed on a yeast package). Like rugelach, it starts by cutting butter into flour, then binding everything together with a plop of sour cream. But it's also got an egg, for a bit of cookie-like structure, and yeast for a surprising bit of loft. After rising, the unsweetened dough is rolled out with vanilla sugar, folding in flaky, flavorful layers (which, as with rugelach, leaves sugar that caramelizes deliciously around the edges).

The resulting cookies are ridiculously addictive. They've got a bit of the feel of a sugar cookie, but with a softer lightness from the yeast and layers, a caramelized crispness around the edges, and a slight tang from the sour cream. They're rich yet airy, perfect for enjoying with a cup of tea or coffee, or setting out with a dish of those juicy little strawberries that have just come to market. If you're looking for a delicious way to process your anxiety (or just looking for a delicious treat to accompany your coffee break), these cookies are highly recommended.

Sour Cream Twists

adapted from what, if the internet is to be believed, are the Starlight Sugar Crisps from a long-ago Pilsbury Bake Off
yields 32 cookies

Dough:
1/4 cup room temperature water
1 package (2 1/4 teaspoons) active dry yeast
3 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into pats
2 large eggs
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Sugar topping:
1 1/2 cups sugar (I tried both regular and coarse sugar, and they each worked nicely)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Pour the water in a medium bowl, and sprinkle in the yeast. Set aside for a few minutes to allow the yeast to soften and bloom.

In a large bowl or food processor, whisk or pulse together the flour and salt. Cut or pulse in the butter until particles are the size of peas (don't overwork!). If using the food processor, dump into a bowl at this point.

Whisk the eggs, sour cream, and 1 teaspoon vanilla into the yeast mixture until well combined. Pour this liquid into the flour mixture, and using your hands or a wooden spoon (and then your hands) mix until the flour has been moistened and the mixture forms a cohesive dough (you still want to see smears of butter — the mixture will be rolled out many times, so no need to overwork). Form the mixture into two equal portions, and cover the bowl (or transfer to a bag), and chill in the refrigerator for at least two hours (and up to four days).

When you're ready to bake, preheat the oven to 375º Fahrenheit. Remove the dough from the refrigerator, and line two cookie sheets with parchment. In a small bowl, combine sugar and 2 teaspoons vanilla, stirring well to combine.

On a clean counter top, sprinkle 1/2 of the vanilla sugar mixture. Take half the dough, place it on the vanilla sugar, and press it down. Flip the dough over, then roll out to a 16-inch x 8-inch rectangle (if needed, flip it again, or sprinkle sugar from the counter onto the top to keep the dough from sticking. Fold the sides into the center, like an envelope. Rotate 90º, and roll and fold again. Fold and rotate a third time, and roll out a final time into the 16-inch x 8-inch rectangle. All of the sugar should have been worked into the dough during this process.

Trim the edges of the rectangle, to neaten off the ends (and reveal the layers in the folds). Cut the rectangle through the middle, to form two 4-inch high rectangles, and then cut each one into 4-inch x 1-inch strips. Take each strip, twist twice, and place on the parchment-lined baking sheet, with a bit of space between them. You may need to press the ends of the cookies down to the sheet a bit to keep the fold (I found it easiest to shape the cookies, place them on the sheet, then then flip them all after I finished shaping the last one — maybe this is unnecessary, but it seemed to help them keep their shape).

Bake 15-20 minutes, until the cookies are light golden brown. Remove from the oven, and transfer immediately to a rack (before the caramelized sugar solders them to the sheet, or they darken too much. Repeat the entire process with the remaining dough.

These cookies are best within a day or so — they're nice and crisp on the edges as soon as they cool from the oven, then soften a bit but are still delicious. If you want to keep them more than a few days, I'd recommend freezing them.

Rhubarb Tartlets

I know, again with the sweets. But when the rhubarb finally arrives, it's hard to resist. Last week a friend gave me a few fresh stalks from her in-laws' garden (which, along with a carton of their fresh eggs, made a more-than-generous payment for some last-minute babysitting). And I wanted to turn it into something sweet yet delicate, suited for these delicate spring days.

This isn't some late-summer pie, piled ridiculously high with the season's out-of-control harvest and dripping its ruby juices all over. It's just a whisper of thinly-sliced rhubarb and a hint of a creamy base on a shatteringly flaky crust, all butter and air and sweet and sour. Once you've got your dough on hand (I made mine the night before), the whole thing comes together in no time at all. The crust puffs, the rhubarb softens, and your own little spring dessert package is served.

