Nigella's Chocolate Raspberry Pavlova

Hello.

Since I last wrote (really wrote) (uh, last year!), a lot has happened. There was Thanksgiving, then Hanukkah, and then Christmas. I brined a turkey. I ate latkas. I braised veal.  I whipped some cream to top a cloud-like pavlova that I haven’t stopped thinking about since.

It was cold, and then it was warm, and then it was cold again. There was New Years: I made gnocchi with browned butter and sage, and devoured salad with sautéed dates among good friends. I bought new (big) eyeglasses and, as a result, find myself looking at a stranger in the mirror.

My essay in O the Oprah Magazine was published (check it out!). I spoke with Christopher Kimball on America’s Test Kitchen Radio (podcasts are on iTunes!). I realized that the book I’m editing for that same company has a rapidly approaching deadline. (BTW, it’s a great book, a cookbook, on shelves this fall. I’ll tell you all about it soon.) But despite this impending due date, I first sought out and then accepted even more freelance deadlines, which I continue to struggle to meet (oy!).

This is all to say that over the last two months, I first felt energized. And then I felt tired. And then I felt sick.

A month or so ago, I came down with shingles. Yes. Shingles. Let me tell you, this is not an illness I recommend. But being sick did give me the excuse to watch 6 episodes of Downton Abbey in one go. Just as soon as I began to feel better, however, I caught a winter cold. A bad cold. One that fogged my head, stopped me up, reminded me yet again what it is like not to be able to smell. It seemed impossible that my immune system could be as nonchalant as to let anything else attack my body. But then this week I had the flu. The flu! It was only a 24-hour bug. But right now? I feel drained.

So. I’m here. And I’m going to try and stay here. I can’t make any promises. But I miss words. I miss my words. I miss that magic of sitting down and letting them come, of arranging them and rearranging them, of coaxing them to become what I want.

At least there’s always pavolva. Right?

This fall, the Culinary Guild of New England read my book in their book club, and I had the honor of attending the meeting. This particular gathering was the best of its kind: A dessert potluck. And while everything I ate there was well done, there was one dish that stuck with me. A chocolate pavolva. It was crisp yet pillowy, the sweet countered by a cloud of unsweetened whipped cream and a mound of fresh raspberries piled on top. I asked for the recipe, and was pointed to Nigella Lawson.

I thought about this pavolva for a good three months before I attempted to make my own. I mean, meringue can be finicky, and raspberries aren’t really in season. But then I did, on Christmas Day. And it was good.

Chocolate Raspberry Pavlova

via Nigella Lawson

Meringue can be intimidating, I know. The key is to make sure that you whip the egg whites to the desired consistency (stiff and shiny). The sugar, which you add slowly to the mix after the egg whites are satiny and smooth, delays and then stabilizes the egg foam, helping the meringue hold its shape as it bakes. The addition of balsamic vinegar (an acid) helps the egg proteins to thicken at a lower temperature, with a more tender result.

It’s important to cook the meringue slowly. After it bakes at 300 degrees for a bit over an hour, don’t remove the meringue from the oven. Instead, turn down the heat, crack the door a smidge, and let it sit until completely cool. This slow, gentle cooking helps the meringue to remain pillowy and intact. (But don’t worry if it falls in the center after baking. Mine did. The beauty of this dessert is that 1. you invert the meringue so that the smooth bottom becomes the top and 2. the whipped cream hides all imperfections anyway.)

            If you don’t have access to superfine sugar (I didn’t) it’s easy to make: Just whirl regular granulated sugar in the food processor for a bit.

6 large egg whites

2 cups superfine sugar

3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, sifted

1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar

2 ounces dark chocolate, finely chopped

2 cups heavy cream

4 cups raspberries

1 ounce dark chocolate

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Nigella suggests outlining the shape of your 9-inch cake tin on the parchment paper in pencil, and then flipping over the paper so that when you place the raw meringue on the sheet, it won’t touch the pencil. She’s a smart lady.

Beat the egg whites in your standing mixer until soft peaks begin to form. Then, begin adding the sugar in a slow stream, beating the eggs until they are stiff and shiny.

Now add the cocoa, vinegar, and chopped chocolate to the egg whites. Mix gently, but thoroughly, with a rubber spatula.

To bake the meringue: dab a bit of meringue on the underside the parchment paper on the baking sheet to secure it in place. Then, pile the meringue batter within the outlined 9-inch circle in the center of the parchment. Use your spatula to smooth and round.

As soon as you place the meringue in the oven, turn the heat down to 300 degrees. Cook for 1 to 1 ¼ hours. The meringue is finished when it looks crisp and dry on top, but is still “squidgy,” says Nigella, when you prod it with your fingers.

Don’t remove the meringue from the oven. Instead, turn off the heat, and open the door a tiny bit. Let cool completely, at least an hour or two. (The woman who made this pavlova at the book club I attended said that she left it in the oven overnight. Just, FYI.) When ready to serve, invert the baked meringue onto a large plate and peel off the parchment.

Now, beat the cream in your standing mixer gently until it is thick and cloud-like but still soft. Pile it on top of the meringue. Scatter the raspberries on top. And then grate the remaining 1-ounce chocolate (a vegetable peeler works well, too) on top of the raspberries. Done!

I am...

... still here. I swear. And I'll be back soon. Probably with a recipe. Maybe for this pavlova, which I made last month, and haven’t stopped thinking about since. And I’m not really a meringue person. So that says a lot.

PS. Check out the February issue of O, The Oprah Magazine if you get a chance – I’m happy to report that I have an essay (with recipes!) within.

thanksgiving

Marcella Hazan's Pear Cake

The days are melting away quickly. I can see them go from the window near my desk, the light drip drip dripping down the skyline. This begins at 5, at 4, now at 3:30 I have to flip on my lamp. I love the approach of winter. Suddenly the air smells of sweet, sudden cold, of braised beef, of apple cider spiked with rum. But I miss the light. Especially now that I’m working in an office, bound to a desk. At least I sit by a window, where I can watch the light fade against the pattering, frozen rain.

This week is Thanksgiving. And then it’s my birthday. I turn 29. The punctuation mark to my twenties. The end of a beginning. The beginning of an end. I don’t think I’ll miss this decade. It’s been exciting and full. But I’m tired. I’d like to sink into my life in a way that doesn’t constantly hurt. Hurt? No. I suppose I like the movement. I like the excitement and the growth. I guess what I want is someone to invent a new brand of makeup, one that will prevent the handful of people who come to hear me talk about my book from asking if I’m fourteen. You’re not? Oh, well then are you married? No? You should eat more. You’re skin and bones.

Writing a book—a memoir—has been an empowering experience. A vulnerable one, too. Two weeks ago I was in Detroit for a book fair, and then New York City to speak at the PublicLibrary. Last week I was in St. Louis for another book fair, and I did an event with the New England Culinary Guild. I love talking about my book, about the sense of smell. These events fill me with energy, make me thankful to be alive. They also make me think about my life in a very direct manner. Why are you not a chef? I’m often asked. The questions that follow range from small (What did you eat for breakfast?) to large (How did you fall in love?). There are questions about my loss of scent (Why did you recover?), many of them coming from those with something at stake (How can I recover, too?). We often circle around to the questions I likewise ask myself: Will you write another book? What will it be about? The answers are there, but not always as cut and dry as I’d like. Isn’t that always the case?

I’ve been behind on the blog. I know and I’m sorry. I meant to be better. I was doing so well for a while. But we all know how life gets in the way. How work gets in the way. How sometimes maintaining sanity and health alongside a crazy schedule can be impossible. How sometimes I wonder how I’m maintaining anything at all.

But here is something great. A pear cake. From Marcella Hazan.