Rhubarb Tartlets

yields 4 tartlets
with a bit of inspiration from The BBC

1 single crust recipe of nice flaky pie dough or puff pastry (I still am in love with this recipe/method, which is sort of like a rough puff pastry — you'll only need half a batch for this)
1 egg, beaten with a splash of milk or water (aka the egg wash)
1 1/2 tablespoons sour cream or creme fraiche (or, heck, even Greek yogurt)
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar (ideally coarse sugar), plus additional for sanding
~4 stalks rhubarb, thinly sliced on an angle

whipped cream for serving, if desired

Preheat the oven to 425° Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with parchment, or grease it well.

Let your dough come to room temperature. Roll out on a lightly floured countertop into a 12-inch by 16-inch rectangle. Trim off any ragged edges, and cut through the midpoints to divide into four smaller rectangles.

Brush the rectangles with the egg wash, right to the edges. Prick all over with a fork, leaving a 1/2-inch unpricked rim on the edges. Mix together the sour cream and sugar, then spread a thin layer on each rectangle, leaving the same 1/2-inch rim on the edges.

Lay down the rhubarb in overlapping slices (if you're so inspired, you could even spiral them in a floral formation, and if you are not feeling it at all you can just scatter them haphazardly). Fold the edges of the crust over, pressing down (especially at the corners) to seal. Brush the crust with another round of the egg wash, then generously sprinkle each tartlet (both crust and rhubarb) with a spoonful of the coarse sugar (I also like to sprinkle the crust part with a small amount of coarse salt too, if you have it, but that part's optional).

Transfer each tartlet to your prepared baking sheet, and bake until the crust is puffed and beginning to brown, ~20 minutes or so. Remove, let cool slightly, then serve with whipped cream.

Teff Brownies

When my friends left town a few months ago for a year of world travel, I was sad to see them go. But happy to inherit a good chunk of their pantry. Since Ken went gluten-free, he'd stocked up on all sorts of flours and starches. I turned the almond meal into Passover macarons, thickened pastry cream with cornstarch, and have been eying the tapioca flour in anticipation of setting summer fruit pies. But after spending the better part of a morning transferring each starch from a plastic bag to its own repurposed-and-relabeled glass jar, I had an unpleasant realization: while I have done my share of gluten-free baking (both on these pages and non-blog-worthy failures), it's mostly been to eat with my friend Ken. Swept up in our shared love of good food and foolhardy kitchen experimentation, I somehow missed that fact that Ken is one of my only gluten-free friend in baked-good-sharing distance. So now I've got fetching little containers of amaranth flour and guar gum, but no real need to use them.

But luckily I've found a way out of my O. Henry-ish moment. Because it turns out that gluten-free baking isn't just about allergies and intolerance and substitution. Sometimes, it's just about baking. Good baking.

I recently heard a gluten-free baker maintain that in a decade all of our cakes will be gluten-free, because it just produces a better product. It struck me as a kind of wishful sour grapes, but there are some grains of truth to it. Because wheat flour, see, is a wonder in the kitchen. But alternative flours have their own alternative charms. And sometimes they hold their own, giving you a different flavor profile and result that can be totally delicious in its own right. As Portland's own (yay!) Kim Boyce detailed in Good to the Grain, there's a whole world of flours out there. And, as I discovered the other night, some of them make delicious brownies.

If there's ever a recipe to try gluten-free, it's brownies. They are, at heart, a study in chocolate and butter and eggs, with just a bit of flour tossed in to liaise those primary elements together. After wondering what the heck I was going to do with a little jar of nutty brown teff flour, I came upon this recipe from Gluten-Free Girl. She notes that teff has chocolatey, nutty undertones, making it perfect for brownies. Plus its a whole grain flour, allowing you to have pretensions of health. Amaranth flour, you're up next.

And if you're looking for another story of something unexpected inside a dairy-filled comfort food, I recently produced a radio story on an FDA standoff over Mimolette cheese. French culture! Tradition! Drama! Cheese mites! You can listen to the whole story over at NPR.

Teff Brownies

adapted from Kitchen Sense: More than 600 Recipes to Make You a Great Home Cook, with gluten-free tweaking via Gluten-Free Girl

4 ounces (aka 1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pats
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
100 grams teff flour (a generous 3/4 cup)
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
2 handfuls chopped hazelnuts or walnuts
2 handfuls chopped semisweet chocolate, or chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Line an 8-inch baking pan with greased foil or parchment paper, or grease and flour. Set aside.

In a double-boiler (or in bursts in the microwave), melt the butter and chocolate. Stir to combine, and let cool until it's no longer too hot. Add the sugar, stir, and then add the eggs, stirring in between (mix until the eggs are incorporated, but no need to whip the bejesus out of it — you're not looking to incorporate air). Add the vanilla, stir, then add the teff flour and salt, and stir until combined. Fold in the nuts and chopped chocolate.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan, and spread it out evenly. Bake until the center is just starting to set and the edges pull away from the sides, ~20-25 minutes (I consider over-baked brownies to be one of the sadder kitchen outcomes, so I make sure to check it regularly as it approaches this stage). Remove from the oven, and let cool on a rack. Slice and enjoy.

Salad Niçoise

There's something about a warm, summery evening (even if that summery evening happens the first week of May) that calls out for Salad Niçoise. And lest you think I am making Baseless Sweeping Culinary Pronouncements, I present empirical proof: a few days ago I ran out to the grocery store to get some last-minute Salad Niçoise ingredients, and ran into a friend shopping for the exact same thing. There you have it. It's Salad Niçoise season.

As I've mentioned several times before, I'm fond of salads that push the definition of the genre. Why settle for lettuce and cucumber and a crumble of cheese? The world is your salad bar! Salad Niçoise is another entry into the composed salad genre, an assemblage of substantial cooked (potatoes, eggs), raw (lettuce, radishes) and blanched (asparagus) elements, presented together with some piquant additions (olives, anchovies). As none other than Julia Child poetically attested, "A bountiful arrangement in bowl or platter is so handsome to behold that I think it a cruel shame to toss everything together into a big mess." I heartily agree.

Most Salad Niçoise variations feature tuna, either seared and sliced or simply flaked from the can. I chickened out at the last minute from cracking open a friend's jar of home-canned tuna, due to my own botulism phobia, but the salad was hearty enough without it. As you can see, Salad Niçoise is quite forgiving. I blanched a handful of yay-they're-finally-in-season asparagus, but you can easily substitute green beans, and capers add a piquant note if you don't fancy anchovies. You can even slice up some not-so-French-but-oh-so-delicious buttery chunks of avocado, or scatter some punchy little tomatoes if they're in season. Because a Salad Niçoise, — like a warm, sunny evening — is going to be fairly lovely, no matter what you make of it.

Salad Niçoise

serves 2-3

3 good-sized waxy potatoes, or several handfuls small new potatoes
3 eggs
~12 spears asparagus, tough ends snapped off
several handfuls butter lettuce, washed and dried
handful olives
~6 anchovies
a few radishes, thinly sliced

Dressing:
1 minced shallot, or 1 clove garlic, pressed
1 tablespoon vinegar, preferably a mild one, like sherry
 juice of 1/2 lemon (optional — you can add another splash vinegar instead)
~3 tablespoons olive oil
hefty dollop mustard
pinch sugar
pinch salt
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh herbs — tarragon is especially nice

crusty bread and cheese, to round out the meal

Place the potatoes in a large saucepan, cover with salted water, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer, and cook until the potatoes are tender but not mushy (~10-20 minutes, depending upon the size of your potatoes). Remove the potatoes with a slotted spoon (leaving the water in the pot), and let cool slightly.

While the potatoes are cooking, hard-boil the eggs: Place in a small saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil over high heat, then cover with a lid and turn off the heat. Let sit in the hot water for 10 minutes, then drain and cover with cold water too cool off.

When the potatoes are done, bring the pot of water back to a boil, and add the asparagus. Let cook just a minute or two, until bright green, then remove, drain, and shock with cold water.

To make the dressing: place the shallot or garlic, vinegar, and lemon juice in a small jar with a tight-fitting lid (canning jars work wonderfully). Let sit for a minute or two to mellow, then add the remaining ingredients. Shake until emulsified, then taste and adjust as needed.

To assemble the salad: Cut the potatoes into thick slices (or just halve them if they're new potatoes), and peel and halve the eggs. Lay the lettuce down on a serving platter, then top with all of the elements, each given its own neat little section of the platter. Give the dressing another good shake, then pour over the salad (the warm potatoes will do an especially good job of drinking it in), and season with salt and pepper as needed. Serve, ideally on a warm summer evening, with some crusty bread and cheese.

Baked Eggs with Olives and Cream

 
I have something of a soft spot for adorable dishware. Over the years of thrift-store-shopping and yard-sale-trolling, I've amassed several shelves of precariously-stacked darling-yet-mismatched bowls and saucers. There's something about a fetching little plate that makes anything on it — heck, even a mid-day snack of carrot sticks — seem like an elegant treat. And so when my friend Leela packed her epic collection of kitchen gear up for her *sniff* relocation to California, I was happy to seize upon the spoils.

Tucked within the embarrassingly large stack of textured plates, wooden spoons, and eggshell-blue bowls that I hauled off were three delicate little white ramekins, like miniature shallow casserole dishes. Leela noted that she'd bought them intending to make baked eggs, so I figured I'd help them realize their destiny.

I've long been eying this recipe from Jenn Louis, a local Portland chef with a national reputation. And it's so simple. Crack two eggs, top with a few torn-up olives and a little pour of heavy cream, then bake until the whites are set but the yolks are still runny (or, if you're like me, just a minute past that). Then top all that creamy, briny, richness with a sprinkling of crisp bread crumbs and fresh thyme leaves, and serve with a fork and toast.