I found this recipe in The Essential New York Times Cookbook. I made the cake a number of weeks ago for the first time. I brought it to a party where it really didn’t belong. Standing next to elaborate chocolate mousse tarts and finely wrought cupcakes garnished in candied orange peel, this little cake paled, shrinking against the wall like that flower we’re always talking about, the one I embodied when I was in high school. But, hey, this cake is good. Really good. It is that cut and dry.

Marcella’s pear cake is simple. The batter consists of eggs, whole milk, sugar, flour, and a pinch of salt. After peeling and slicing 2 pounds of pears, you add them right to the mix, and pour the batter into a pan. Before it goes in the oven, you dot the top with some butter, which coats and sizzles and helps to provide a nice browned crust. Because the ingredients are so simple, the flavor of this cake really comes from the pears. As it should.

Marcella’s Pear Cake

From Amanda Hesser’s The Essential New York Times Cookbook

This cake is a lovely dessert, the punctuation mark to a simple meal. It’s also great for breakfast, a big wedge sliced in the lingering darkness of an almost-winter morning. I’d eat it pretty much any time, though.

½ cup breadcrumbs, fine and dry

2 large eggs

¼ cup whole milk

1 cup sugar

Pinch salt

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

2 pounds Bosc pears, ripe

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Place a rack on the upper third of the oven, and then preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter a 9-inch cake pan, add the bread crumbs to the pan and swirl it to distribute the crumbs evenly. Give it a little shake and turn upside down to release the extra loose crumbs.

In a large bowl, beat together the eggs and milk. Add the sugar and salt. Beat until well combined. Add the flour and mix well.

Peel the pears, and then slice them in half. Remove and discard the seeds. Cut the pear halves into thin slices, and then add them to the bowl. Mix well. (The batter will be quite thick.)

Now, pour the batter into the pan. Make sure it’s evenly spread. Dot the surface of the batter with the butter. Bake for 45 minutes. The top will be golden brown. Cool slightly and then remove from the pan. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Butternut Squash Salad with Spices, Lime, and Green Chile

The week after I returned from London, I received a package that followed me home. My lovely UK editor had sent it, the best kind of parcel, one filled with books.

The books included a memoir by a woman who learned to live on a farm, a “how to” book on drinking wine by Victoria Moore and a cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi.

I had heard of Ottolenghi before. He's a chef in London with four restaurants named after himself and another called Nopi. He writes a column in the Guardian, which began about vegetarian cookery and now expands much wider. The cookbook my editor sent me was his first cookbook, a UK-version cookbook, charming with its Britishisms: aubergine not eggplant, grams not cups. I cooked a number of dishes—most recently a honeyed sweet potato and chickpea stew, which reminded me that simple is great and healthy can taste far better than good. I’ve been enamored of Ottolenghi ever since.

The other day, I went on a cookbook-buying binge. My schedule has been so packed the last few weeks that I haven’t had much time to cook. And since cooking is one of my favorite ways to unwind, to relax, to push the cobwebs of anxiety out of my brain, I’ve been feeling like my insides are tied up in knots. Even if I don’t have time to cook, however, I could never give up those few minutes before bed when I read. And I’ve been reading lots of cookbooks. I love it when I can get lost in a cookbook like I would in a novel. It inspires the best kind of dreams.

Anyway. On this cookbook-buying binge, I purchased Ottolenghi’s newest vegetarian tome: Plenty. It’s a beautiful book with a pillow-press cover and recipes organized by vegetable. (Last night I dreamt about eggplant.)

And last weekend Becca came to visit. She’s one of my best friends but lives in San Francisco, so seeing each other in person is a rare delight. Her first night here I cooked a little vegetarian feast from Plenty. It included a salad made with roasted butternut squash, sweet spices, spicy peppers, limes, cilantro, and a yogurt-tahini sauce. It sounds like a mouthful, but it was pretty much perfect. I’ve been thinking about this salad so much ever since that I made it again Friday night for some other lovely friends, who agreed.   

To make this salad, you take a butternut squash, peel it (or not; I kind of like the crunchy roasted skin), slice it, and roast it with a brush of oil mixed with cardamom and allspice. When you serve it at room temperature, the squash is sprinkled with crunchy slivers of a spicy green pepper, the herby wash of cilantro, tart pieces of lime, and a nutty, smooth sauce. I don’t know what it is about this salad, but it works.

Butternut Squash Salad with Spices, Lime, and Green Chile

Adapted from Yotam Ottolenghi’s Plenty

2 limes

Salt

4 tablespoons olive oil

1 big butternut squash

1 tablespoon cardamom

1 teaspoon allspice

½ cup Greek yogurt

2 ½ teaspoons tahini

1 tablespoon lime juice (or more to taste)

1 green chile (I used jalapeno), stripped of seeds and pith, sliced thin

2/3 cup cilantro leaves, picked off the stalk

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.  

For the limes: trim off the tops and bottoms of the limes with a paring knife. Now with the limes standing stable on a cutting board, use your knife to cut down the sides, slicing off the skin and the white pith. Quarter the naked limes, and then cut into very thin slices. Place these slices in a bowl, add a 1-tablespoon drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt.

For the butternut squash: Cut the squash in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds with a spoon. Now, cut the squash into slices – about ½ inch thick. Lay them out on a baking sheet (Ottolenghi suggests on a piece of parchment paper).

Mix together the cardamom and allspice in a small bowl. Add 3 tablespoons of olive oil, and stir. Brush this spiced oil over the squash. Season the squash with salt. Roast for about 15 minutes, or until tender, and then let cool. (Here is where you can peel off the skin… or not. I’ve done it both ways, and love the slight crunch when it is left on.)

For the sauce: Whisk together the yogurt, tahini, lime juice, and two tablespoons of water. Season to taste with salt. (The sauce will be thick, but you want to be able to drizzle it over the squash, so add more lime juice or water to taste to thin it out if necessary.)

To serve: Arrange the squash on a serving platter. Drizzle with the yogurt-tahini sauce. Spoon the lime slices and their juice evenly over top. Scatter the chile slices. And then the cilantro. Enjoy.

New Orleans

Matt and I flew down to New Orleans—one of my favorite cities in the world, his hometown—a few weeks ago. My mother and her boyfriend, Charley, joined us.

Stepping outside that first morning, I inhaled the thick, warm air. It smelled like earth, like dew, like the tropics. We weren’t in Boston anymore.

We spent the weekend exploring. The French Quarter. The Marigny. Uptown, downtown, the Garden District. On Sunday, we took a trip out to some plantations, their grounds lined with ancient Live Oaks. We had a lovely meal at Sylvain. And a fantastic one at NOLA. There was a fried green tomato po’boy that kind of blew me away. A Sazerac at the Columns Hotel. My love of beignets will never falter; especially if I continue to eat them alongside the thick, bitter coffee served at the Café du Monde.

One afternoon a street musician—who played the clarinet like it was a living thing, like she didn’t just want to, but she needed to—stopped us in our tracks. When she was joined by a little boy playing a recorder, I melted into my shoes.

I finished the long weekend with an interview at the local NPR affiliate, and a reading at the GardenDistrict Book Shop. Talking about smell in New Orleans is especially fun, because, well, the smells of New Orleans are especially intense. From the rich, spicy aroma of shrimp gumbo to the rather unpleasant olfactory assault of Bourbon Street on a Saturday night. From the sweet scent of powdered sugar melting atop a hot beignet to the briny breeze coming off the Mississippi River. It’s a city filled with life.

(While in the city, my mom and Charley stayed at The McKendrick-Breaux House. It’s on Magazine Street, in the quite-funky Lower Garden District. The owner, Brett, is fantastic. He collects old yearbooks, and makes a mean pancake. Need a place to stay? We highly recommend.)