I'm usually one to throw a handful of greens into my eggs, or nestle them in a puddle of salsa or tomato sauce. But this simplicity is surprisingly perfect, especially with delicious orange-yolked farm eggs. The cream thickens and cloaks the olive-studded eggs, keeping them nice and tender, and the crunchy breadcrumbs and fragrant thyme leaves add a just enough subtle contrast. It's one of those dishes that's indescribably better than the sum of its parts. Especially when one of those parts is an adorable little dish that reminds you of your friend.

Baked Eggs with Olives and Cream

adapted from Jenn Louis, via Culinate
serves 1 (multiply as needed)

2 large eggs
3 tablespoons cream, divided
2 olives (Louis recommends the meaty green Castelvetranos), thwacked with a knife to loosen from the pit, and torn into 2-3 pieces
coarse salt and pepper, to taste
2 tablespoons bread crumbs
1 sprig thyme leaves
toasted crusty bread, for serving (optional)

Preheat your oven to 375° Fahrenheit, and butter an adorable little ramekin (or similar oven-proof dish).

Crack the two eggs into your ramekin, then pour the cream over them and scatter the olive pieces. Season with a bit of salt, and then place in the oven. Bake until whites are set but the yolks are runny, ~7-9 minutes.

When the eggs are done to your liking, remove and top with an even sprinkle of the bread crumbs, scattering of thyme leaves, and additional salt and pepper if needed. Serve at once, with bread if desired.

Quinoa Kale Salad with Carrot Coriander Vinaigrette

 
Portland, like much of the country, is totally abloom with spring. There are pale pink cherry blossoms scattering their little hole-punch petals everywhere, and rosy fat camellias dropping onto the front steps until I literally have to sweep them away with a broom. Everywhere you look, the colors just about knock you out (especially offset, as they seem to be this time of year, by the alternating dark rainclouds and shafts of sunlight). And I find myself wanting a splash of color on the plate as well.

This salad feels just like spring — the winter-long bunch of kale with its new blossoms (though standard non-flowering kale also works quite well), the bouncy bits of quinoa, overly-symbolic egg, and a sweet carrot coriander vinaigrette tying it together like a splash of sunshine.

And beyond its springtime-on-a-plate beauty, this salad is just plain good. The sunny sweetness of the dressing is a perfect match for the slightly bitter greens and grassy quinoa, and the egg and nuts move it into full-on complete-meal status. And, as the spring rains dump on Portland (and knock down more camellia flowers), it's nice to have a little sunshine for lunch.

Quinoa Kale Salad with Carrot Coriander Vinaigrette

adapted from Gluten-Free Girl
serves 4-5

This dressing is a bit of a fuss, with reducing the carrot juice, but it's so crazy good. The post I pulled it from also mentioned serving it on rice, chicken — even quesadillas. Next time I'm making a double batch.

Dressing:
2 teaspoons whole coriander seeds
2 cups carrot juice
1 shallot, peeled and sliced
1/4 cup mild vinegar, such as sherry or champaigne
3/4 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro
salt & pepper

Salad:
1 1/2 cups quinoa
a bunch kale (flowering kale, also sold is kale raab, is nice if you can find it), chopped into bite-sized pieces
4-5 eggs
1 large handful toasted pine nuts or almonds

To make the dressing: Heat a medium pot over a medium heat. Add the coriander seeds, and dry-toast, shaking the pot occasionally, until they become fragrant, ~3 minutes. Pour in the carrot juice and the shallot, raise the heat until it boils, then reduce to a simmer. Cook, scraping the sides once or twice so they don't scorch, until the carrot juice reduces to just 1/4 cup, ~15-20 minutes. Let cool slightly.

Pour the mixture into a blender, along with the vinegar and olive oil, and blitz until the shallot is pureed and the mixture is emulsified. Add the cilantro, whir to combine, then season to taste with salt and pepper. Set aside.

To make the rest of the salad: Bring 3 cups of salted water to a boil. Add the quinoa, and reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cover, and simmer for 10 minutes, then add the kale and recover. Cook together for another 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and let sit for 5 minutes. If you prefer, you can also cook the kale separately (which requires a bit more fussing, but does a better job of preserving its bright green color and gives you more control over the cooking process): bring a large pot of water to a boil, then add the kale and cook for a minute or two, until it turns bright green and crisp-tender. Drain the pot, and shock the kale in cold water to shock the cooking. Drain and set aside.

While the quinoa is cooking, place the eggs in a small pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat, cover, and let sit for 10 minutes. After 10 minutes, cool off the eggs with cold water, then peel and set aside.

To serve, mound the quinoa and kale in individual bowls or a serving bowl. Break the eggs into rough pieces with your hands, and scatter them over the top, along with the nuts. Dress generously, and dig in.